TEARS OF THE HAWK

Excerpt

...As she passed Hawk's bedroom door, she heard a muffled cry. Hawk?

She dropped her mental walls and found herself plunged into a raging firefight. Something hot seared her ear. A stranger loomed up beside her, smelling of fear and hatred. She struck out with the knife held tightly in her hand. Knife? Blood? She couldn't think, but, muscles acting automatically stuffed the knife back into an ankle sheath, seized a suddenly-familiar M-16, yanked the charging handle, and pumped short bursts into the thick jungle ahead. Nearby, a man cried out and collapsed, disappearing into the tall grass. "Hollister," she muttered, aware on another level she didn't know him, Hawk did. The scene switched in the surreal fading in and out of a nightmare. Men and women, grim, fearful, brave, appeared and disappeared, lived and died. She felt Hawk's anger and grief, his regret at the senseless violence and death.

Fighting the strength of his nightmare, Charity closed her psychic barriers and opened his door. In a shaft of moonlight from the upper windows, he twisted on the bed, covers tangled around him as he fought more unseen demons. Shouting, "Rod, look out," he swept away a blanket and pillow. He groaned another name then swore long and viciously. Even with her barriers closed, she felt his flare of jumbled emotions. With one last heave, the top sheet slumped to the floor and Hawk's virile nudity dominated the room.

Charity's mouth went dry at the sight of his smoothly muscled body. Her pulse raced. She recalled the wondrous feel of him pressed to her, in her, filling her, holding her in the aftermath of their explosive coming together. Folding her arms, she squeezed them tight against the growing heat and sensitivity of her breasts.

In the suddenly quiet room, her gaze followed the path of moonglow up Hawk's torso to his face and stopped.

He was looking at her...