CROSSFIRE (4 page)

And Hawk Monroe had saved her life.

Hawk.

God.

She still couldn't believe it, couldn't stop shaking, even though he'd turned the heater in the car on full blast. She'd sat there, numb and clutching his sport coat around her body, listening to him explain the situation while trying not to draw the achingly familiar scent of incense and musk deep inside of her. She didn't want him there with her. She didn't want his warmth.

And dear God, she didn't want to remember the way she'd kissed him. Because she had. Kissed him. Kissed Hawk. His mouth had been hot and hard and more than a little seeking, covering hers, coercing, urging, rough, a seductive drug she'd never quite gotten out of her system. Adrenaline.

A mistake.

"You need to get out of those clothes," he said, coming up beside her.

The heat of his body washed over her like a tempting embrace, forcing her to wonder how he could generate so much heat when his clothes were as drenched as hers. "I don't have anything else to wear."

Too late she realized her mistake. For a man like Hawk Monroe, nudity wouldn't be a problem. She braced herself, waiting for him to cockily tell her he didn't mind one bit if she walked around naked.

"I do."

Holding his sport coat around her,
Elizabeth
followed the sweep of his arm to the bed closest the window, where clothes spilled from an open gym bag and onto a ratty floral comforter.

Twin thoughts hit her simultaneously. There were two beds, and Hawk had known they'd be spending the night in this rinky-dink hotel a few miles from the airport.

"You planned this?" she asked, pivoting toward him. She didn't understand why the thought bothered her.

He shoved dark blond hair, still damp, back from his face. "Sorry, sweetness, but I couldn't let you sleep in that hotel tonight, not with Zhukov unaccounted for."

"I guess it never occurred to your to let me know what was going on?"

"Not before the awards ceremony," he said with infuriating dismissal. "No. What occurred to me, as you put it, is that my time was better spent mapping out the hotel and beefing up security."

She folded her arms over her chest. "A lot of good that did us."

He was across the room before she could so much as breathe. The angles of his face hardened. She took an automatic step back, but he took one forward. "You're damn straight it did a lot of good. You're alive, aren't you? You're here, with me and not out in the woods with one of Zhukov's men." His voice was hard, angry. "Do you know what they would do to you?"

Elizabeth
bit down on her lower lip. Surprise flickered through her, followed by an unexpected sliver of regret. Yes. She knew what Zhukov would do to her.

"I thought you were one of them," she admitted, and the flash of horror streaked back, the insidious vulnerability she despised. "I thought you were dragging me off to do God only knows what."

His eyes flashed. "Don't tempt me."

The dark words whispered through her, as unsettling as they were familiar. The pieces, the memory, fell into place. "It was you," she muttered. No wonder her heart had taken a long freefall through her chest. "It was you."

He tucked a finger under her chin and turned her to face him. "What was me?"

The masculine scent of incense and musk in the elevator lobby. The one that had prompted her to spin around, expecting to see him standing behind her, thumbs hooked into the waistband of faded, low-riding jeans, smiling that insolent smile of his.

She forced herself to look at him, refused to give the satisfaction of thinking he rattled her.
Because he didn't.
"All day felt like I was being watched, followed. It was you, wasn't it? You were there."

The planes of Hawk's face tightened, emphasizing wide, flat cheekbones. "I didn't get to the hotel until midafternoon."

She stepped back, swallowed hard. The thought of Hawk Monroe following her unsettled her in ways she didn't want to analyze too closely, but it also brought a modicum of comfort. He was one of her father's men. His
best
man, if she were honest. He'd been sent to keep an eye on her, escort her home, keep her safe.

The threat he posed had nothing to do with her life.

"If not you," she asked, keeping her voice steady, "who?"

Hawk swore roughly, then strode to the air conditioning unit and fiddled with the controls. "Zhukov."

Reality drilled deep. Jorak Zhukov. The man who'd sworn to make the Carringtons pay for his father's death. Make them suffer. He'd been in the hotel, watching her. Waiting. Planning. If Hawk hadn't been there…

"I've got the heat going," he said, turning his attention to his gym bag. He pulled out a well-worn shirt, then crossed to her and put the flannel into her hands. "Go take a hot shower. Get warm. We can talk more when your teeth aren't chattering."

She looked at the familiar green-and-black tartan balled in her hands and tried not to remember the way the fabric looked stretched across Hawk's shoulders, with those top three buttons open and exposing the silver chain nestled against the dark gold hair of his chest.

She did not want to put that shirt on. She didn't want to crawl into bed with the soft, well-worn flannel whispering against her body.

But she wanted to walk around naked or in a towel even less.

"I won't be long."

* * *

Thank you, Hawk. Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for giving me your jacket, for turning up the heater in the car so hot that you broke out in a sweat. Thank you for thinking ahead, making sure we had a safe place to spend the night. Thank you for offering me your shirt, so I don't have to walk around naked.

Thank you for being such a sap.

Hawk watched
Elizabeth
walk regally away from him, head high, damp hair sleekly twisted from her face, his sport coat hanging from her stiff shoulders and extending below the hem of her little black dress. Her panty hose were muddied and torn. Her feet were bare.

Rarely did he remember her looking more provocative.

She stepped into the brightly lit bathroom and closed the door, fiddled with the lock on the doorknob.

Biting back a few not-very-nice words, Hawk could do nothing about other impulses. He swept his arm across the dresser and sent the stupid little ice bucket and room-service guide crashing to the matted carpet.

Nothing had changed. Elizabeth Carrington may have kissed him like there was no tomorrow, but when it came to anything beyond pure physical responses, she made it brutally clear she hadn't forgotten yesterday.

Or rather, two years before.

