A Woman Without Lies by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

memories. “Then you’ll know what it’s like to hold sunrise and lightning in your hands.”
    Angel didn’t notice Hawk’s quick look or the surprise that showed for an instant on his face. Her excitement and pleasure was as clear as the sunlight bouncing off the calm water. Whatever else might or might not be true about Angel, Hawk believed that she enjoyed fishing as few people enjoyed anything on earth.
    And then he wondered if she brought the same passionate honesty to bed that she brought to fishing.
    The rod jumped and quivered in Hawk’s hands.
    “Keep the tip up!”
    Angel leaned over the rail, straining for her first glimpse of Hawk’s fish.
    “The fish just gained ten pounds,” Hawk said, startled.
    The rod bent in a tight, inverted U, reinforcing the truth of his words.
    “That’s a cod for you,” Angel said, laughing. “He caught a glimpse of the boat and spread his fins to make it harder for you to pull him up. Good-bye streamlining. It’s like hauling up a cement slab, isn’t it?”
    Hawk grunted and kept reeling in until a long, surprisingly slender shape showed just beneath the surface. The lateral fins were widely flared.
    Angel slid past Hawk to reach for the net that was in a rack beside the cockpit door. She leaned over the low railing, net in hand, and deftly scooped the sullen cod out of the sea.
    “Hand me the cosh, would you?” she asked.
    Hawk glanced just beyond Angel’s reaching fingertips to what looked like a short ax handle. He pulled it out of its holder.
    With a single, quick blow, Angel dispatched the fish. Her grimace told Hawk that this was one part of fishing that she didn’t particularly enjoy.
    “You could just throw it in the box and let it die,” he pointed out.
    “I can’t stand to hear fish flopping around,” she admitted.
    “Soft-hearted, Angel?” Hawk asked, his voice sardonic.
    “I’m no more cruel than circumstances require.”
    She pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers out of her hip pocket, fastened the pliers onto the cod’s lower lip, and extracted the cod from the net.
    “Teeth,” Angel said succinctly.
    A glance showed Hawk that the cod’s jaws were lined with needlelike teeth. The fish was indeed a predator.
    Angel opened the fish box, dropped the cod in, and closed the lid. She tested the sharpness of Hawk’s jig with a careful fingertip, nodded, and gestured for him to go back to fishing.
    Silence returned, broken only by the soft nibbling of small waves along the boat’s length. Angel caught the next fish, two pounds of fiercely ugly red rock cod. When Hawk reached for the net, she shook her head.
    “No,” Angel said, reeling in smoothly. “This one has spines that can rip apart a net. They’re poisonous, too. Not lethal. Just painful.”
    She pulled the pliers out of her hip pocket again. Leaning low over the rail, rod held high in one hand and pliers in the other, she fastened onto the shank of the hook. She gave a quick shake, freeing the fish. It swam languidly back into the green darkness, more disgruntled than frightened.
    “Not good to eat?” asked Hawk.
    “They’re fine. That one was a bit small. It would fillet out into about two bites per side.”
    “More trouble than it’s worth.”
    “Unless you’re hungry, yes.”
    As Hawk turned to resume fishing, the radio in the cockpit crackled to life.
    “—calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Black Moon calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Over.”
    Eagerly Angel spun toward the sound. She reached the cockpit in two steps, snatched the mike off its rack, punched in the button, and spoke quickly. Excitement vibrated in her voice.
    “Carlson? This is Angie. Where are you?”
    “Heading up the passage for ten days.”
    “Oh.” Angel’s disappointment was as clear in her voice as it was in her face. “You’re an elusive man, Carlson.”
    “You’re a bit hard to catch yourself. Must be those big white wings growing out of your back.”
    Angel smiled.
    “ Derry ’s