CROSSFIRE (11 page)

"I know," she said softly.

Something hard and knowing flashed in his eyes. He looked away abruptly and retrieved the first-aid kit. "Where does it hurt?"

The question caught her off guard. She looked at him sitting mere feet from her, the resolve in his eyes, the medical supplies in his hands. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," he said, crawling toward her. "You think I don't see the way you wince when you breathe? Yon think I don't hear that catch in your breath when you think I'm not listening?"

Her heart started to pound, hard. "It's just a bruise."

"Let me see."

There was a hard note to his voice, one that made it clear he meant what he said. And yet she didn't move. "It's no big deal."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Frustration pushed through her. Unease raced closely behind. To show him where it hurt, she'd have to lift her shirt, exposing the flesh below her bra. "Really, Wesley, I'm serious. It's no big deal. Why don't you let me clean up the scratches on your face instead?"

"After."
He reached for his jacket, still secured around her body, and fumbled with the bottom button. "It's your ribs, isn't it?" He slid the zipper down between them. "Are they broken?"

Elizabeth
swallowed hard. "No," she managed. "Just bruised."

He reached for the hem of her sweatshirt and pulled it up, winced. "Holy God."

Cool air rushed against exposed flesh. "Please." The word skidded from a throat gone dry. "Don't."

Hawk went absolutely still. Absolutely, horribly still. He lifted his eyes to hers, revealing a slow burn like nothing she'd ever seen. Then he swore softly. "What kind of man do you think I am,
Elizabeth
?" He released the fabric of her shirt, let it fall against her body. "You think I can't touch you without it being sexual? You think I'm going to turn broken ribs into some kind of fumbling pass in the dark?"

Regret burned her throat. "No." The word came out hard, emphatic. "That's not it." Not entirely. She didn't want his hands on her, that was true. But not because she thought he would touch her inappropriately or try to take advantage of her. She didn't want his hands on her because she didn't want to feel his warm callused flesh against her stomach, the gentle movement of his fingers.

"Then what?" he demanded.

There was no easy way out, no easy answer. "There's nothing you can do," she hedged, knowing good and well that wasn't true. There was a lot Hawk Monroe could do.

"Let me be the judge of that," he said roughly. "Broken ribs are not something to take lightly. They could puncture a lung."

"They're not broken."

His gaze darkened. "I hope you're right, but there's only one way to know for sure." He lifted his hands palm up. "Let me make sure, Ellie. Let me touch you."

She eyed his hands, the wide, square palms and strong competent fingers. She remembered those hands, knew just how capable they were. She also knew the truth. She wasn't afraid of him touching her.

She was afraid of not wanting him to stop.

Slowly she looked up and met his eyes. "Okay."

"I'll be gentle," he promised. "Scout's honor."

Her mouth went dry. Conventional wisdom would have said a man like Hawk Monroe could not be gentle, but
Elizabeth
knew that wasn't true. The second time they'd made love, he'd given new, excruciating meaning to the word gentle.

Lowering his gaze, he slowly lifted the hem of her sweatshirt, revealing the pale flesh of her stomach. She held her breath as the fleece rose higher, not sure what she was waiting for but unable to relax. He lifted the shirt to her chest, stopping just shy of baring her breasts. They tightened when he pressed his forearm against them to hold the shirt in place.

But true to his word, there was nothing sexual about the intimate contact.

Elizabeth
let out a slow breath, felt herself wince.

Hawk glanced at her. "Did that hurt?"

Her mouth had gone so dry she could barely form words.
"No."

He returned his focus to her stomach, lifting a hand to her rib cage. She braced herself for contact, maybe even a blast of chill, but this was Hawk, she realized the second his hands slid against her body. His touch delivered only heat.

And yet she shivered.

"Is this okay?" he asked, easing a hand to the right of her rib cage. "Not too much pressure?"

Her heart hammered so hard she thought for sure he could feel the rhythm. "Not too much."

"Good." He slid his fingers to circle her side. "Here, hold this," he said, motioning to the bulk of her sweatshirt, which he still held against her chest.

Elizabeth took over holding her shirt up for him, allowing him to inspect her rib cage with both hands. She tried to concentrate on the shadows dancing against the walls of the cave, cast by the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, on the sounds of the night beyond, the occasional screech of an owl or howl or a wolf, on
anything
other than the sight of Hawk's big hands cruising along the bare flesh of her body.

He pressed a tender spot midway down her left side. "What about this?"

She cried out before she could stop herself. "That's it." White spots clouded her vision. "That's where it hurts."

The warmth of his breath feathered against her stomach. "It's dislocated," he assessed, pressing gently against the tender spot. He looked up and frowned. "This might hurt."

She nodded, bit down on her lip. "That's okay."

"Here." He brought the bulk of his leather jacket toward her face. "Bite down on this so you don't scream."

She did as he instructed without hesitation, having no desire to let Hawk Monroe make her scream. Again.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Okay. Deep breath in," he instructed, sliding his fingers into place. "Now let it out slowly."

The spear of pain streaked through her like an arrow. She bit down hard on his jacket, muting the animalistic cry that burned her throat.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, gathering her against his chest. He cradled her tenderly, rocked her gently. "It's okay now."

She sagged against him, reluctant to risk another breath. The spots crowding her vision faded, leaving the feel of his arms around her, his hands skimming along her back.

"You have to breathe, Ellie."

