CROSSFIRE (12 page)

"It's not that much of a jump." Memories washed over her, their vicious undertow pulling her back to a time and place she would trade her life to erase from their past. "Kristina was always his favorite," she said, pulling her hand from his to wrap her arms around her middle. For the first time since the plane had come down, white-hot pain didn't spear through her. Coldness seeped instead, a pain that bled from deep inside, one that could not be stanched through a simple medical procedure.

"His best and brightest, he always said." Two years older than
Elizabeth
, her sister had been ambitious and outspoken, strikingly beautiful, afraid of nothing and no one, ready to take on the world single-handedly. She could have had her choice of any man, but from the time she'd been old enough to date, there'd been only one.
Elizabeth
had always been a little in awe. "She looked like him," she whispered. "She was the only one of us kids that had his jet-black hair."

Hawk watched her steadily. "You loved her a lot."

"I practically worshipped her," she admitted with a little laugh. "To me she was perfect." Ethan had been allowed to carve his own path, but Elizabeth had always been held up to Kristina. And while
Elizabeth
had achieved much in her own right, she'd never quite measured up to her sister. "And then there was Miranda."

Hawk laughed. "The family gypsy."

"She didn't care, you know? She just didn't care. She lives her life to her own tune, and no one expects anything different." Her younger sister had been different from the moment she was born, and it was as if all those suffocating Carrington responsibilities escaped her. Sure, her family wanted her to be the picture-perfect child, but their expectations never held her back. "One Easter Sunday Mom dressed the four of us in matching outfits. We girls had these lacy white dresses and poor Ethan had a white suit, even with a white tie." The memory made her smile. "Mom had a photographer coming, but when it came time for the photos, no one could find Miranda."

Hawk's lips twitched. "Let me guess. She was making mud pies."

Now it was
Elizabeth
's turn to laugh. "Close," she said, seeing the past in her mind as vividly as she saw Hawk sprawled against the wall of the cave. "She'd found the Easter baskets and had chocolate smeared from one end to the other—on her dress, her white tights, her face, everywhere."
Elizabeth
would never forget the look of horror twisting her mother's face when she found Miranda in her closet, devouring all those chocolate bunnies. "Mom almost fainted."

There was a light in Hawk's eyes now, brighter than the kerosene lamp. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Mom was furious,"
Elizabeth
recalled. In some faraway corner of her mind she realized how ridiculous it was to be sitting in a small dark cave in the middle of nowhere, with the frigid night air pushing in on her, talking to Hawk about her childhood. But awareness didn't change the truth.

She'd forgotten how easy it was to talk to him, how he always asked questions, then listened. When she'd looked back on their brief time together, which she'd tried not to do, she'd seen only that one disastrous night, the out-of-control, frenzied lovemaking.

And that's all it took to yank her thoughts back to the here and now.

"She ranted about how Miranda had ruined everything. I was so sure she was going to get in huge trouble and tried desperately to convince Mom not to punish her, but she was so lost in her anger it was like I wasn't even there."

Even as a child, she'd hated conflict, that crazy, out-of-control feeling that offered no promises of security or happy endings.

"But Kristina breezed into the room and said, 'Mom, she's just a kid. She was only having fun. Lighten up.'"
Elizabeth
paused, swallowed the emotion burning her throat. "And then Mom started to laugh. I just stood there, staring at them, awed that my seven-year-old little sister had the courage to defy Mom's explicit orders and Kristina had the guts to step in and tell Mom she was overreacting."

To this day, it amazed her that children from the same family could develop such distinct personalities.

"Where was Ethan during all this?" Hawk asked.

Elizabeth
grinned. Even as a kid of nine, Ethan had adhered to a strict code of justice. "Convincing Dad that the whole ordeal was actually Mom's fault for making us dress up in such ridiculous outfits in the first place."

Hawk lifted a hand to his shoulder and rubbed. "Just another day in the whitewashed world of the Carrington family, huh?"

Elizabeth
squeezed her eyes shut, opened them a heartbeat later. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, but the chill deepened. "That's just it. Even when it was crazy, it was wonderful. That's all I ever wanted, for my family to be happy. When something went wrong, when my parents argued or Kris stayed out past curfew, when Ethan broke one of mom's prized Fabergé eggs, I just wanted to make it better, fix it somehow." They'd called her the peacemaker. "I couldn't stand seeing them unhappy."

The light in Hawk's eyes dimmed. "But you couldn't fix Kris dying."

The softly spoken words stabbed through
Elizabeth
. She felt herself stiffen, the surge of emotion and memory rush through her. They crashed against the cage of the past, battered the flimsy constraints. The coldness settled deeper into her bones.

"No," she whispered through an uncomfortably tight throat. "I couldn't stop Kris from dying." But she should have been able to. A simple phone call. That's all it would have taken. One phone call, and her sister might still be alive, married with a few kids, following in her father's footsteps and pursuing a career in politics. Instead, only pictures remained. And memory.

She'd never forget the look on her dad's face as he stood by her sister's coffin. "It was January, only a few days after the family had celebrated New Year's. We'd laughed and smiled and toasted the year ahead." Deep inside she started to shake. She looked at Hawk sitting a few feet away, with his back against the rock wall and his long legs stretched before him, the khaki shirt wrinkled and torn and open at the throat, and wished, for a fleeting dangerous moment, that the past didn't stand between them like a steel-reinforced wall, that she could scoot across the floor and feel his arms close around her. That she could absorb the heat of his body. That they were different people. That they could share without damage.

