Elizabeth Lowell.
A Woman Without Lies.
To those who have risked lovea"win, lose or draw
1.
Angelina Lange stood quietly amid the rainbow blaze of her stained gla.s.s creations. She was barely aware of the people milling slowly around in the art gallery, murmuring about the beautiful art she had made from pieces of sharp-edged gla.s.s.
Some panels of gla.s.s gleamed in shades of green and blue, forest and ocean and sky, mountain ridges falling away into the distance. Other panels radiated the iridescent beauty of Tiffany gla.s.s touched by shafts of gold, evoking British Columbiaas cloud-swept summers.
A handful of panels were impressionistic swirls of color and movement, a sensual richness that was as compelling as a loveras whispered invitation.
The stained gla.s.s works came in all sizes and shapes. Most were set in wooden frames and hung against the galleryas huge wall of ocean-facing windows. A few panels were suspended from the high ceiling.
Light from both natural and artificial sources struck rich colors from the pieces of gla.s.s, making the room quiver with shadows of every hue.
A summer cloud came and went, concealing and then revealing the sun. Murmurs of pleasure rose from the people inside the room as Vancouveras clear sunlight poured through the galleryas wall of windows. The stained gla.s.s art glittered with brilliant colors.
Unconsciously, Angel tipped her face toward the cataract of light, letting it wash over her. Her pale, curling hair glowed molten gold, a color as pure and beautiful as any she had used in her stained gla.s.s. For a moment she simply stood, filling herself with light, keeping shadows at bay.
aAngelina?a Angel opened her haunted, sea-colored eyes and turned toward the diffident voice.
Bill Northrup, the gallery owner, stood nearby, quietly waiting for her attention. At one point in their relationship, he had wanted considerably more than her attention. Now he settled for what she would give hima"her friendship and her art.
Angel smiled at Bill, but her eyes were still haunted by the sadness that was as much a part of her as her long legs and slender body.
aI always feel that I should sign my pieces aAngelina and Sun,a a Angel said, abecause without that incredible light, my stained gla.s.s is nothing.a Bill shook his head unhappily.
aYouare too modest,a he said. aLook around. Youare selling very well, especially for a first show.a Angel looked, but she had eyes only for the art itself. Brilliant shards of light and shadow, a shifting play of colors, the feeling of being in the center of a fantastic, slowly turning jewel.
She was pleased that she was selling her creations, because that was how she earned her living. Money as such didnat give her any particular joy, however. Colors did. That, and knowing that other people enjoyed her rainbow visions.
aIam glad,a Angel said simply. aBeauty should be shared.a Bill sighed. aYouare not hard enough for this life.a aA hardcase angel?a she asked, laughing lightly, turning aside the old argument. aNot very likely, is it?a aSo Iall be the hardcase and you be the angel,a retorted Bill.
aThat was our agreement.a Her lips curved in a tiny, teasing smile. aYouave held up your end very well.a aThe guy waiting for you could give me lessons.a Angelas honey eyebrows arched in silent question.
aOn the phone,a explained Bill. aMiles Hawkins.a Angel shook her head in a gesture of bafflement that made her breast-length hair shimmer and run with light.
aI donat know him,a she said.
aHe knows you.a aAre you certain?a aHe said it was something about Derry and he had to see you immediately.a Angelas smile vanished.
aI explained that the show wonat be over for an hour,a Bill said, abut the man wouldnat listen to reason. Iall tell him toa"a aNo,a Angel interrupted. aIf itas about Derry, Iall take the call.a aI thought so. Derryas the only male you care about.a Angel gave Bill a swift, blue-green look, sensing the beginning of another old argument.
aDerry is like a brother to me,a she said quietly. aNothing more. And certainly nothing less.a Bill sighed and muttered to Angelas retreating back, aYeah, and heas one handsome kid who isnat related to you in any way.a Angel heard and was momentarily surprised. She didnat think of Derry as physically handsome, although she had to agree that he was. Derryas blond looks and muscular body had turned more than one feminine head.
But when Angel thought of Derry, she thought of his dedication to becoming a doctor, the ruthless discipline that kept him studying even in the summer, his anguish and rage the night he had dragged her clear of the wrecked car.
If anyone, even an utter stranger, wanted to talk to her about Derry, Angel would listen.