But she didn't want to, wasn't sure she could. Not when he held her like this, when a breath brought the risk of stabbing pain and the certainty of carrying his scent deep inside her. And yet she had no choice. Very slowly she eased in a breath of cool mountain air and braced herself for the sear of pain.

Nothing.

She hesitated, then with equal care, exhaled.

Nothing.

Hawk pulled back and lifted a hand to her face. "Better?"

"Yes," she whispered, trying not to lose herself in those hot, burning eyes of his. Her body was still pressed to his, her sweatshirt still bunched around her breasts, his hand cruising the bare skin of her lower back. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

Liar.

His gaze darkened. "Good." He slid his thumb to her mouth. "Sometimes pain has to get worse before it gets better."

Emotion scratched her throat. She drank in the feel of his hands on her body, the intensity in his gaze. Dark blond hair fell against his wide cheekbones, bringing her attention to a series of nasty scratches in the hollow of his cheek. "Let me help you, too, Hawk. I can make it better for you, also."

She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't for him to swear softly and pull back. Before her heart could beat, he tore away, put as much distance between them as the cramped cave allowed.

"You can't help me, sweetness. Trust me on that one."

Chapter 6

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S
omething deep inside
Elizabeth
responded to the hard edge in his voice, the automatic defense that kept the world at bay. Once, she'd tried to strip away the roughness, the crudeness, to find the man inside.

What she'd discovered had rocked the foundation of her world.

He was right. She couldn't help him, not in any way that mattered, not without losing herself, the life she'd carved out for herself, in the process.

"Your face," she said, steering the conversation to safe ground. "I wanted to clean the cuts."

He held her gaze for a long, charged moment. "Of course you did," he said quietly. "Anything else would be too messy."

The words stung. Denial vaulted through her, but she refused to defend herself to this man. He didn't understand her, never had. He preferred to judge.

"I can handle more than you think I can," she tossed back.
Had
handled. "Just because I grew up a Carrington doesn't mean my life has been all fluff." And just because she didn't rant or unravel or lose control didn't mean she didn't hurt. Part of her would never recover from burying her older sister. That brilliant winter morning would live inside her forever, when she'd put a bouquet of wilted daisies into her sister's hand … and watched the funeral director close the coffin.

"I know how much you can handle, Ellie. That was never our problem."

Deep inside, something shifted. She looked at him sprawled against the wall of the cave, with the kerosene lamp casting shadows across his face and awareness glowing in his eyes. She didn't know how he did it, how he twisted a simple conversation into something dark and complex and completely futile.

"No," she admitted. "That was never our problem." Then, because he wouldn't stop watching her, she brushed away all those nasty emotions that served no purpose other than to complicate reality, and reached for the first-aid kit. "I'll need that bottle of water, too."

He laughed softly but didn't sound the least bit happy. "Just wash it all away, is that the plan?"

Gritting her teeth, she fished out a package of gauze and fleetingly wished for a bottle of sleeping pills. That's how Miranda had solved a problem with Sandro during their race across the Portuguese countryside. The thought of rendering Hawk silent for the rest of the night held a certain wicked appeal.

But of course she knew better than to tempt fate. Zhukov could still have men out there. No matter how uncomfortable Hawk made her, she wasn't foolish enough to risk their lives.

"Letting it fester won't do either of us any good," she said instead.

A brittle sound broke from Hawk's throat. "No, it won't."

The cave was small and dark, with only the one entrance. Frigid air spilled in from the rocky area beyond, but without the benefit of circulation,
Elizabeth
felt only the heat of Hawk's gaze, the tension of his challenge. She scooted closer and poured a small amount of water on a gauze pad, then lifted it to his face. "Let me know if I hurt you."

"Why? Will you stop?"

She kept her movements brisk and efficient, concentrating on cleaning the cuts along his jaw and not the warmth of his skin. "Not if I think it's for the best," she said. "But I could be more gentle."

The planes of his face tightened. "Gentle is highly overrated."

Curiosity screamed through her, but she tempered it with caution. Tomorrow they would part. If she was lucky, their paths would not cross again. She'd talk to her father, let him know her preference. She didn't need more memories of Hawk Monroe to take with her. God knew she already had enough. She didn't need to know why he thought gentleness was highly overrated, to know who or what had hurt him so.

Silence spun out between them. She kept at her task, switching from water to astringent, but his stony expression never changed. He didn't wince, didn't relax. He just sat there with that dark blond hair falling against his wide cheekbones, his jaw clenched, and stared beyond her to the far side of the cave.

It was the stillness that got her. At least when Hawk spoke or moved, she knew his intent. And when she knew, she could protect.

Deciding none of the cuts required bandages, she rocked back on her heels and packed away the medical supplies. "Do you think they're looking for us?"

He turned to look at her. "Your family would move heaven and earth to find you. You know that."

Yes, she did know that, but she also knew plane crashes rarely yielded survivors. Her mother and father would have received the news hours ago. Maybe they were even on their way to the States. To bury a second daughter.

"Ellie?"

She looked up through a sheen of tears, fought back the emotion drowning her heart.

He took her hand and squeezed. "They're going to find us."

She swallowed, nodded. "But until then, my family will think we're dead." The thought devastated.

Finally, at last, Hawk's expression softened. The hard look faded from his eyes, replaced by a glimmer of compassion that beckoned like a lifeline. "
Elizabeth
. Your father isn't a man to jump to conclusions."