Page 3 of The Hawk and the Nightingale

In fact, the shop was rarely open during the day. In a tourist haven such as Prague, not being open during regular hours would mean missing the crush of bodies that regularly plagued Old Town, searching for souvenirs like pisankas with their names painted on the side. But if you craved a consultation with Amalie, the expert herself, those only happened at night.

Why is that, Hawk wondered.

Hawk also preferred living at night. He never got out of bed before sunset if it could be helped, and was typically back between the sheets with a partner or two long before sunrise. His nocturnal habits were what drove him to the entertainment industry. With night clubs and bars as his focus, he could sink his time and expertise into a business that matched his lifestyle. Hawk often wondered what people like him had done in times past, when evening activities were lit by candlelight instead of electricity.

Actually, he would quite enjoy conducting business by candlelight.

Hawk was ruminating on opening a new candlelight-only club, and wondering how he could manage to stay within the city’s strict fire regulations, when the bouncer, Henri, elbowed him. Hawk followed his gaze, and lost his breath.

Amalie was walking down the cobbled street, her gazed fixed on him; he noticed she was limping, favoring her left leg. Even with the limp, she didn’t appear weak. If anything, she resembled a warrior returning from battle, scarred but victorious.

Aside from her gait, Amalie was a true vision of beauty. She was wearing a blue silk dress, and the thin fabric hugged her curves and accentuated every graceful movement she made. Her décolletage was as modest as the skirt’s side slit was daring, reaching her upper thigh. Amalie had left her dark hair loose, and it rippled down her back. She wore no jewelry, but with her onyx eyes and ruby lips she didn’t need to.

When Amalie reached the club, she tilted her chin up, and said, “Hello, Hawk.”

Hawk smiled. “You came.”

Her black eyes flashed. “Not yet.”

He laughed, since he hadn’t expected her to flirt with him so blatantly, then he offered her his arm. “My lady, if you will?”

Amalie accepted his arm, and he led her inside. “I must ask, why have you named this establishment the Moravian Ballroom?”

The corner of Hawk’s mouth curled up. He liked that she was interested in his business. That meant she was interested in him. “I am Moravian,” he replied. “My family hails from Ostrava. As for the other part of the name, that honors my mother. She was a dance instructor.”

“Was she?” They stepped onto a balcony that overlooked the dance floor below. Hundreds of people moved in time to the ear-splitting music, the lot of them illuminated by a rainbow of stage lights. “What would she think of this spectacle you’ve created?”

Hawk looked around his club, first at the tall mirrors behind the bar, to the enormous state of the art DJ booth, to his many happy patrons. “She would love it.”

“Then you have done well. All good boys look to please their mother,” she added.

Hawk dipped his chin. “A fine compliment. Come, let’s get you a drink.”

“I doubt you have what I like.”

“We have everything.” When Hawk felt her fingers tense on his arm, he added, “On the off chance we’re found wanting, I’ll send someone to get whatever you desire.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.” They entered a private alcove, and Hawk watched her slide into the circular, padded booth. “Well? What exotic beverage would please you?”

“I’m curious to see what you offer me.”

Hawk grinned; while he’d long sought to know his neighbor, he never thought he’d have this much fun with her. He whispered a few instructions to the server, then he joined Amalie in the booth.

“What did you order?”

“Patience, Nightingale.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Again, with that name. It’s not like you’ve ever heard me sing.”

“I’ve heard you many times,” he replied. “When I first inspected this property, back when it was nothing more than a drafty old warehouse, your voice wafted through the walls. I asked the realtor who was singing in a warehouse near midnight, and he answered that it could only be Amalie Vyrdolak, the most famous shopkeeper in Old Town.”

“I doubt anyone thinks I’m famous,” she demurred. “Why were you inspecting this place at midnight? Surely you could see more of it in the daylight.”

“I prefer to conduct my business at night. I find that with the proper amount of persuasion, most will accommodate me.”

Before Hawk could continue two servers arrived, and set out two martinis, four glasses of wine—two red, two white—a crystal decanter of whiskey with matching glasses, and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne chilling inside. “Will there be anything else, sir?” one of the servers asked.

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