Hawk's Prey

‘Yes, Miss Morgan?’ His voice was cajoling, as if he found the situation amusing.

‘Stop this car immediately and let me out of here!’ she ordered with a confidence that had long deserted her. She had been kidnapped, for goodness’ sake!

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ he shook his head.

Whitney sat forward on the edge of her seat, wishing she could see more of the man through the inch-wide gap at the top of the glass than the back of his head and a pair of amused brown eyes! The man was sick if he actually enjoyed abducting terrified women off the street and then watching them squirm. ‘I—–Where are we going?’ she demanded weakly, her head starting to spin as the seriousness of what was happening to her washed over her. She was too young to die!

‘Not too far,’ he answered non-commitally.

They were driving towards the river! My God, Tom Beresford had been so incensed by her nerve in daring to question him the way that she had that he was getting rid of her right now!

‘Look,’ she moved closer to the glass, smiling at the eyes in the driving mirror, knowing he couldn’t see her smile but hoping he could tell what she was doing by the warm expression in her eyes. ‘I realise you’re probably paid very well for doing this sort of thing—–’

‘Very well,’ he confirmed softly.

She swallowed hard. ‘I have some money of my own, enough to recompense you for letting me go, I’m sure. And look—–’ She desperately held up her wristwatch for him to see. ‘This is worth a few thousand pounds.’ God, he was actually smiling now!

‘It’s very nice,’ he said disinterestedly, ignoring the watch after only a cursory glance.

Whitney breathed raggedly; how much was a life worth nowadays! ‘I have other jewellery I can give you. And money. I’m sure I—–’

‘I’ve been paid to do a job, Miss Morgan,’ he cut in patiently. ‘And I always deliver.’

Oh my God! Whitney fell back against the black leather seat, random thoughts flitting through her brain in panicked succession. This couldn’t actually be happening to her, it was like something out of an old Edward G. Robinson movie! And she would bet he had lost count of how many of his enemies had met this fate during his film career.

But prevalent in her thoughts was the knowledge that she would never have the chance now to tell Hawk how much she loved him.

Her heart sank even further as she saw they were rapidly approaching the Thames, her thoughts becoming hysterical now. Where did the man keep his supply of concrete? Maybe he would just tie a rock to her body and hope for the best.

Body …!

She couldn’t just meekly sit back and meet her fate like this. This sort of thing just couldn’t happen in the capital of England in broad daylight!

She sat forward so that she could meet the man’s gaze again, her heart pounding rapidly. ‘Look, I think there’s been some sort of mistake,’ she began cajolingly. ‘I’m not—–’

‘I’ve made no mistake.’ He shook his head. ‘I was told to bring Whitney Morgan here, and that’s what I’ve done.’ He had parked the car while they talked, climbing out now to open her door for her.

‘Here’ was a marina for luxury yachts. My God, they weren’t going to dump her body here at all but take her out to sea and throw her overboard! She was not a strong swimmer and she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance if thrown into the icy Channel. And the chances of her being picked up were about nil. Which was probably the idea.

Then she saw the name of the gleaming white yacht moored closest to her.

And the man watching her with narrowed eyes from the top of the gangway.

CHAPTER TWO (#uc0b9d4e7-0e14-59c9-a869-9d5d9040d7ac)

TWO things became apparent to her at the same time, firstly that she wasn’t about to be killed after all, and secondly that her driver hadn’t been employed by Tom Beresford at all. The latter won out, the relief of the first realisation overshadowed by the anger of the second.

‘You bastard!’ she burst out furiously, hurling herself up the gangway without a glance for the distance between that and the murky water below. ‘You unspeakable bastard!’ The second accusation was accompanied by a powerful slap to one lean cheek.

Long slender hands came up to grasp both her wrists to ward off more blows reaching their target. ‘Whitney—–’

‘I thought I was going to die!’ she choked, her eyes misted with tears as she looked up at him. ‘And it was you all the time!’

