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He laid Charlie down and started to untie one of the child’s scuffed running shoes, then abruptly straightened. His eyes met hers. “You’ll want to do that,” he said gruffly.
The room was small, its ceiling low, and suddenly Hawkshaw seemed even taller and wider-shouldered than he had at the airport. He hooked his thumbs on either side of his belt buckle and cocked one hip. He looked her up and down, his eyes narrowed. The slant of his mouth was resigned.
“There’s a bathroom in there,” he said, nodding toward a badly chipped door. “I’ll get the rest of your things. And your dog.”
Kate winced. The dog, still caged in the van, had started to bay piteously.
Hawkshaw shook his head, then pulled the brim of his hat down even more. He made his way past her, but the room was so small that he accidentally brushed his arm against hers as he headed toward the door.
The fleeting touch of his body was unexpectedly electric. Once again his gaze locked with hers, and the complexity she saw in those green depths shook her.
Quickly he glanced away, and then he was gone, striding down the little hall. She felt a strange, inner shudder. She’d read a profound resentment burning in his eyes, and she was sure it was resentment of her.
He did not want her and Charlie here. She had almost been scalded by the rancor she had felt flaring in him. Yet she sensed more than rancor in that swift, telling look. There had been something like desire, all the sharper for not being welcomed.
She knew because she had felt the same sensation; a sudden hot spark of sexual attraction that she disliked, and wanted to disclaim.
The slightly musty air of the room seemed to throb with his presence, even though he was gone. Don’t be asinine, she scolded herself. She was so tired that she was drugged by fatigue; it was making her imagine foolish things.
She sighed and bent over Charlie and finished untying his shoes. She slipped them off, loosened the button at the throat of his polo shirt. Then she shook him gently.
“Charlie,” she whispered. “Everything’s fine. We’re in Florida. Get up and go to the bathroom. Then you can go back to sleep.”
Charlie stirred grumpily. His long lashes fluttered open, and he squinted, frowning at her. He tried to roll over and ignore her.
But she persisted. She wanted him to know he was in a new place, but that he was safe and that she was there with him. Finally she roused him enough to lead him into the bathroom.
“We’re in Florida,” she told him, “with a man named Mr. Hawkshaw.”
“I don’t care,” Charlie grumbled.
“I want you to understand. We’re in Florida. With Mr. Hawkshaw. What did I just say?”
“Florida,” Charlie muttered. “Mr. Shocklaw.”
“Hawkshaw,” she repeated, taking him back to the bedroom. “There’s your bed. The bathroom’s right over there. I’ll leave the light on in case you have to get up.”
The boy climbed back into bed and struggled, frowning, to get between the sheets.
“Do you want your pajamas?”
“No,” he yawned. “Let me sleep.”
He fell back against the pillow, his eyes already closed.
Hawkshaw came in the door, carrying their few pieces of luggage. He set them down near the doorway. The fat basset hound, Maybelline, waddled behind him, her eyes wells of sorrow over what she had suffered.
Maybelline gave sadly accusing looks to both Kate and Hawkshaw. Then huffing and straining, she managed to clamber onto Charlie’s bed. She shot the two adults another aggrieved glance, then turned around several times and, with a grunt, plopped down beside Charlie.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Kate said. “The dog always sleeps with him. He’ll feel more at home if she—”
“No problem,” Hawkshaw said, cutting her off. He turned and left, closing the door behind him as if he was glad to have a barrier between them.
Kate sighed and sat on her own bed. She stared at the shut door and suddenly felt as if she were in prison.
If Hawkshaw found it so damned disagreeable to have them here, why on earth had he said they could come? He might be a fine bodyguard, a protector par excellence, but did he have to be so silent and surly and turbulent?
On top of it all, he had some weird sexiness, and he knew it. As if she, of all people, was going to go for the dangerous, mysterious type. No, thank you. If she ever got mixed up with another man, she hoped it was a mildmannered teddy bear of a fellow who gave off an aura of danger no greater than a marshmallow.
Oh, hell, she thought wearily. Why was she criticizing Hawkshaw? He might be edgy and rude, but he’d been good enough to take them in, hadn’t he? Perhaps she should no more blame him for his prickly coldness than she should blame an attack dog for being vicious.
She sighed, rose, and got ready for bed. She wouldn’t let this man get her spirits down. She simply would not allow it.
She left the bathroom light on and the door partly open, in case Charlie awoke. She turned out the overhead light and settled into the bed, which was surprisingly cool and soft.
From beneath the closed bedroom door came a wedge of yellow light, and there was the sound of music somewhere, muted and rather haunting. Hawkshaw must still be up.
