Kathleen Creighton - Never Trust A Lady

He straightened, suddenly alert. The dark-haired woman was on the move, squeezing past people’s knees with polite, apologetic “Excuse me’s,” making her way to the center aisle. He watched as she came toward him, his whole body tense with concentration, little electrical currents of excitement coursing through him. He could feel his skin ripple with it, feel his hair rise. If he’d been a cat, his tail would have twitched. He was the hunter, watching the unsuspecting prey-dangerous prey, to be sure, but at the moment the advantage was all his.

But she was edgy; he could tell by the way she licked her lips as her eyes darted toward the crowd of Good Samaritans gathered around the man on the floor, by the way her hands clutched the straps of her shoulder bag, as if she expected someone to try to snatch it from her. Sensing his presence, perhaps, like a leopard sensing the lion.

From his hiding place behind a rack of Oriental rugs he studied her, paying attention to things that couldn’t be easily altered by a disguise. For instance, it was the particular shape of her eyes and the way they were set-not too deeply, but not prominent, either-that interested him, rather than the fact that they were the greenish-gray of deep sea waters, dark-lashed, with a little fan of smile lines at the corners.

Those lines and another set, like parentheses, around her mouth told him she was probably somewhat older than he’d thought-late thirties, maybe even forty. Which made it unlikely her hair color was entirely natural. That rich dark mahogany had been a good choice, though, maybe it even had been her natural color once upon a time. And the style suited her-short, but softly curling on the back of her neck and feathering around her face in a way that set off her cheekbones. He’d remember those cheekbones.

Nice body, for forty or any age. She wore her clothes well, with a certain style and natural elegance that was as much a product of health, vitality and good posture as it was proportions. Her clothes seemed of good quality but not designer, expensive but not ridiculously so-brown wool slacks and rust-colored turtleneck, tan tweed blazer with leather trim on the lapels and pockets. Nice shoes-some kind of short boot with a bit of a heel, comfortable-looking but elegant, too-and matching leather bag. No rings on the fingers that were still wrapped in a death grip around the strap of the shoulder bag, which didn’t surprise him; she had the self-indulged look of the well-off recently divorced.

Overall, the effect was simple, tasteful, and… What she had, Hawk realized suddenly, was that indefinable something called class.

He still couldn’t quite make the woman as Loizeau’s killer, though of course he couldn’t rule out that possibility, either. Whoever she was, she wouldn’t catch him off guard again.

He waited until the double doors that led to the foyer had closed behind her before he left his cover among the Oriental rugs and followed. The crowd of compassionate busybodies around the fainter was dispersing as he passed. The gentleman himself had moved to a chair, where he sat slumped and sullen, engaged in a conversation with one of the Rathskeller people that appeared to consist, on the unfortunate man’s part, mostly of monosyllables and head shakes. He appeared both dazed and furious; his skin still had the waxy, old-ivory look of someone in imminent danger of losing his lunch.

Hawk almost ran his quarry down in the foyer-literally. He’d assumed it was the ladies’ room she was heading for so purposefully, so he wasn’t expecting it when he pushed full tilt through the double doors and found her standing only a few feet on the other side. She had her purse open and was frowning at something in her hand-her checkbook, it appeared.

He pulled up just shy of plowing into her. As startled as he was, she looked up, straight at him, and murmured a breathy apology. He managed a curt nod, maintaining just enough poise to reach for his cigarettes as something of a distraction while he moved a safe distance away from her.

His thoughts were in turmoil. Dammit, she’d done it again. Caught him by surprise.

That didn’t make him happy, but it wasn’t nearly as unsettling as the impression he’d gotten from that one brief look into the woman’s eyes. A sudden widening…brightening…an impression of breath caught and held, like a child tearing paper off a birthday present. Young eyes. Innocent eyes.

A soft, throat-clearing sound penetrated the tumult of his thoughts. He turned toward its source, a cigarette poised halfway between the pack and his lips. The woman was gazing at him, the parentheses of lines around her mouth and the fan at the corners of her eyes both deepening as she shifted her gaze meaningfully toward a prominently displayed No Smoking sign.

Ah, hell. With a nod that was just barely polite, Hawk turned his back on the lady and strolled down the foyer toward the front entrance. One look through the glass doors assured him that the icy drizzle that had snarled traffic on the beltway that morning and caused him to miss the auction preview was still falling. That fact made his desire for a cigarette that much more compelling, and did nothing to improve his temper.

He considered his options while he gazed out at glistening gray walkways bordered by bowing daffodils and beds of drenched pansies, tapping the cigarette restlessly against the pack. He could feel the woman’s presence there in the foyer behind him. Feel her watching him. Studying him, as a moment ago he’d studied her. It wasn’t a feeling he liked.

Deciding that no nicotine craving was worth letting the woman out of his sight, and getting wet and chilled to the bone in the bargain. Hawk dropped the unlit cigarette into a trash container near the doors. He was tucking the pack into his pocket, when the woman’s voice startled him once again, wafting from the far end of the foyer like a puff of a breeze on a still spring afternoon, unexpectedly warming, amused and sympathetic.

“It is a bother, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon?” His own voice was hard-edged, partly with suspicion, partly in self-defense.

She gestured with her left hand, with the checkbook she still held. “Smoking. They do make it as difficult as possible for you these days, don’t they?”

Hawk gave an all-purpose shrug and moved toward her, his mind spinning with possibilities. He paused when there was still some distance between them and said warily, “You’re not a smoker.”

The lines around her mouth appeared briefly, a rueful little smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Not me. Married to one for twenty-one years, though.”

“Ah.” He nodded and turned a shoulder toward her-not impolitely, just a firm but gentle closing.

Which she ignored. Her voice came again, same friendliness, same sympathy tinged with amusement. “I take it you’re here with someone.” He turned his head, looked at her along one shoulder, eyebrows lifted. Her smile asked pardon for the liberty. “Somehow you just don’t look like the antiques type. Are you here with your wife?”

Hawk shook his head, again unprepared for the apparent openness, the casual friendliness of the woman. Then he muttered, improvising like mad, “I’m meeting someone. A…friend.” He made a quick movement with his head toward the outer doors, conveying, he hoped, a touch of annoyance. “Apparently she’s late.”

The woman nodded in a commiserating sort of way. “Probably stuck in traffic. It’s really nasty out.”

“Yeah,” said Hawk. “That’s probably it.”

And then, for a change, she was silent. It was a curious, almost expectant little silence. She seemed to be studying him again, but he didn’t want to risk making eye contact with her to find out for sure. There wasn’t much he could be certain of where this woman was concemed, but all his instincts were telling him he didn’t want her gazing into the windows of his soul.