Hawk's Prey

‘What game?’ she demanded once more as he closed the door behind him, only the hum of the air-conditioning on this hot July day to disturb the silence; the crew were paid well to make themselves inconspicuous.

Hawk shrugged broad shoulders. ‘You don’t think Peterson—procures women for a living, do you?’

‘He did a good job of abducting me,’ Whitney maintained stubbornly.

Hawk limped over to the bar, drawing attention to the fact that she had bruised him earlier, taking a jug of the fresh orange juice he knew she liked from the fridge and pouring them both a glass. Whitney ignored hers once he had placed it on the glass-topped coffee-table, and with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders Hawk moved to sit down in one of the brown leather armchairs.

‘Hawk!’ she demanded impatiently as he sipped his drink, feeling suspiciously like stamping her foot at his infuriating behaviour, resisting the impulse with effort.

His expression softened, if a face carved out of granite could soften! He had the hard features that should only have appeared on a sculpture but were in fact flesh and blood, his cheekbones high, his cheeks fleshless, his mouth a hard, uncompromising slash. And those eyes could be just as hard and uncompromising, as they had been the day he walked out of her life.

‘Peterson believes it’s a game we play,’ he drawled in a bored voice. ‘You’re the madly desirable woman and I’m the wicked abductor. Kinky, hm?’ he derided.

‘It’s sick!’ She dropped weakly into a chair, at last understanding the driver’s amusement at her predicament, heated colour flooding her cheeks at how well she had played the supposed game. The man must think she was a pervert!

‘Don’t look so worried, Whitney,’ Hawk mocked. ‘He assured me it wasn’t the most unusual request he’s received since he began his limousine service three years ago!’

‘Just one of them!’ she groaned her mortification.

‘Oh, I don’t know, the one about the sheikh who—–’

‘Hawk, I’m really not interested in the idiosyncrasies of an Arab too rich to have anything better to do than play ridiculous games!’

‘No, maybe not,’ he agreed slowly. ‘That one did go a bit far. I was only trying to show you that Peterson didn’t find anything unusual in our request—–’

‘Don’t try and drag me into taking part of the blame,’ she protested indignantly. ‘I’ll never be able to look the man in the face again!’

He quirked dark brows. ‘Were you thinking of engaging his services in the future?’

‘Hawk, all this is very amusing,’—her tone implied she thought it the opposite—‘but it doesn’t alter the fact that I almost had a heart attack when he made me get in the car. I felt so damned helpless, I didn’t know what to do!’

‘If Peterson had been a real kidnapper I would lay odds on you emerging the victor from the encounter!’

‘Even though I realise there was no real danger I still don’t feel very victorious,’ she said shakily. ‘I thought I was going to die,’ she repeated breathlessly.

‘And we both know why you thought that, don’t we?’ Hawk stood up in forceful movements, having all the grace of a natural athlete when he didn’t have a bruised and aching shin, and replaced the orange juice with a glass of whisky. ‘I would have had Martin’s job if he hadn’t called me when he did,’ he revealed grimly. ‘You are definitely fired!’

‘You can’t do that!’ She stood up protestingly.

He raised his brows in cold fury. ‘Forgive me, as the owner of the National I thought I could.’ His tone was thick with sarcasm.

‘That isn’t what I meant and you know it,’ she said exasperatedly. ‘You have no reason to sack me, none that would stand up to the union anyway.’

‘How about persistent absenteeism?’

‘I’m never off sick.’ She shook her head, her expression rebellious.

‘I don’t remember using the past tense,’ Hawk announced calmly.

Whitney blinked her surprise. ‘You have kidnapped me,’ she said incredulously.

‘Abducted,’ he corrected smoothly. ‘I don’t know of anyone who would pay a ransom for you!’

‘Beresford might,’ she pointed out tightly.

His eyes flashed deeply gold. ‘Maybe I should telephone and ask him!’

She knew she had gone too far, had always been able to tell that where this man was concerned. Hawk wasn’t a man to suffer fools gladly, and by meeting Tom Beresford in the way that she had Hawk considered her to be plain stupid rather than just foolish! But carrying her off the way that he had could have scared her to death, and she glared at him angrily. ‘You can’t keep me on board Freedom against my will—–’

‘Who says I can’t?’ he reasoned coldly. ‘You’ve been on board the Freedom plenty of times before; why should anyone assume this time is any different?’

‘Because I’m obviously a reluctant guest!’ Whitney pointed out exasperatedly.

He gave an unconcerned shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I’ll just tell them that you’re loath to rest as the doctor has told you to.’

‘You have an answer for everything, don’t you?’ she snapped irritably. ‘And just what do you hope to achieve by this display of muscle?’ she scorned.

‘Achieve?’ Hawk repeated with cold thoughtfulness. ‘Maybe I’d just like to keep you alive for a few more years.’

‘After presenting me with a diamond watch and kicking me out of your life a year ago—–’

‘I didn’t kick you out!’ he grated protestingly, his body taut with anger.

‘Fulfilled your obligation, then,’ she amended heatedly. ‘It amounts to the same thing. After that I’m surprised you care one way or the other what happens to me.’

‘Of course I care, damn you!’ He glowered at her across the room.

Whitney gave a disbelieving snort. ‘That’s why you’ve been so solicitous of my welfare the last year, I suppose!’ she derided.

‘Martin would have let me know if anything were bothering you; he told me you were doing fine,’ Hawk dismissed with accusing impatience.

‘Of course I’m doing fine, I don’t need you to survive,’ she claimed perversely. Hawk had always had this effect on her; she had resented it when he demanded to know her every mood, and she resented it just as vehemently when he seemed disinterested.

Hawk’s mouth tightened. ‘This time you just may do!’ he rasped.

‘You’re as bad as Martin,’ she sighed. ‘I’m only following through a story, for goodness’ sake.’

‘On Tom Beresford.’

‘Why is everyone so scared of the man?’ Whitney scorned exasperatedly.

‘It isn’t a question of being scared of him, and if you weren’t such a baby I’d tell you exactly why you should steer clear of this one,’ he rasped.

‘I don’t think I was ever a baby,’ she dismissed. ‘Certainly not since I met you.’

A pulse jerked in his throat. ‘Was living with me so bad?’

‘Worse!’