Crossfire

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.

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.