The Hawk and the Lamb

'Thank you.' She fiddled with the arm-rest, trying to fold it back where it belonged—a safety barrier between them.

'Again—my pleasure, mademoiselle.' With a simple movement he accomplished the deed for her, then watched her grimly struggle to return her seat to its up­right position, all thumbs under his regard. He was well named, she decided. He was as watchful as a hawk.

'You don’t seem to be having much luck today, do you?' he commented when she finally succeeded in her task. She frowned at him, her brow crinkling beneath her ruffled fringe, and he added suavely, 'We're coming down through the clouds now; would you like to swap seats so you can watch the landing?'

'I'd rather not,' she said uneasily, noting the tilt of the wing and the ragged sweep of wispy cloud which suddenly cleared to reveal a mountainous terrain ro­tating sickeningly below.

'There's no need to be afraid—'

'I'm not afraid!' Unconsciously her hand had clenched on the arm-rest.

'Is this your first flight?'

'Yes.' She felt hopelessly naive admitting it.

'First time out of New Zealand?'

Now she felt even more naïve. 'Yes. But I'm not afraid,' she reaffirmed, more to herself than to him.

'Just nervous, hmm? I know the feeling. Even seasoned travellers like me are a touch tense during take-offs and landings...'

Elizabeth hardly heard his soothing murmur; her anxious gaze was riveted out of the window. They seemed to be coming awfully low and she could see nothing but mountains and valleys. Not a sign of any flat or in­habited land. The plane wheeled even further and now she could see the sea where it met a reddish-brown strip of marshy shore. It seemed to go on forever. She had known that New Caledonia was the third largest island in the South Pacific after New Guinea and New Zealand, but still she had somehow imagined a flat coral atoll surrounded by sea. Instead she was seeing a bush-covered volcanic terrain that looked like the edge of a huge con­tinent. The occasional dwelling dotted the landscape but still she could see no sign of an airport and they were coming even lower, the engines roaring and vibrating, setting her teeth on edge. Surely they had been circling far too long?

'I hope the pilot's not lost,' she muttered, swallowing nervously and feeling her ears pop. 'I thought the airport was at Nouméa but I don’t see any city...'

'Tontouta is only a very small airport but it's well signposted.' The faint mockery in his tone was more re­assuring than his gravity would have been. A warm, abrasive palm closed over her clenched hand, holding it with a firm, confident pressure, absorbing some of her tension. 'It's also about forty-five minutes' drive from Nouméa itself so you won’t be seeing the city for a while yet. The travel agents who handle our bookings are sup­posed to provide a travel package with all that kind of information. Didn’t you get one?'

Elizabeth bristled at the hint of criticism. If he knew what she had been going through he would realise why she had been unable to anticipate her holiday with any real enthusiasm! 'Yes, but I haven’t read it in detail,' she said coolly, her galloping heartbeat slowing a little as she saw a wind-sock waving in the wind below and a segment of wide black tarmac.

She closed her eyes at the moment of impact, the large masculine hand tightening over hers, the blunt fingers sliding between her own, distracting her from the fluttery anxiety in her stomach. For a man who lived the good life, J.J. Hawkwood had surprisingly work-roughened skin.

'I'm glad that's over!' she breathed when the plane finally taxied to a halt. For a moment she forgot that she was supposed to be tough and independent. 'I hate doings things for the first time,' she said shakily.

'That must cast a rather restricting influence over your life,' he commented drily, and she pulled her hand out from under his, her skin tingling at the sandpaper friction of his roughened palm. 'I'm surprised, in that case, that you should choose to travel overseas for the first time alone...'

'I didn’t exactly choose...at the last minute my friend couldn’t come,' she informed him, reluctantly answering the unspoken question.

'What a shame. Is she ill?' The silver-grey eyes were brimming with a heartily offensive innocence.

Her mouth compressed into a starched bow. 'What makes you think it was a girlfriend?' she demanded tartly.

The silver gleam intensified and she instantly re­gretted providing him with the opportunity for more of his exquisite mockery. 'Because you hate first times?' The questioning inflexion was purely for effect.

The prim pink bow lost all its starch as Elizabeth's mouth melted open. How dared he?

'What makes you think I've never been away with a man?' she snapped, choosing the least embarrassing of h

is slew of implications to fight back on.

'Have you?'

She was too angry to care about the truth. 'Dozens!'

'Singly or in groups?' he enquired with interest. 'Both!'

'Well, all I can say is that you wear incredibly well. That peach-soft skin and those big innocent eyes don’t show a trace of your dreadfully dissipated lifestyle. In fact, if I had been asked to guess, I would have said that you were a quiet, shy, respectable lady—a librarian or school-teacher perhaps—who lives with her cat and her books and enjoys quiet evenings at home with friends...'

In other words a boring, sexless spinster. In spite of all her efforts to bring him round to just that point of view Elizabeth was chagrined by the accuracy of his de­scription. Instead of feeling pleased that her disguise had worked she found herself wondering if it had been a dis­guise at all. Minus the cat and the shyness his guess was infuriatingly close to reality. Only, Elizabeth told herself, she wasn’t inhabiting reality right now. She was in a weird topsy-turvy world where the truth was that the boring spinster was a woman of mystery, of secrets beyond his imagining. Yes, the last laugh was definitely Elizabeth's, even though she would never have the satisfaction of laughing out loud.