CROSSFIRE (20 page)

"And miss a chance to see my baby brother?" Twelve very critical minutes separated them in age, twelve minutes she took great pleasure in leveraging. "Where's Carly?" She skimmed the crowded room for the striking redhead who would one day be her sister-in-law.

"Not here."

The note of finality, more than the actual words, had her turning toward him. "Not here?"

"We're not together anymore."

The answer was so Ethan, curt and matter-of-fact, straight to the point, no fluff or extra explanation. "Since when?"

"Since June."

Two months. Her twin brother and his girlfriend of three years had split two months before, and he'd not bothered to mention one word to her. "What happened?"

He took a deep swallow of Scotch. "Doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

He frowned. "Not here, Lizzy, okay? Not tonight."

She wanted to be angry with him, but sensed the turmoil lurking beneath his razor-sharp smile. He could hide his emotions from the world—that's what made him such a good attorney—but when it came to his twin sister, he was as transparent as a plate-glass window. "Tomorrow, then."

He clinked his glass against hers. "You can try."

She started to smile, but the sensation slid over her again, sleet pelting from the inside out. She glanced beyond her brother's shoulder, but even as she did, knew she wouldn't find anyone who didn't belong.

"Lizzy?" Ethan's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"

This night. Being here. Wondering where Hawk was, why he wasn't here. Wishing that he was. Knowing it was better that he wasn't.

"I'll be back," she said, her throat uncomfortably tight. She handed him her wineglass. "There's something I need to do."

"I'll be with Mira," he said, but she barely heard. She could hardly breathe. She needed to be alone, just for a minute, away from the throng of partygoers and well-wishers. She needed to regroup, find the balance that had evaded her all evening. Hawk's presence wouldn't have made a difference. Having him hovering nearby would only deepen her discomfort.

"Evenin', Miss Carrington," Lucy said from her post inside the spacious ladies' room. The attendant's smile was warm, genuine. "Quite a party you're throwin' tonight."

Elizabeth
smiled. Lucy was as much a fixture of the grand old hotel as the breathtaking marble columns and romantic archways. "Thanks."

The sprawling white room welcomed her, giving new meaning to the term
rest
room. Cushy white sofas lined one wall, while an antique floor-to-ceiling mirror dominated the other. Her strappy black sandals clicked loudly against the pristine marble floor.

Here she could breathe. She smiled politely at a friend of her mother's before slipping into one of the stalls. She stood and closed her eyes, let the silence wash through her. No chatter of voices. No lively strains of jazz. No nagging questions.

No eyes watching her. Waiting.

Footsteps echoed against the floor just before the door opened and closed, leaving her alone. At last.

Time slowed. The coil of anxiety unwound, leaving a blanket of calm in its place. Even the chill lessened, the unsettling sensation that had assaulted her the moment she'd entered the historic old hotel. She wasn't a coward, she reminded herself. She would return to the ballroom, find Nicholas and Ethan, enjoy the rest of the evening. It didn't matter that Hawk wasn't here. Security was tight. No one lurked in the shadows.

Feeling better, she opened the door and stepped from the stall, headed for one of the antique pedestal sinks.

She didn't get far. She sensed him before she saw him, felt him before she heard him. By then it was too late.

"I've been waiting for you, Elizabeth," he said, but didn't move. "Watching."

Wanting.

And now he had her all to himself.

Chapter 10

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T
he room tilted, blurred, everything except the man lounging against the arched entryway of the bathroom, his black tuxedo a startling contrast to the brilliant white sanctuary.

"Wesley." His name came out on a rush, more a breath than a word.

His smile was slow, devastating. "You didn't think I'd miss the chance to see you in that dress, did you?"

The question did cruel things to her heart. It slammed hard, colliding with ribs already bruised. He remembered the dress, the dare. He'd said it was too risqué for her, bared too much flesh.

She'd ordered it to prove him wrong.

Now she just stared at him, refused to let herself drink too deeply of the sight. She'd seen him dressed up before. She'd even seen him in a tux. But God help her, she'd forgotten. She'd forgotten how good a man so rough around the edges looked in a well-cut suit. She'd forgotten how the jacket stretched across his wide shoulders, how the crisp white of a dress shirt accentuated his deeply tanned skin. She'd forgotten what his hair looked like queued back, how it emphasized wide cheekbones and deep-set eyes of butterscotch, the gold and red whiskers of his jaw.

The unease she'd been fighting all evening seared deeper, disturbing her in ways she didn't understand. Hawk was here.
Here.
Not just at the auction, but oh, dear Lord in heaven, in the ladies' rest room.

She glanced toward the door. "Where's Lucy?"

He laughed. "Standing guard," he said in that crushed-velvet voice of his. "Sweetheart that she is, she understood when I told her I needed you alone, that it was a matter of life and death."

The breath lodged in her throat. "Life and death?" she asked, heading toward him. "Has something happened? Is it Zhukov? Is he here?"

He pushed from the wall and met her halfway. "Do you really think I'd be hanging out in the ladies' room if Zhukov was within ten miles of you?"

That got her. She stopped, stared, realized the truth. Of course not. The Glock would have been in his hand, the carnal glimmer gone from his eyes. He would have hustled her far, far away. "Then I don't understand."

"No, I don't suppose you do." He lifted a hand to the side of her face, where he used his index finger to loosen a curl from her twist. "Much better."

Heat trickled through her. She stared at the crisp white shirt, not buttoned high like the other men, but open at the throat, the constricting black bow tie hanging around his neck, untied, and felt the rhythm of her pulse deepen.

"You've been here all along, haven't you?" she asked, finally, finally understanding the edge of awareness that had niggled her all evening. It had always been that way between them. She could be blindfolded, handcuffed, with blaring music drilling at her through earphones, and still she'd know.