But
Elizabeth
had never been the starry-eyed dreamer in the family. That was Miranda.
Elizabeth
dealt in reality. She knew the consequences of thinking she could walk too close to the fire without getting burned.

Hawk just kept watching her. "Losing someone you love is the hardest part of life."

Time is the great healer, she'd heard over and over. With time everything fades. "They say life goes on, and I suppose it does, but it's never the same." Couldn't be, not when a piece of her had died with her sister. "It's been eleven years, and I still think about her every day."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

God, the cold wouldn't stop, it just kept drilling through her, relentless, punishing. Hard to imagine that less than thirty minutes before she'd barely been aware of the frigid night beyond the cave.

She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them tight. "I can't stand the thought of my parents going through that again." Her father was a strong man, her mother a tough woman, but she didn't think they could bear losing another child. The ordeal with Miranda had aged them visibly. "I can't stand the thought of them thinking, for even one minute, that they might have to bury another—"

"
Elizabeth
."

The sound of his voice resonated through the small cavern, forcing her to look up abruptly. He still looked completely casual and relaxed against the wall, but the intensity in his gaze jump-started her heart.

"You don't have to sit there and shiver."

She went very still. "What?"

He shoved dark blond hair back from his face. "I'm not blind," he said, and almost sounded angry. "Nor am I oblivious to the fact this cave feels like
Iceland
."

Her teeth wanted to chatter, but she refused to let them. "It's not that bad."

"Your lips are blue."

Instinctively, she drew them into her mouth, dismayed by the chill she found.

"Come here."

Caution whispered louder. "What?"

"I can warm you, Ellie." To prove his point, he opened his arms to her. "I can take away the cold."

Her heart kicked, hard. Blood roared through her veins. He spoke point-blank, matter-of-fact, but there was nothing tame or calm about the desire sizzling through her. He made it sound so easy. Just slide closer, let him warm her. And she knew he could. But another fundamental truth kept her from moving.

"Your kind of heat isn't what I need," she said quietly.

Through the playful light of the lantern, she saw the planes of his face harden. "Trust me, sweetness. I have no more interest in repeating mistakes than you do." He picked up a small rock and tossed it across the cave. "But if you'd rather freeze to death than accept help, if you don't think you can touch me without losing yourself, then that's your decision. I've never had to force a woman before, and I'm not going to start now."

Elizabeth
just stared at him. The gauntlet he'd thrown landed hard at her frozen feet. She didn't know how the man did it, how he twisted and turned her words until she barely recognized them, but she did know there was no way she was going to sit across from him all night long and shiver, not with that knowing "got you" look in his eyes.

"I can touch you and not lose myself," she practically growled. The cave didn't allow her to stand, so she had to crawl toward him, and all the while she did, he just watched her with those hot, burning eyes.

The blast of heat consumed her the second she lowered herself against him. His arms closed around her immediately, anchoring her to his chest. His body was hot and hard, and in a blinding flash she remembered how all that muscle felt naked and twined with hers. Could remember, had never forgotten. Had awoken night after night, heart racing, body burning from the memory of his touch. Dreams shouldn't be so real. So dangerous. So completely, absurdly, appallingly impossible.

She could never have a future with a man who made a hobby of playing with fire.

"How did it happen, Ellie?"

Lost in the warmth weaving through her, she barely heard him speak, didn't know to what he referred, had no time to prepare. A hundred possibilities somersaulted through her, none of them good. How had she forgotten the lines between them and ended up back at his small white frame house, in his war-torn bed? How had she lost herself for seven long hours? How had she carved him out of her life afterward?

Unease knifed deep. She should have kept her distance, she realized too late. Stayed across the cave, no matter how deeply the cold penetrated.

"How did what happen?" she asked, bracing herself.

"Your sister," he said, tilting her face to his. "How did she die?"

* * *

The question settled between them like a freshly exploded landmine. The freezing temperatures had brought color to Elizabeth's face, but now that color faded, leaving only the pale aftermath of shock. Hawk looked down into her stricken expression, her leery eyes and slightly parted mouth, and reminded himself of the last time he'd let himself care. He'd forgotten the cardinal rule in the process. Never get involved. Never believe in something beyond the moment.

"It was a long time ago," she whispered.

Maybe to a calendar, but not to her. The Carringtons never talked of Kristina's death. The few times Hawk had brought up the topic, both with Elizabeth and Miranda, they'd skillfully changed the subject.

Not now. He had
Elizabeth
alone, as he'd wanted from the moment her father had issued the assignment. Stranded in a bitterly cold cave wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, nor was her sister's death the topic he'd intended to make her confront, but instinct spurred him on.

"Time doesn't always mean anything, though, does it?" he asked. "Some wounds linger, growing deeper and darker even though everyone promises they'll soften and lighten."

Something sharp and jagged flashed through her eyes. She tried to turn from him, but his hand cupped her face, and he easily held her in place.

"Your body temperature has dropped several degrees since I asked that question," he pointed out. And the change bothered him in ways he refused to analyze too closely. Her skin had been soft and warm when he'd first put his palm to her cheek. Now he felt only the sting of ice. "Why?"

Against his body, her hands curled into fists. "Why are you doing this, Wesley? What difference does my skin temperature or what happened that night make?"

It
was a damn good question, one he couldn't answer. Didn't want to. "Sometimes pain can poison you." His mother had told him that, but he'd not realized the truth until was too late to thank her. "Sometimes it helps to let it out."