She was stricken with a sudden, piercing memory of his sea-green eyes. No, my girl, none of that, she told herself firmly. She would not think that way.
The stalker had stolen a few small items from her—possessions that she had left near the doorstep or on her patio—nothing that seemed of great consequence.
But, in truth, he had stolen far larger things: her job, her home, her peace of mind. He had stripped trust from her life, especially trust of men. And along with it, he had thieved away desire.
HAWKSHAW SAT AT HIS father’s battered desk in the living room, going over the Kanaday woman’s file again. Now that he had met her and the kid, the case no longer seemed an abstraction, nor did they. They were flesh and blood.
Yes, he thought, and the reality of her was distracting, because all he wanted to think of was Sandra, who was marrying someone else and would never be his again.
Sandra, he thought hopelessly. The memory of her was always like a knife in the heart. He forced himself not to think of her sensual blondness. He made himself look instead at the fuzzy reproductions of the snapshots that Corbett had sent of Kate Kanaday. There were only three.
The first showed her and the kid sitting before a towering Christmas tree. The picture was dated two years ago. The kid, Charlie, was on Kate’s lap, mugging for the camera, and she was smiling with what seemed like real joy.
The camera didn’t love her, he told himself. Not the way it had loved and flattered Sandra.
But the smile—Kate Kanaday’s smile was nice, and it was full of the love of life. He wondered if she would ever smile that way again. He set the photos aside, face down.
He scanned the file again, looked at one of the notes from the stalker. The man had written:
I WANT TO TOUCH YOU EVERYWHERE. TO KISS YOU EVERYWHERE. TO EXPLORE EVERY INCH OF YOUR BODY. YOU WILL OPEN YOURSELF TO ME, AND CRY OUT WITH UNBEARABLE PLEASURE AT THE JOY MY BURNING THRUSTS WILL BRING YOU...
Hawkshaw shook his head in disgust. He knew what the police had probably told her, that guys who wrote such muck seldom acted on it. They got their jollies through the words and didn’t have to do the deeds.
But Hawkshaw knew this was not always true. He closed the file, pushed away from the old desk. He got to his feet and took another beer from the fridge. He went outside, to the deck.
The boards creaked beneath his feet. The deck was sagging and in disrepair like the rest of the property. He would have to make up his mind sooner or later: either fix up the house or tear it down for good.
He sipped the beer and stared off into the velvety darkness. This point of land was surrounded by tidal streams and mangrove islands. He heard the splash of a fish, perhaps even a dolphin, for dolphins sometimes came into the waters.
He inhaled deeply of the salt, humid air. He had spent much of his youth here, in this very house.
Now the house was decaying around him. He stared up at the featureless sky. Man-made dwellings were fragile in this climate; they took constant maintenance. Hawkshaw decided he was not good at maintaining things, at least the things that were supposed to belong to him.
He turned and looked at the lone light that shone from the farthest window. The woman had left the bathroom light on for the kid, a gesture that touched him in spite of himself.
Don’t be touched, he warned himself. Don’t feel anything. Don’t get involved.
The woman and kid had come into his life suddenly, and with luck they’d disappear just as suddenly. Until then, he’d watch out for them because they were a legacy from Corbett, a favor to be returned and a debt to be paid.
But nothing personal. Hawkshaw would stay uninvolved.
He had made it his specialty.
A RAGGED SCREAM WOKE KATE. In panic she raised herself on her elbow, staring about the strange room.
The morning’s first light poured between the curtains. Charlie slept in the bed next to hers, his brown hair dark against the white pillowcase. His breathing was even and deep.
Maybelline slept beside him, her squat body curled up against his legs. She opened one bloodshot eye, limply raised one ear. She sighed a doggy sigh.
The scream rent the air again, and Kate’s heart pounded in confused dismay. But Maybelline closed her eye, lowered her ear. Her body relaxed, and in the fraction of a moment, she snored.
The scream sounded again, this time farther away, and Kate thought, A seagull. That’s all. Seagulls make an awful sound like that.
It came back to her in a surreal rush that she and Charlie were somewhere in the Florida Keys. The realization jarred her, and she sank back against the pillow. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.
She and Charlie had arrived in Florida last night, and now they were hidden away with a friend of Corbett’s. And that friend was a tall, lean unfriendly man named Hawkshaw....
Her muscles stiffened at the recollection of Hawkshaw. Like Corbett, he had been in the Secret Service, and that, in truth, was almost all she knew about him.
She raised herself again on her elbow. She barely even knew where she and Charlie were, for God’s sake. She had better find out, because she was going to have to explain it all to Charlie. And prepare him for Hawkshaw.