"Did you feel me?" he asked, skimming a finger along her cheekbone. "Is that why you kept glancing over your shoulder?"

Her chest tightened. She had felt him. Deeply. Disturbingly.

"We can't stay in here," she said, glancing at the door. Unease skittered through her, like fall leaves in a gale-force wind. "Someone could come in any minute."

His eyes, hot and gleaming a heartbeat before, turned cold. "Would that be so bad? Being found here, alone, with me?"

The question stabbed deep. The undertone, the expectation of repudiation, stung. "This is a bathroom," she pointed out, and tried to keep her tone light. "For women." Briskly, she moved to go around him, but he stepped to his right, blocking her path.

"Wesley," she said, and this time, frustration leaked through. "You can't hold me hostage here."

"I don't want to hold you hostage."

The control she'd wrapped so tightly around her slipped another notch. "Then what do you want?" she asked, but immediately regretted.

Some truths, some desires, were better, safer, left unspoken.

He streaked his finger over her chin and down her neck, to the dip at the base of her throat. "I thought it was time for a little demonstration."

"A demonstration?" Disbelief gave way to an excitement she had no business feeling. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Maybe," he answered, dragging the tip of his finger along her collarbone, "but that's not the point." He paused, lifted the string of black pearls into his hands. "These suit you."

Her mouth went dry. "Black?"

"No," he murmured, fingering the iridescent strand. "Beautiful. Mysterious."

Oh, God, she had to get out of here. Something deep inside was screaming, begging. No one ever talked to her like this. No one ever set her on fire with mere words. The way he looked at her, touched her… "Wesley—"

"Relax." He lifted his finger to her mouth. "This won't hurt at all. Promise."

Every instinct for self-preservation demanded she rip away from him, but the stream of curiosity wouldn't let her move. "What, Wesley? What is it you think you need to demonstrate in a ladies' room?"

The possibilities sent a wicked little thrill licking through her. Too well, she remembered what he'd demonstrated the last time they'd been alone in a bathroom.

"Ah," he murmured. "Yes. The demonstration." He stepped closer, slid a hand to the curve of her waist. "I'm here," he said slowly, quietly, "to show you how exciting it can be to do something unexpected, unplanned, maybe even unorthodox."

Her heart kicked, hard. "Hawk—"

"You said you weren't afraid of taking chances," he murmured, drawing her against the wall of his body. "So I thought I'd let you prove it." He slid a hand to the small of her back, the other up to possess her shoulders. "Dance with me."

She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. "I don't have to prove anything to you."

His mouth curved into an alarmingly gentle smile. "Then prove it to yourself."

Leave, she told herself. Don't let him back you into a corner. But standing in the circle of his arms, with the heat of his body soaking into hers, she could no more pull away than she could have landed the disabled plane by herself.

"You promised, Ellie," he said, sliding the fingers at the small of her back lower. "In the mountains. You promised me a dance." He pulled back, met her eyes with his own. They were hot, gleaming. Just like always. "You're not afraid, are you?"

The question slipped through her defenses, drilling into a sea of raw emotion she neither understood nor wanted. Yes, she was afraid! How could she not be? This man—he represented everything she didn't want. He was coarse and brash, thrived on adrenaline and risk, lived outside the lines. Every time she was around him she felt the discipline she lived by spiraling away. And yet … and yet, when he looked at her like that, touched her, everything she'd taught herself about survival faded into a nonsensical language she didn't care to understand.

She knew she should walk away. She was a strong woman. She'd forged a will of iron. If she really wanted to, she could pull away, walk away. But, heaven help her, standing there pressed to the hard lines of the body she'd never forgotten despite how diligently she'd tried, she realized a disturbing truth.

She didn't want to pull away.

And he was right. She had promised. In exchange for a little piece of himself she'd promised him this. A dance. It was a small thing really. Nothing compared to what he'd revealed in that cold dark cave.

He deserved better than life had given him. He deserved better than scrapping for every break he'd ever received. He deserved better than the way the world had been yanked from beneath him following his mentor's death.

"That's it," he murmured, starting to sway. "Let go."

His voice came to her through a misty tunnel, registering peripherally, seeping through her, softening the resistance she wanted to feel. She felt herself sinking against him, her arms slipping around his waist, her hands sliding up the hard planes of his back. The achingly familiar scent of incense and musk washed through her, carried her to an alternate reality, where nothing mattered but the feel of this man holding her.

Slowly she let her eyes drift closed.

"Just go with it," he coaxed, and the warmth of his breath fanned over the exposed flesh of her neck and shoulders. "Live in the moment."

She'd never been very good at that, she realized in some hazy corner of her mind. She'd never excelled at letting go, enjoying the moment, not worrying about, planning for, the future. But here, now, with Wesley's body swaying against hers, moving in slow, drugging circles, the future didn't much matter.

On a deep breath, she opened her eyes and found the mirror, found them reflected in the antique surface, she in the black sheath dress he'd picked out for her, he in his striking black tuxedo, her bare arms curved around the width of his middle, his hands skimming possessively along her back. And his eyes, oh, dear God, his eyes. They weren't hot or burning as she expected; they weren't gleaming or shimmering, weren't radiating with challenge or dare. They were … closed.

His eyes were closed.

Deep inside
Elizabeth
something shifted, threatened to give way. The movement of their bodies started to turn her from the mirror, but she couldn't look away, couldn't figure out how it was possible to see so much naked, raw longing on his face, without even the aid of his volatile eyes. His features were relaxed, his mouth slightly parted, his lips unbearably soft. A few strands of dark blond hair had slipped from the leather band behind his neck and now fell against those wide cheekbones, the ones she'd sprinkled kisses along that one devastating night two years before.