12
Amber smacked the dough on the tablewith the palm of her hand, sending puffs of flour upward. Nothing from Hawk for two days. No phone signal. She had checked the instant messenger program. Even had it on at night, just in case. Nothing. She folded in the dough and started to knead it, pressing down with her thumbs. Where the hell was he?
She made a face. He could have contacted her somehow. Even Dija, the mercenary he had helped, had gotten hold of Lily to report that he was safe. It was through Lily that she had an idea of what had happened during the firefight the other day.
She had sat listening in on Lily’s speakerphone as Dija gave an account of how a man with dark hair and weird golden eyes had saved him from Dilaver’s men. It was full of macho talk. He and the stranger against a dozen, all wielding weapons. He and the stranger engaging in a tough knife battle that was fiercely fought in the dark. And how he and the same man had circled back and stalked the enemy, giving all of them what they deserved, and cutting off—
It was at this point that Lily had leaned forward and cut off the communication. Obviously the man was full of it. Hawk would never have killed so many and risked Dilaver’s wrath. Dija was, Lily said with a dry smile, a very good embellisher of stories. He was lucky to be alive, and from the sound of it, Hawk was responsible for that fact.
“I’ll get the real details when I see him on the way back with the girls,” Lily had added. “He was just drunk. They all get drunk after a battle.”
Amber frowned, her hands automatically molding and kneading the dough. Hawk could have called her. Was he in another battle? Had Dilaver found out and…. After all, it was a risky thing she had asked him to do. Worry niggled at her, and she paused in the middle of her task to wonder at why she would feel that way about someone she barely knew.
It was more than just a sense of responsibility in case he had been caught. She hadn’t been able to sleep well the past two nights, waking up several times just to go check a blank computer screen. That didn’t have to do with guilt or responsibility. It was worry, and now it worried her that she was doing it.
As if she needed more on her mind. She had enough to contend with, what with the secret interview with the girls set up by Brad with some international reporter. The reporter wanted to bring two more people with him, a cameraman and a doctor, and Lily had insisted that the doctor be from out of town. Amber had agreed with her. Anyone local could betray locations as well as identities, and the owner of The Last Resort was well known.
This interview was going to be a huge risk to her and Lily. The reporter had agreed that none of their identities would be revealed in any form of media, but one just never knew. Brad had given him fake identities just to be on the safe side, but how difficult was it to trace Brad, the head of CIVPOL, to her?
And there was Lily and Brad. Amber shook her head as she rolled the dough into a long tube, then shook a couple handfuls of flour onto the table. She slowly glided the tube over it, lightly patting the flour onto the mixture. Those two were her friends, and something had happened between them during that dinner date. Now they were acting like two mountain cats with heartburn.
Lily was probably nervous about the coming interview. Well, Amber was, too, but she didn’t go around trying to bite Brad’s head off whenever he asked her about the preparations. Brad, on the other hand, was mad about something else entirely. After one of their sharp exchanges, she would catch him standing back, hands in pockets, that brooding stare studying Lily’s every move as her friend pretended not to notice.
Amber told herself it was none of her business. Usually she would play the peacekeeper, but this time there was a tension that wasn’t there before. She absentmindedly pinched the bridge of her nose. Brad would be here later. She was determined to pull Lily out of wherever she was hiding and get the three of them up in her dining room to talk without—
The outside connecting door to the kitchen opened. Thinking it was Lily, Amber didn’t look up immediately.
“I was just thinking about you,” she said, pinching off dollops of the dough.
“Nice thoughts, I hope,” a male voice answered.
Her gaze swung upward in startled surprise. Hawk stood at the doorway, his eyes that odd glittering color that reminded her of a wild animal. He looked like one, too, his clothes rumpled and stained, his handsome face dusty, covered by several days’ stubble. There was something dangerous about him. Amber straightened from the table. Why was her heart bursting into a smile at the sight of him?
“Don’t you ever knock?” she asked. It wasn’t opening hours yet. Locks, it seemed, weren’t much of an obstacle for him.
He sauntered in slowly, his gaze traveling from her face down to her floury fingers sticky with cookie dough. She was suddenly very aware of how civilized her surroundings were compared to what he must have been in the last few days.
He stopped in front of her. “Ja sam gladna,” he said softly.
“Want something to eat?” she asked, conscious of the way he was looking at her, as if he were hungry for something else.
“Yes.”
She indicated a nearby chair. He sat and watched as she put away the dough and cleared the table. “Are you all right? You’ve been away for a few days.” She patted the right side of her face, near the jawline. “There’s a cut there…I think. You’d better take care of that. It’s caked with dirt.”
“Later.”
She poured a cup of coffee from the carafe. “Cream and sugar?”
“No.”
“Anything particular for food?”
His eyes gleamed and his teeth were very white against his tanned face. She wouldn’t quite classify that as a smile. He didn’t answer, either. The man was obviously not in the mood to talk right now. Another side of him. Where was all that sexy bantering?
She went into the huge refrigerated pantry that kept all the restaurant food and took out anything that would heat up quickly. She glanced back at Hawk now and then and found him watching her with half-closed eyes. She was used to men looking at her—having grown up as the blond, blue-eyed missionary’s daughter, she had been in countries where her coloring attracted all kinds of attention. Her parents had taught her to treat it like background music, sometimes noticeable, sometimes slightly uncomfortable.
The man sitting there with that intense look in his eyes couldn’t be ignored like background anything. He was too still. Too alive. Too damn sexy sitting there like a wild animal in her spic-and-span kitchen.
