Crossfire

Nothing had changed. He knew they had no future, he didn’t want a future, but the denial stung all the same. Here she was as cool and untouchable as always, while something deep inside him boiled. He caged in his response to her, unwilling to let her think she still had that power over him. Because she didn’t. She never had. That was only adrenaline, the thrill of the chase.

“Where did the blood come from?” she asked, looking back at him. “Did you shoot someone?”

“With you in the line of fire?” The thought sickened him. “Sweet God, Elizabeth, what kind of man do you think I am?”

She had the good grace to wince. “Then where did the blood come from?”

Her failure to answer his question didn’t go unnoticed. He knew what kind of man she thought he was. She’d made that bulletproof clear.

The rain picked up, icy pellets slanting down on them both. And despite his jacket, Elizabeth still shook. A compassionate man would have pulled her into his arms, let the heat of his body warm her. But Hawk wasn’t interested in another Elizabeth Carrington rejection, no matter how badly he hated seeing her tremble. The urge to hold her was just instinct, he told himself. Basic human kindness. Nothing more.

“My guess is the fall,” he said. “Zhukov’s man must have cut himself, got his blood on you.” The bastard had taken Hawk down, as well, lifting a leg in the darkness to send Hawk to his hands and knees. The impact had jarred him, but nowhere near as much as the sound of Elizabeth’s scream.

“Zhukov,” she muttered, lifting her eyes to his. “Dear God, where’s Miranda?”

He stepped from the shield of the dumpsters and verified the coast was still clear. “Sandro has her. They’re safe.”

“Thank God,” she breathed.

Time was up. If the authorities found them, there’d be a fuss, questions, officials. There’d be delays. Cameras. Someone might try to separate them.

Elizabeth, the woman who looked at him and saw her worst nightmare, wouldn’t stop them.

He swung toward her. “Can you run?”

She looked at her ruined strappy sandals, then back at him. “Run?”

“I need to get you out of here, and either we run or I carry you.”

She snapped off the heel of her other sandal. “I can run.”

He bit back a laugh. She was so predictable. “Good girl. My car is just around the corner.” Ready to go, he reached for her, but as he’d predicted, she stepped away from his touch.

He came damn close to growling.

“Quit fighting me, Ellie,” he said as levelly as he could. “You have to let me do my job.”

“Is that what you’re calling it these days?”

Impatience snapped through him. “I call it saving your life,” he said, then didn’t give her a chance to protest further, just put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close to shield her from the rain and took off running.

“It’s not the Ritz, sweetness, but it’ll have to do.”

Elizabeth stepped into the small hotel room and heard Hawk close the door behind her. She drew a deep breath, but the stale air did nothing to soothe her nerves. Jorak Zhukov was out of prison. He’d threatened the Carringtons. Shots had been fired.

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 you 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 I 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.