She walked into Billas private office, punched in the lighted b.u.t.ton on the front of the phone, and put the receiver to her ear.
aMr. Hawkins?a she said quietly, but her question and hesitation were clear. aIam afraid I donat remember you.a aI suppose Derry spoke of me as Hawk,a said the deep male voice at the other end of the line.
aOh . . . that Mr. Hawkins. Derryas letters have been full of aHawk thisa and aHawk thata for weeks. I didnat recognize your full name.a There was a pause.
Angel wondered for a moment if she had insulted him. She hoped not. Hawk was crucial to Derryas hopes of becoming a doctor.
aDerry said youad be up to your blond curls in admirers,a Hawk said impatiently, abut that youad meet me in the Golden Stein if he asked you to.a Angel smiled to herself, hearing Derryas soft teasing in the curt rhythms of the strangeras voice.
aDerry is a tease, Mr. Hawkins. The people here are admiring stained gla.s.s, not me. But he was right about the rest. If he wants me to meet you, I will.a aJust like that?a Hawk said sardonically. aYouad meet a stranger?a The words sent a shiver of uncertainty over Angelas skin. Hawk wasnat teasing or really questioning her. His voice was hard, disdainful, the tone both dark and cold.
aJust like that,a Angel agreed quietly. aIall be at the Golden Stein in ninety minutes.a aNo. Now.a aWhat?a asked Angel, not believing that she had heard correctly.
aNow, Angel.a Then, coldly, aYour Derry needs you.a aButa"a The line went dead.
Angel stared at the phone, confused and more than a little irritated. Hawk had been rude, demanding, and abrupt. There was also the fact that n.o.body called her Angel, not even Derry.
Angelina, yes. Angie, yes. Angel? Never. Only in the privacy of her own mind did Angel acknowledge that name, the name she had begun to call herself when she woke up in the hospital after surviving a wreck shead had no right to survive.
A wreck she hadnat really wanted to survive. Not at first. Not alone.
aTrouble?a asked Bill, standing at Angelas elbow.
Angel looked up from the receiver. She replaced it very gently.
aI donat know,a she said unhappily.
Then Angel turned away from both the phone and Bill. She bent over to remove her purse and lightweight black shawl from a desk drawer.
aMake my apologies, Bill.a aAngelina, you canat just walk out on your own show,a began Bill in a voice that tried to be reasonable.
aDerry needs me.a aYour career needs you more!a Angel looked out into the full gallery.
aTheyare buying my stained gla.s.s, not me,a Angel said.
Bill swore, started to argue, then gave up. Angel was immovable on two subjects. Her art was one of them.
Derry Ramsey was the other.
Angel pulled the silk shawl over her black dress as she stepped out the back door of the gallery. Even in midsummer, Vancouver could be cool, especially when clouds and sun played tag across the afternoon sky.
When Angel arrived at the Golden Stein, she wasnat surprised to find it crowded. The place was a favorite watering hole with tourists and natives alike. Normally she would have avoided the noisy, smoky, exuberant bar.
This afternoon wasnat normal. This afternoon Derry had asked her to meet a rude man called Hawk, even though Derry knew that she was in the midst of her first stained gla.s.s show in the Northrup Gallery.
In a way, Angel was almost grateful to Hawk for his rudeness. It kept her from dwelling on all the unhappy reasons Derry might have for needing her.
Impatiently Angel stood just inside the Steinas door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim carmine light favored by the baras habitus.
The man called Hawk watched Angel intently from a nearby table. His dark eyes took in her black silk dress, her fringed black shawl thrown carelessly over her shoulders, her pale hair that seemed to gather and concentrate light.
The Steinas front door opened again, bathing Angel in light, making her long, bright hair shimmer and float in the breeze. Derryas descriptiona"tall, blond, and skinnya"barely skimmed the reality of the slender, self-contained woman standing by the door.
Yet Hawk was sure that she was Derryas Angie. No one else could have eyes like that, too large for her face, too haunted to belong to a woman her age.
Hawkas mouth formed a cynical, downward-curving line as he realized how young Angiea"no Angela"was.
Any woman who looks like this isnat an Angie, Hawk told himself sardonically. She undoubtedly isnat an Angel either, no matter how ethereal she appears.
Hawkas lips thinned as he remembered the last innocent-looking blond head taken for a while, an actress with nothing beneath her soft exterior but emptiness and lies.
The actress was, in short, like every other woman Hawk had known. Like Angel standing so quietly, staring at him.
Angel.