Once, he'd actually let himself believe a woman of refinement could want a rough-around-the-edges man like him. He didn't have a pedigree, but he had a code of ethics and a heart, and he'd thought that would be enough. He'd convinced himself her cool facade concealed a passionate woman, that if he could crack through her barriers, he could show her she'd planned the living out of her life. That there was a whole world waiting to be discovered.

Instead, she'd shown him he was a fool.

Hawk unfastened his shoulder holster and carefully placed his Glock on the nightstand between the beds. Just because he hadn't gone to Yale or Harvard, didn't mean he wasn't smart. He learned. He made adjustments. Circumstances had brought him and Elizabeth together again, but this time he would carry out the assignment and then walk away, this time with his heart, his self-esteem, intact.

From the bathroom he heard the shower curtain rattle into place, the water run through the pipes. He hoped it was warm enough. He hoped the spray had enough pressure to actually do some good. He hoped—

Nothing.

He flat didn't need to be thinking of her standing naked beneath the spray, running the little bar of soap along the smooth planes of her body. If he did, he'd have to remember the way she'd braced her palms against the white tiles of his bathtub and let her head fall back against his chest, while he'd stood behind her, running his soapy hands along the soft skin of her stomach. He'd have to remember the feel of her hair as he'd applied shampoo and built a lather.

A mistake, Wesley. Can't we just leave it at that?

No. He couldn't leave it at that. If she'd just been civil about it, if she hadn't denied what they both knew, then maybe he could have let it go. But whether it was pride or ego or lingering hurt, he refused to let her pretend she hadn't come apart in his arms. He was willing to admit they were all wrong for each other, but for one night they'd been pretty damn right.

He didn't understand why she pretended otherwise.

Honesty. That's all he wanted. Acceptance. Then they
could go their separate ways. She could cling to her plans like they were gospel and marry pretty-boy Ferreday, and Hawk could get on with his life. Without her.

That's all he wanted.

Frowning, Hawk grabbed his mobile phone and punched out a familiar number.

"I've got her, sir," he said a few seconds later. He'd tried to place the call from the car, but had been unable to get a signal. "She's safe."

"You're a good man," Ambassador Carrington said. "I knew I could count on you. As always, you have my sincerest thanks."

"Just doing my job, sir." Hawk almost choked on the words.

"What's this I'm hearing about shots fired?"

Hawk sat on the bed he'd claimed for himself and lifted a hand to rub the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders. Despite the security he'd put into place, despite Zhukov's penchant for grandstanding, he hadn't expected an attack so soon. It burned that he couldn't figure out how the bastard had gotten through his net.

"Z was there, sir, but he didn't count on you being one step ahead of him."

"Not me, son. You. You're the one who got her out of there."

Peter Carrington had always treated Hawk with the utmost respect, even when Hawk had been little more than a disillusioned ex-Army Ranger hungry and in desperate need of work. The older man had given Wesley and his newly formed security company the opportunity to prove themselves. He'd given him trust.

In return, Hawk had taken the man's best and brightest for the ride of her life.

"I'll let the authorities know my daughter is safe," the ambassador was saying. "I'd rather the two of you keep a low profile for now."

"Agreed." Hawk filled
Elizabeth
's father in on the events of the evening, leaving out only the stupid, reckless kiss.

The sound of the bathroom door opening was the only warning he got. He glanced up, saw her standing with the bright light behind her, creating a glow around her damp, slicked-back sable hair. Her skin was clear and flawless. His shirt hung like a shapeless dress down to her knees.

And Hawk forgot to breathe.

"Is that my father?" she asked.

Shifting uncomfortably, he gestured for her to join him on the bed. "I have someone here who'd like to talk to you, sir."

Elizabeth
took the phone from his hands and sat next to him. "Dad?"

Hawk stood, not wanting to share the mattress with her, not wanting to look at the way his flannel shirt rode high on her smooth thighs. "I'll shower up," he mouthed. "Holler if you need me."

Her eyes, washed clean of all makeup, met his, revealed a flicker he couldn't quite decipher. Then she looked down at the carpet, and the moment passed with sobering speed.

Grinning despite himself, despite her, Hawk walked away, confident he wouldn't hear a peep out of his charge.

Elizabeth Carrington would rather walk barefoot over broken glass than admit she needed him.

* * *

"I'm fine, Dad. Really. Wesley was…" Magnificent. Flawless. On top of his game.
"
…
there in time. He had everything under control and us out of there before anyone even knew what was going on."

Her father didn't need to know the gory details.

"Thank God. I've been anxious waiting for word."

Elizabeth
smiled. Her father was a big bear of a man who needed to be in control like most people needed to breathe. When he wasn't, he paced. Incessantly. The memory of him stalking across his study was as deeply ingrained as that of his booming voice. Eventually her mother had given up on carpet and tried hard wood. Pamela Carrington had been sure her husband couldn't wear down oak.

Peter had proved her wrong.

"Everyone else okay?"
Elizabeth
asked, trying not to think about Hawk behind the closed door of the bathroom. Peeling off his damp clothes. "Miranda and Sandro and Ethan?"

"Relax, pumpkin," her father said in that reassuring voice of his. "We've got our bases covered. Sandro's not about to let Zhukov within a mile of Mira, and we've tightened security at the embassy."

His thinly veiled omission sent an icy spear through her heart. "And Eth?"

Her father sighed. "Your brother is fine, sweetheart, but you know how he gets."

She did. Too well. Ethan wasn't just her brother, he was her twin and every bit as strong willed. As a prosecutor with the Department of Justice, he'd been chomping at the bit to get his hands on Jorak Zhukov. He wanted to make sure the dangerous man was locked away for life, the key thrown away.