‘Mr Hawkworth—–’

Hawk glanced over her head at the driver as he stood hesitantly beside the car at the bottom of the gangway. ‘It’s all right, Peterson, I can handle Miss Morgan from here,’ he assured the other man confidently.

Maybe it was that arrogance, or maybe she just didn’t care what he thought of her behaviour after frightening her the way that he had, but suddenly she was kicking and scratching like a wild thing, Hawk unable to prevent all of the blows making contact, cursing under his breath as the pointed heel of her sandal caught him in the middle of the shin.

‘So I see, Mr Hawkworth,’ Peterson softly derided.

Tawny eyes, a clear golden colour, narrowed on him with displeasure. ‘Just send me your bill,’ he told the other man abruptly.

‘There’s nothing else I can do for you?’ The other man lingered, obviously enjoying the show.

‘Nothing,’ Hawk grated, his eyes flaring with anger as he glared down at the still struggling Whitney. ‘Stop it, you’re making a damned fool of yourself!’ he instructed through gritted teeth.

She stopped struggling only because she had run out of energy, knowing she wasn’t the one to look the fool, he was! And looking foolish didn’t sit well on the broad shoulders of James Charles Hawkworth. He towered over her now as he watched Peterson climb into the limousine and drive away, topping her five-feet-ten inches in the high-heeled sandals by at least four inches.

‘Martin must have called you as soon as I left his office,’ she muttered resentfully.

‘He had better have done,’ Hawk rasped with barely a movement of his lips.

Whitney glared up at him, resenting the fact that she had to do so. ‘You scared me half to death,’ she accused heatedly. ‘I thought I was on my way to be fitted for a pair of concrete shoes!’

‘That could still be arranged,’ he told her with icy control.

‘Don’t you threaten me,’ she snapped. ‘I could still have you arrested for kidnapping.’

Hawk eyed her mockingly with those curiously gold eyes fringed by thick dark lashes. ‘You’re a little old to be called a kid!’

‘Don’t prevaricate.’ She wrenched out of his hold on her arm, facing him now, wishing he didn’t look quite so handsome in the open-necked white shirt and tailored white trousers, the Gucci shoes also white. ‘You had me abducted in broad day—–’

‘On whose evidence?’ He quirked brows the same dark colour as his lashes, his hair a dark blond with gold streaks among its thickness from the amount of time he spent aboard Freedom in warmer climates than the one in England; the name Hawk suited his colouring perfectly.

‘Mine!’ she claimed indignantly. ‘And Peterson—–’

‘Oh, he wouldn’t back up the kidnapping story,’ Hawk denied with confidence.

Her eyes flashed. And to think that a short time ago she had been lamenting the fact that she hadn’t had the chance to tell this man she loved him; she didn’t love him at all, she hated him! ‘I think you’re overestimating your power of persuasion—–’

‘It isn’t a question of persuasion, Whitney,’ he mocked. ‘I’m sure that where a man is concerned your accomplishments in that direction are much more successful than mine could ever be.’ He made it sound like an insult. ‘But Peterson believes your protests to have only been part of the game.’

Whitney’s eyes narrowed. ‘What game?’

‘Shall we go inside?’ he suggested with a pointed glance at the crew members standing about watching them curiously. ‘If you’re going to give another display like the one earlier I would rather it was a private showing.’ He indicated that they should go into the lounge.

Whitney preceded him with a disgruntled scowl. She had been on Freedom several times in the past, and its elegant beauty didn’t impress her at all at this moment, although she acknowledged that Hawk had refurbished the spacious lounge that was larger than a single floor of her house. She knew there was also a library and dining room on this upper deck, that below, the hundred-foot yacht also boasted six luxurious bedroom suites, as well as accommodation for half a dozen crew members. Hawk spent a lot of time on board, and as such the furnishing in leather, brass and glass was of a high standard; it was more than a home-away-from-home for him. Hawkworth House had never seemed as warm and welcoming.