CROSSFIRE (5 page)

If Zhukov was free, it would be just like Ethan to bait him, lure him in, take justice into his own hands.

"He's not doing something stupid, is he?"

"Your brother can take care of himself," her father said, and though she knew the words were meant to be reassuring, something cold and ominous settled low in her stomach.

"I want to talk to him."

"Not tonight. Tonight I need you to let Hawk take care of you. There will be plenty of time for talking once you're safe and sound in
Richmond
."

Let Hawk take care of you.

The words lingered long after her father's voice faded. Peter Carrington trusted Hawk, said he was the best, and
Elizabeth
knew it was true. He would lay down his life if that's what it took. But never his heart. She knew that, too.

I don't do hearts, sweet thing. I'm more of a body man. They're a lot more fun.

Even now, two long years later, the memory of his carnal smile had the power to heat her blood. The mistake they'd made had been devastating enough with just their bodies involved. If hearts had entered the equation, she hated to think what could have happened.

Frowning,
Elizabeth
stood and started to pace, unable to block the sound of water rushing through the old pipes. She didn't want to think about Hawk Monroe standing naked in that cramped little bathtub, his height forcing him to bend so the shower could beat down on his big body, but the image wouldn't leave her alone.

Nor would the memory.

After all this time, what went down that long-ago night shouldn't still have the power to twist her up inside. She should be able to delegate those seven mindless hours to the dark corner of her mind where she'd shoved images from another night, the one that had shattered her family and almost killed her father. She should be able to see those hot burning eyes without feeling her blood heat. She should be able to accept the lesson she'd learned from their time together and move on.

But somehow, when it came to thrill-a-minute Hawk Monroe, nothing was that easy.

Elizabeth
picked up the remote and turned on the television. She didn't want him back in her life. She didn't want to be holed up in a cramped hotel room with him. She didn't want to wear his shirt. She didn't want to go to sleep knowing he was only a heartbeat away, that if she cried out, he would hear.

"Something wrong, sweetcakes?"

The question jumped through her like a live wire. She swung around, found Hawk striding toward her. Dark blond hair was wet and combed back from his face, emphasizing his wide cheekbones and I-know-what-you're-thinking eyes. Loose-fitting gray sweatpants hugged his lean hips and covered his long legs. His chest was bare, except for the dog tags dangling from a silver chain.

Words failed her. She'd been told, but the knowledge, the cold, impersonal words, had not prepared her.

"See something you like?" he asked with that infuriating grin of his.

Only then did she realize she was staring. And that her heart was screaming through her chest. "Your … scar."

He glanced below his left shoulder, to the pale, jagged flesh that marked the spot where a sniper had come within inches of ending his life.

The thought of a vital man like Hawk Monroe dead made something deep inside her go insidiously cold.

"Sorry," he drawled, "the bullet just missed my heart."

Horror welled hot and fast, but she bit back the reaction. "That's not fair," she said quietly.

"Well, you'll have to take that up with the shooter—"

"That's not what I meant and you know it." The words came out in a rush. "Your comment wasn't fair. I'm glad you're … okay." Had prayed incessantly from the moment she'd heard about the shooting…

He stepped closer, looked down at her in that alarmingly intimate way that made her feel as though he skimmed a finger along her neck instead. "Are you, Ellie?" he asked in that crushed-velvet voice of his. "Are you sure?"

She tilted her chin, acutely aware that if she stepped back, he would have her pinned between his big body and the small bed. "I never wanted anything bad to happen to you."

His eyes gleamed like melted butterscotch. "Oh, that's right. That's why you're so fond of looking at me like you harbor some secret fantasy of slipping arsenic into my food."

She wasn't sure how it happened, but the laugh slipped free before she could stop it.

"Now, there's a thought." Deliberately she lifted a single brow. "Is arsenic detectable?"

His lips twitched. "Afraid so. The whole world would know Elizabeth Carrington isn't as infallible as she pretends to be."

"Too bad," she said with a breeziness that pleased her. "What about toothpaste?"

He blinked. "You want to kill me with toothpaste?"

She slipped by him, brushing against the bed to avoid contact with his seminude body. "Is that possible?"

"No."

"Then I'll settle for brushing my teeth." She reached the bathroom and eyed his shaving kit. "Do you still carry a spare?"

"You know me," he called from the bedroom. "A man in my line of work can never be too prepared."

The words sent an odd thrill through her. She ignored it, ignored him, focused on getting rid of the lingering taste of fear. And of Hawk.

Inside the battered leather bag, she found his toothbrush, green as always, the bristles slightly bent. She kept digging, found the toothpaste. The spare would be toward the bottom, she knew, right next to the—

Elizabeth
froze, her hand going completely still against the familiar blue box.

A man in my line of work can never be too prepared.

Heat flashed hot and hard and powerful. Her heart broke into a staccato rhythm, much like the rush after drinking a venti latte. That was life with Hawk Monroe, she knew. A caffeine overdose.

Maybe that's why her hands had been shaking that night, as she'd reached for the little foil package and almost savagely ripped it open. Maybe that's why her vision had blurred, why she'd looked at Hawk and seen surprise and fascination, not hard, uncompromising lines.

Maybe that's why she'd come apart in ways she'd never imagined possible. Never wanted to experience again.

"Ellie?"

Startled, she lifted her eyes to the mirror, where she saw Hawk filling the doorway, watching her through those hot,
knowing
eyes. "Find what you need?"