The room was musty, and she thought she could smell the ocean—or was it the Gulf? Or both? She also imagined the aroma of coffee in the sultry air. Squinting at her watch, she saw that it was just after six; with luck Charlie should sleep for another hour.
She slid from bed, opened her suitcase and snatched up her toiletry case and a change of clothes. The face that stared back at her from the mirror startled her. She looked pale and uncertain of herself. She hated that uncertainty; it had once been so foreign to her.
She clambered into jeans and a pale-green T-shirt, put on her old running shoes, then slipped out of the bedroom, leaving the door open in case Charlie awoke. She cast a last, worried glance back at him, the dog still snoring by his side.
She padded down the hall. The living room looked as cluttered and disheveled as it had last night. Almost everything in it seemed dated, as if the contents had come from an era older than Hawkshaw’s own.
The kitchen was overcrowded, but she found a freshly brewed pot of coffee warming on the counter and a clean mug. She filled it and stepped to the front door.
She eased open the screen door and looked up and down the deck for Hawkshaw. Her heartbeat quickened as she saw him, sitting on a bench, hunched over a weathered picnic table. He had a manila folder open in front of him and seemed to be deep in study.
He sat in profile to her, a forelock of hair falling over his eyes. He wore olive drab shorts and that was all. The rest of him was as naked as the day God made him.
The morning sun was still mellow, and it spilled over on his shoulders, gleamed on the muscles of his back. His arms and legs were sinewed and bronzed, and she could see the tracery of veins that etched his biceps.
The azure-blue of the sky framed the sharp angles of his profile. He looked at ease with himself, as much a part of nature as an eagle or a stag might.
He did not look up at her, and not even his slightest motion betrayed that he knew she was there. But he said, “Hello, Katherine. Bring out your coffee and sit down. We have things to talk about. By the way, your socks don’t match.”
She blinked in surprise and her gaze fell involuntarily to her feet. On one foot was a navy-blue sock, on the other a black one.
Almost reluctantly she came to his side. She sat down on the bench as far from him as she could. He sipped at his coffee, but he didn’t look at her.
“How did you know I was there?” she demanded. “How did you know I had coffee? How did you know my socks don’t match? You never even saw me.”
“I saw you,” he said in his soft growl. “It’s my business to notice things. Or it was.”
He had shaved. The lean planes of his face were clean, and the scent of something piney hovered about him.
“How long did you say you and Corbett worked together?” she asked uneasily.
“Fourteen years,” he said.
He raised his eyes to hers. They were keen eyes, and for the first time she realized they also seemed intensely intelligent.
“But you don’t want to talk about me,” he said. “You want to talk about where you are. Right?”
“Exactly,” she said. “Charlie’s already confused about everything. Somehow I have to explain this to him.”
“Right,” he said, turning his gaze from her. He set down his coffee mug. From a stack of papers on the table’s corner he drew out a map.
He unfolded it and set it between them. “This chain of islands is the Lower Keys.”
He picked up a red pen. She noticed the long, jagged scar on his right arm. With the precision of an artist or an engineer, he circled the last island in the chain. “That’s Key West, where you landed.”
She nodded mechanically. A breeze sprang up. From the corner of her eye, she saw how it fluttered the lock of hair that fell over his forehead.
“We came up the one main road,” he said, tracing a line. “We’re here, Cobia Key. We’re at the edge of the heron sanctuary. More or less surrounded by mangrove islands. Like I say, we’re isolated.”
His gaze met hers again, and it seemed to her that it held a strange mixture of coolness, distance, and unwilling hunger. Uneasy, she turned her face from his and stared out at the dark tangle of the mangroves. “You’re alone here?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said in a tone that implied, And that’s how I like it.
She heard gulls crying in the distance, but she realized that this place was oddly still, almost hushed. The landscape did not seem tropical or exotic. Instead it seemed brooding, the mangrove forests full of mystery.
She had imagined Florida abloom with flowers and bright with colorfully plumaged birds. She had not envisioned these thick, low woods, deep with secrets. It was an alien atmosphere, and she took a drink of coffee to steel herself against it.
“What is this place?” she asked, giving the worn deck a critical glance.
“It used to be a guide service. Mostly kayak tours. Not anymore.”
She looked at him questioningly. “You bought this when—when you retired from the service?”
“I inherited it,” he said. “When my father died.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, although she could detect no sorrow, no grieving in him.
“It’s getting ready to fall down,” he said from between his teeth. He tapped the map with the pen again. “But that’s where you are. What’s left of Hawkshaw’s Island Adventures. In Nowhere, Florida.”
