Free On Wings of Magic by Kay Hooper Page A

quite as indifferent as he seemed.
    Dutch comfort.
    Vastly angry at the world in general, and the male half in particular, she stalked from the elevator, gritting her teeth silently when Hawke joined her and smoothly took her elbow.
    Of course, she couldn’t stay angry at him. As at last night’s cozy table for two, he kept up a steady stream of casual, amusing conversation, surprising a giggle out of her on more than one occasion. She found herself relaxing, enjoying the meal and him.
    After dinner he took her into a large room she’d never seen before, a combination bar and dance floor. It was moderately crowded, but he had no trouble in securing a small, private booth for them.
    He had called out an order to the bartender as they passed, and Kendall looked suspiciously at the peculiar-looking drink placed in front of her moments later. It resembled a pineapple filled with a harmless-looking liquid and decorated with assorted fruit slices, an umbrella, and a straw. “What
is
this?”
    He sat back, sipping his brandy, then answered casually, “It’s called a Purple Passion.”
    She stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the drink. “It doesn’t look the least bit purple,” she said, straight-faced.
    “Sorry.”
    “What’s in it?”
    “Fruit punch. Orange juice, grape juice, pineapple juice—and so on. Live a little,” he advised, smiling slowly.
    Kendall took a cautious sip. Then a larger one. “Not bad.” It was good, in fact. And very relaxing.Within minutes, everything Hawke said to her became terribly amusing.
    When he asked her to dance about half an hour later, the drink was nearly gone and Kendall stumbled slightly in leaving the booth. It didn’t concern her. The high-heeled sandals had always been hell to walk in.
    Kendall had never in her life been drunk. It was partly a matter of innate horror at the thought of losing control of herself, and partly a dislike for the taste of alcohol. In any case, she had never been even the slightest bit tipsy. So she didn’t recognize the signs.
    On the dance floor she went into Hawke’s arms, her own arms slipping up around his neck instinctively. She was mildly dismayed by her desire to cling to him, but then her attention became caught by a very funny-looking man who was a member of the small band playing busily in the corner, and she giggled and forgot the dismay.
    “You dance very well,” Hawke murmured softly.
    Kendall rested her cheek against his chest and wondered dreamily why her feet weren’t touching the floor. “That’s what the sheikh said,” she responded vaguely.
    “Sheikh?”
    “Ummm. He wanted me to be number-three wife. But I told him that I couldn’t play second fiddle … much less third fiddle.” She lifted her head and stared up at Hawke with a frown. “I can’t play the fiddle at all.”
    “And what did the sheikh say?” Hawke prompted, seemingly amused.
    “He tried to buy me from Daddy.” She frowned again. “Daddy was terribly rude, I’m afraid.”
    “I can imagine.” He pulled her a bit closer to avoid another couple dancing enthusiastically past.
    Kendall clung to him happily.
    Somehow, they made it through the dance, and Hawke led her back to their booth. Kendall practically fell onto the leather-covered seat, giggling softly, and watched Hawke slide in across from her.
    “Kendall…” He hesitated, then went on dryly. “You don’t drink very much, do you?”
    “Oh, I don’t drink at all,” she told him sunnily. “I can’t stand the taste.” She discovered, to her disappointment, that the Purple Passion was gone, and pushed the pineapple-glass across the table to Hawke. “May I have another of these, please?”
    He stared at her, then looked up and signaled the bartender. “Of course,” he murmured in a peculiar voice.
    Sometime later—Kendall wasn’t particularly concerned with the time—Hawke came around to drop her purse in her lap and then swing her up into his arms. Somehow. Kendall