Chapter 3

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H
awk just stared. Long damp strands of sable hair scraggled against her face, but not enough to hide the surprise, almost the … guilt, in her eyes. Her skin was slightly flushed. Her lips were parted. She looked almost exactly like she had when she—

Uh-oh.

It took effort, because he damn well liked the sight, but Hawk forced himself to look from the mirror to his shaving kit, where the box of condoms winked at him like a pal with the habit of reappearing at the worst possible time.

And he knew. God have mercy, he knew why
Elizabeth
looked exactly the way she had that night two years before.

Awkward
wasn't a word in Hawk's vocabulary. He always had just the right comeback, the right solution. But when he looked into
Elizabeth
's wide eyes and saw memory glowing back at him—the heat, the uncertainty—his body came to immediate and painful attention.

Say something, he commanded himself. Break the moment before it breaks you. It was bad enough he had to spend the night with her. He didn't need to spend it with memories, too.

"Don't worry, Ellie," he gritted out, spurred on by survival instincts that had failed him earlier. "I'm not here to get you into bed. We've been there," he said with a casualness he didn't come close to feeling, "done that, remember?" He paused, tried to smooth the jagged edges inside him. For effect he grinned. "And if I were a betting man, I'd lay money on the fact you threw out the T-shirt."

Confident he'd said what was necessary to kill the moment of intimacy, Hawk braced an arm against the doorjamb and waited. But then the most amazing thing happened.
Elizabeth
didn't look away or lift her chin, she didn't skewer him with a pointed comeback. She … smiled.

"Actually," she said in that honeyed voice of hers, the one that rang of old
Richmond
breeding and hot Southern nights, the one she usually hid behind crisp boarding-school style, "I
donated
the T-shirt."

He didn't know whether to laugh or swear or eliminate the distance between them and show her just what she did to him. Still. Even now. Against every rule in his book.

"You saying I'm a charity case, dear heart?" he asked, stepping toward her.

The bathroom wasn't big to begin with, but with both of them standing in the cramped space and the heat of memory weaving between them like a net falling into place, the little white walls seemed to box them in. She tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go.

"Your words," she said with a breeziness that he recognized as dismissal, "Not mine."

This time he did laugh. "Because if I'm a charity case and your job is fund-raising, then maybe we should seriously consider getting another donation together and—"

She lifted her chin. "Go away, Wesley."

He'd never been a man to back down from a challenge, and that cultured, clipped voice registered as a twenty on a scale of one to ten.

"What are you afraid of?" he drawled, his voice low. "I've told you my intentions are honorable, and it's a little late for modesty." They both knew he'd seen her do far more than brush her teeth. "If I go away, who'll protect you from the bad guys?"

Her eyes met his. "Maybe I'll take my chances."

"But I won't." Then, because the Army had taught him the value of ending a campaign before the tide turned, he reached into his shaving kit, found the spare toothbrush and handed it to her. "Here."

She took the red handle from him and ripped off the plastic wrapper. "I'd tell you you're a jerk," she said, meeting his gaze in the mirror, "but that would make you too happy."

Very true. "And God knows that would be a crime," he muttered, then turned and walked out of the bathroom.

He didn't look back.

As much as he'd once enjoyed playing verbal chess with Elizabeth Carrington, that time had come and gone. They weren't dancing in the shadows now. Each encounter wasn't foreplay. They'd exploded and fizzled out, no matter how much a part of him deep, deep inside burned to see if he could still rattle her cage. He had a job to do. It was as simple as that.

Out there somewhere, Jorak Zhukov lurked. Thirsting for revenge. Targeting
Elizabeth
. Acting out of character. Striking quickly wasn't his style. The bastard preferred to stalk his prey slowly, deliberately, luring them into invisible traps.

Desperation, however, could change a man.

Hawk knew that well.

Pacing, he glanced toward the nightstand, where his Glock lay next to
Elizabeth
's black pearls. They shimmered against her skin, changed colors with her outfits. Once, he'd enjoyed holding them in his fingers, rubbing, caressing…

On impulse he crossed the room and sat on the bed closest the window, picked up the pearls. They were soft and smooth, cultured, refined.

Just like her.

Swearing softly, he let the pearls fall from his fingers, but could do nothing about the sound of gunfire echoing through his memory.

"You don't have any more surprises in store for me, do you?"
Elizabeth
turned off the bathroom light and breezed into the main room. "We
are
headed to
Richmond
tomorrow, right?"

Hawk stretched out on the bed and linked his hands behind his head. When he'd left her a few minutes before, her eyes had been big and dark, memory glowing like a candle that refused to burn out. But classic Elizabeth Carrington, she'd washed all that messy emotion away and now looked at him through a gaze as refined as the pearls he'd been fingering moments before.

"I don't know," he said, unable to resist. He lifted the remote and cruised away from CNN. "I was thinking we could take a scenic tour of
Lake Louise
first…"

Elizabeth
swung around. "Wesley," she said with just the right blue-blood clip. "I'm serious."

Hawk felt his lips twitch, clenched his teeth hard. Laughing at her wouldn't help matters, but she had no idea how she looked, standing there with her mother's glare in her eyes and his ratty flannel shirt hanging from her shoulders.

"So am I," he drawled, then stopped channel surfing on a Toronto Blue Jays baseball game. "I was reading about a horseback ride up to a glacier, where there's this quaint little tearoom." Laughter almost broke through the words. "You like tea, don't you, Ellie?" he asked with all the innocence of the young elk pictured on the cover of the travel magazine beneath his Glock.