Raven's Prey

went dry. Casual, masculine lust would have fit with the man and the scene in which he found himself. After all, men who wandered into smoke-filled taverns the world over were usually looking for liquor and a willing woman. But there was no sign of even the most superficial desire in his gaze.
    If there was no sensuality in his eyes, neither was there any other emotion she could name. No curiosity, no dislike, no anger, no expectation, no friendliness, no resentment, no humor, [_nothing. _]Just the chilling, totally self-contained, nonreflective gleam of a beast of prey. Honor had never seen such a total lack of emotion in another human being in her entire life. In a very real sense it was far more frightening than if the man had simply pulled a gun and aimed it at her.
    Then he picked up his glass of tequila and started toward her. In that moment she realized he knew exactly who she was. The panic threatened to choke her. It welled up from the pit of her stomach and literally immobilized her limbs. Desperately she fought to keep it under control. It was one feeling that definitely would not aid her now. Unfortunately she couldn’t think of anything that would help her. She had no choice but to play out her role and pray that the presence of so many local townspeople there in the cantina would lend some protection. Did professional killers have the cold, emotionless eyes of a hawk? It seemed far too likely that they did.
    “Honor Knight.” Her name was a statement, an identification, not a question, and there [_was _]a slight southwestern drawl in the low, gravelly intonation of his voice. The dark stranger sat down across from her without bothering with the formality of asking permission. He moved with an easy, smoothly coordinated energy which suggested controlled strength and physical prowess.
    When Honor made no response, continuing to sit utterly still staring at him, the man sipped again at his tequila and then asked calmly, “Are you going to make this easy on yourself or are we going to do things the hard way?”
    He wasn’t armed, Honor told herself frantically. At least not with a gun. It would have bulged somewhere against the fabric of the sleek-fitting jeans and shirt, wouldn’t it? Perhaps he used a knife? Or perhaps her imagination had truly run amok. Maybe he wasn’t there to kill her. Above all else she must keep her head and not panic.
    Knowing that her life depended on staying calm, Honor made herself exchange a level glance with the man across the table. She stifled a shiver as the impenetrable darkness of his gaze met hers. “I’m sorry,” she began stiffly, “but you must have mistaken me for someone else. I don’t know you and I don’t know who it is you think I am but I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone.” She tried to make her voice as cold as his eyes.
    He watched her silently for a moment and she could almost feel him assessing and cataloging the sum of her features. Good God, how detailed a description had he been given? Could she bluff her way through this? After all, there was nothing all that remarkable about her looks, was there?
    She was twenty-nine, but age could be deceptive in a woman hovering between her twenties and her thirties, especially to a man. Her hair was a dark amber brown, but he would probably have been told she was simply a brunette. There were a lot of brunettes in the world, especially in Mexico. And hazel eyes were surely almost as common? Dressed as she was in jeans and a white shirt, her slender figure with its small breasts and gently flaring hips must have appeared similar to the body shapes of countless other women in the world.
    “Honor Knight,” the man said again and then reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a color photograph. Deliberately he placed it on the table between them, and then he waited. Honor went even colder.
    In helpless fascination she stared down at the picture of herself. There, caught by the camera’s eye, were all the elements that were so hard to describe verbally, the elements that went together to make each human being distinctive and unique. In her case that meant not just hazel eyes, but wide, intelligent eyes of a complex shade somewhere between green and gold. It meant not just brunette hair but a heavy, amber mane which, although she had recently cut it to shoulder length, still had a characteristic wave even when worn in a clip at the nape of her neck as it was that evening. It meant a mouth