Crossfire

“Is it true you’ll be attending the Carrington Foundation silent auction together?” Madeline persisted, microcassette recorder poised and ready.

Mercifully the doors slid open, spilling a family of five. They rushed by, embroiled in their own little drama.

“Friends,” Elizabeth repeated as she stepped inside the mirrored cubicle and pushed the button for the twenty-forth floor. Only then did she remove her sunglasses. “Nothing more.”

The elevator closed and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. Growing up in a political family, she’d become accustomed to being followed, watched. Normally it didn’t bother her. She could block it from her mind.

Today was different. A keen sense of awareness had kept her edgy, alert. An unsettling energy she hadn’t felt in a blessedly long time jumped through her.

Nerves, she figured. Only four months had passed since a madman had used her sister as a pawn in a deadly game. They’d come horribly close to losing her.

Miranda was home now, safe, crazy in love and planning a wedding, but Elizabeth couldn’t shake the lingering unease. Both her sisters had been touched by violence. One had survived. The other had not.

She couldn’t suppress the disturbing feeling she was next.

The elevator cruised directly to her floor. She stepped into the narrow marble alcove, where an elaborate bouquet of blood-red roses greeted her. She had just enough time for a long bubble bath before dressing for the evening.

Awareness hit immediately, stronger than before.

Behind her, the doors slid closed. Swallowing hard, she reached a gloved hand into her pocket book and retrieved her pepper spray. The corridor stretched long and deserted, vacant but for the abandoned room-service cart outside a nearby door. There were no footsteps. No movements. No shadows.

Just the preternatural knowledge that she wasn’t alone.

Because of the scent. Wildly masculine, alarmingly strong. It washed through her like a drug, jump-starting something deep inside. Her heart staggered, hard. Other parts of her softened. She swung around, fully expecting to see him standing there, all tall and hard, eyes hot and burning, mouth curved into that unmistakably carnal smile.

Instead she found the closed steel doors of the elevator, understated pastel wallpaper and an ornately framed mirror. The adrenaline left her body on a rush, much as it had arrived, leaving her standing there breathing deeply of the achingly familiar aroma of incense and musk.

Someday, she vowed. Someday she’d be able to smell his cologne without remembering his touch.

Without remembering him.

Through the peephole he watched the door close behind her. Only then did he step from the room across the hall, pausing to listen as she clinked the chain into place. Then he smiled.

She was so predictable.

With black gloves covering his hands, he pressed his palms to the pathetic barrier between them. If he really wanted inside, no lock in the world could keep him from her. Nothing could.

No one.

Inside, he heard water rattle through the pipes and felt his body stiffen. She’d be taking off her clothes, he realized. She’d be naked and vulnerable and absolutely perfect. Over the years he’d learned photographs often surpassed reality. But not in this case. Elizabeth Carrington was more exquisite in person than the snapshots he’d taken to bed with him the night before.

It was a damn shame she was just a means to an end.

He always enjoyed sightseeing, but the rush he’d felt inside her room, going through her neatly packed suitcase, had exceeded mere pleasure. Her garments had been soft and sleek, much like she would be. He wanted to taste her before he broke her, hear her cry before silencing her.

The elevator at the end of the hall dinged, prompting him to return to his room. Inside, he lifted a pair of silk stockings to his face and breathed the subtle scent of vanilla. He wondered if she’d smell him, too. If she’d realize he’d been in her room. Touched her panties. Taken a pretty little diamond earring all for himself.

Fingering his treasures, he smiled.

“It’s an honor to be here tonight,” Elizabeth told the medical professionals gathered in the crowded ballroom. “The Carrington Foundation may help raise the funds, but it’s you, the doctors and the researchers, who deserve recognition. Through your tireless dedication, progress is made daily.”

Flashbulbs snapped and applause exploded. Elizabeth paused, pulling in a deep breath as she scanned the semidarkened room. The dim lighting from the chandeliers kept her from making out faces, but she quickly found the table where she’d been sitting, the empty place saved for Nicholas, who had not shown up.

“As many of you know,” she continued, not sure whether she felt relief or disappointment, “the Carrington Foundation was created by my mother, Pamela, after her father, a Calgary native, was diagnosed with prostate cancer. My mother is with my father in Ravakia now, but sends her warmest regards.”

With each word, familiarity replaced tension. During the dark days following her broken engagement, her work had kept her going. She’d poured herself into the crusade to raise funds to defeat cancer. The fight, the cause, had helped her heal.

“The war is not over,” she said, nearing her conclusion. “But thanks to you, more battles are won all the time.” She paused, scanning the room for impact.

“In closing, I’d like to—” A sudden movement at the back of the ballroom interrupted her words. She tensed, squinted, saw the flash of light too late.

“Get down!” a man shouted, but before she could move, the chandeliers went dark. A rapid burst of gunfire shattered the stunned silence, followed by a deafening roar.

Shock tore through Elizabeth. She dropped behind the podium as Hawk had trained her to do, heart hammering with brutal force. The shooter had been aiming at her. The knowledge shouldn’t have stunned her but did. She’d lived with threats for as long as she could remember, all the Carringtons had. But in the months since her future brother-in-law, Sandro, had brought down Viktor Zhukov, there’d been no signs of imminent danger.

And yet, not all danger carried warning signs.

Instinct demanded that she run, get out of the auditorium as quickly as possible. But she knew better than to expose herself, potentially putting herself in the line of fire.

Panic tore through the stampeding crowd. Chairs crashed and china shattered. “Find her!” someone yelled. And then the alarms started to wail. “Fire!”

Overhead, sprinklers kicked on.

She had to get out of there.

Elizabeth clutched the edges of the podium and stood. The darkness would cover her as she ran for the emergency exit. She started right, but something solid plowed into her from behind. She went down hard, landing on her hands and knees.

“Elizabeth!”

“Don’t fight and you won’t get hurt,” snarled an accented voice disgustingly close to her face. His breath was hot, riddled by the deceptively benign scent of peppermint.

She shoved against him. “Take your hands off me!” Above the alarms, she barely heard her own voice.

Rough hands pulled her to her feet. “Come on.”

Fight-or-flight kicked in, the countless hours Hawk had drilled her. Tested her. She fought every way she knew how, thrashing and swinging her elbows, squirming, kicking. Biting.

“You little bitch!” Her abductor slapped a hand over her mouth, and fleetingly Elizabeth wondered if this was what it had been like for Miranda.

“Let go!” she shouted, but his hand absorbed the words. His fingers dug into her upper arm as he dragged her toward the edge of the stage. She jabbed an elbow into his gut, but he didn’t slow. Twisting, she smashed her knuckles against his windpipe.

He grunted, collapsed against her and slumped to the ground. She fell with him, cried out when her sandals went out from beneath her and her ankle twisted. She landed hard, her attacker pinning her to the wet floor of the stage.

Fighting for breath, she shoved against the dead weight of his sweaty body, surprised when he rolled with ease. She scrambled to her feet and tried to run, staggered instead. Pain shot up from her injured ankle, and one of her heels snapped.

“Elizabeth!”

She kept running, refused to slow. Memory chased her, the present tangling with the past, reality with drill. The rough-hewn voice that haunted her during the long hours of the night could not be heard above the furious wail of the fire alarm. She was traveling alone this time, her life in the hands of nameless, faceless security personnel.