A three-dimensional lie, Hawk thought coldly. But a beautiful one. d.a.m.ned beautiful.
The worst ones always are.
So Iall call her Angel, and each time I use the name, it will remind me that sheas anything but angelic.
Angel looked back at the man who was watching her from only a few feet away. She sensed with utter certainty that the man watching her was Hawk.
In the atmosphere of forced bonhomie that pervaded the Stein, Hawk was like a rocky island at sunset, darkness condensed amid color, immovable certainty anch.o.r.ed in an aimlessly shifting sea.
Then the front door opened again, spearing the man with light, and Angel knew why he was called Hawk. It wasnat the blunt angles of his face or his thick, black hair and upswept eyebrows. It wasnat his hard, lean body. It wasnat even his predatory grace as he walked toward her.
It was his eyes, the eyes of a hawk, a crystalline brown that was clear and deep, lonely and wild.
aHawk,a she said.
aAngel.a His voice was deep, gritty, as essentially uncivilized as his eyes.
aPeople call me Angie.a There was a moment of uncanny stillness while Hawk measured her.
aPeople call me Mr. Hawkins to my face,a he said. aEven friendly puppies like Derry Ramsey.a Angel hesitated, wondering at the abrasive description of Derry. She knew that Derry thought Hawk all but walked on water. Abruptly she wanted to know more about the man who had earned Derryas unqualified hero worship.
aWhat do people call you to your back?a Angel asked.
Hawkas eyes narrowed.
aA lot of names that angels wouldnat know about,a he said.
His clear, hard eyes measured her impersonally, lingering on the nimbus of light that was her hair.
aAngel. It suits your looks.a Hawkas tone said that her name was Angel so far as he was concerned, and Angel was what he would call her.
She bridled at his arrogance, then forced herself to relax. Derry needed Hawk. In any case, Hawk couldnat know the meaning of the name Angel for her.
Something alive that once had died.
aThen I will call you Hawk,a Angel said, her voice soft, aand we both will be unhappy with our names.a
2.
Hawkas left eyebrow lifted, emphasizing the ruthless lines of his face. He turned away from Angel and took a step back toward his table.
As he turned, he spoke. aWhat do you drink, Angel?a aSunlight.a Hawk turned back so suddenly that Angel couldnat suppress a startled sound. She had never seen such quickness in a man. Yet for all his speed, his motions were smooth, utterly controlled, and as graceful as wind.
aSunlight,a he said, gesturing to the smoky room, ais in short supply here.a aI didnat come here to drink, Hawk. I came because Derry needs me.a Though Angelas voice was soft, there was real determination in it. It was the same tone that had warned Bill she wasnat prepared to be reasonable on the subject of Derry.
aWhat does Derry need?a Angel asked.
Hawk hadnat missed the changed quality of Angelas voice.
aA new leg,a he said bluntly. aHe had an accident.a The room swirled darkly around Angel, sound spinning into cries of pain, red light splintering into broken gla.s.s frosted by moonlight, the smell of raw gas choking her, fear and pain clawing in her throat.
Angel tried to say something, to ask questions, to rea.s.sure herself that Derry was all right, that this wasnat a return to the horrible car wreck three years ago when her mother, her father, and her fianc had died, and she had been broken almost beyond healing.
But Angel could ask nothing, do nothing, except tremble and fight for breath.
Derry had saved her life three years ago. She could not bear to think that he was hurt, needing her, and she wasnat there.
Even in the Steinas dim light, Angelas sudden loss of color was obvious. Hawk heard her harsh intake of breath, saw her sway, felt the coldness of her skin as he grabbed her, steadying her.
aD-Derry?a asked Angel, forcing the word between gritted teeth.
aItas just a broken leg,a Hawk said harshly.
As he spoke, he shook Angel to make sure that he had her attention. Then he saw the fear and pain in the depths of her eyes and his hands instinctively gentled.
aHeas all right, Angel.a Angel stared at him. Hawkas voice had been gentle, rea.s.suring, sympathetic. It was surprising in a man who looked so ruthless.
aJust a broken leg,a Hawk repeated. aDerryas all right.a aCar wreck,a Angel said hoa.r.s.ely. aAll that glittering broken gla.s.s and twisted metal. And screams. Oh G.o.d, the screams . . . .a Hawkas eyes narrowed as a chill moved over him. Angel sounded so positive that Derry had hurt himself in a car wreck. The certainty was there in her eyes. And the horror.