CROSSFIRE (16 page)

"Let go," he murmured in that hypnotizing voice of his, the one that still penetrated her dreams. "Let go."

She wished she could. She wished doing so didn't always, always carry a price. She wished she could lift her face to his, feel the moist heat of his mouth against hers. She wished memories didn't twist her up inside, that dreams didn't hurt.

She wished she could stop wishing.

Because she couldn't, she said nothing, just listened to the strum of his heart and let herself drift to a place where the past didn't hold regret and the future didn't have the power to destroy.

* * *

The sound of the chopper came with the first rays of the sun. She awoke abruptly, her heart jarred from a peaceful slumber into a painful hammering. Hawk said nothing, just eased her from the warmth of his body, grabbed his Glock and crawled toward the mouth of the cave.

She squinted against the glare. "Can you see anything?"

Turning toward her, he shoved the hair back from his face. "I need a better look. You stay here."

"No." Maneuvering toward him, she reached for his arm. Her fingers curled around his bicep, much like the barbwire tattoo beneath the cotton of his shirt. "Don't leave me."

The thought chilled her in ways she didn't understand.

"I have to." The planes of his face tightened. "Just for a few minutes." His eyes met hers, darkened, and her breath caught. She felt herself move toward him, lift her face, but then he was gone, ripping from her and slipping into the blinding light of early morning.

Elizabeth
rocked back on her heels and watched him disappear. The temptation to follow was strong, to do something,
anything
other than wait in the cave, but instinct warned her to stay put. If she went after him, she might not find him.

She might find someone else instead.

"Get your things," he said, materializing seemingly out of thin air. He was all business, no sign of the wounded animal from the night before. "We're going home."

* * *

Ambassador Carrington strode across the sun-drenched tarmac with the purpose of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.

In his early sixties, the renowned statesman remained an imposing, influential man, with a full head of dark hair tinged by silver, heavy brows and deep-set green eyes, lines of thought and laughter, and a mouth that could curl with amusement and scowl with contempt. That face looked older now, more deeply carved. He wore a tailored suit, as he always did, but he bore little resemblance to the polished, unflappable politician the media portrayed. His expression was that of a father on the brink.

Hawk had seen his employer like this only one other time, four months before, when Hawk had run from the walled city of Evora, Portugal, to a helo waiting nearby, delivering Miranda safe and sound into her father's arms.

"
Elizabeth
." The older man's voice, normally rich and cultured, quavered on his daughter's name. He crushed her in his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, dear sweet God, my little girl is safe."

Hawk reached for his aviator sunglasses as he dismounted the steps, but they'd been destroyed when the Lear went down. The hot
Richmond
sun beat down on him, a welcome change from the subfreezing temperatures of the mountains. God, she'd been so cold last night, even as he'd held her, shielded as much of her body as he could, still, he'd felt her tremble. He'd tried to warm her, but every time he moved, she'd done so as well, sliding against his body.

Another night like that and he'd have been a goner.

An admission, he reminded himself, watching her father hold her tight. That's all he wanted from Elizabeth Carrington.

She'd been alarmingly quiet from the moment she'd boarded the chopper, almost as though she'd retreated into herself. They'd been transported to the nearest military base, from which, after a debriefing, they'd been promptly flown to
Richmond
.

"Dad," he heard her say. "What are you doing here?"

Hawk couldn't believe she had to ask.

"What am I doing here?" the ambassador bellowed. "My baby girl is shot at and her plane vanishes from radar, and you ask what I'm doing here?"

His words were gruff, but they reverberated with a fatherly love that stabbed somewhere deep.

Elizabeth
pulled back from her father. Hawk couldn't see her face, but there was a vulnerability to her, accentuated by the way his bulky leather jacket hung from her shoulders.

"I'm fine, Dad, really." She glanced toward the terminal. "Is Mom here?"

"No, I didn't want her leaving the security of the embassy until Zhukov is apprehended." He chuckled. "I practically had to chain her to the bed to keep her from following me."

"Dad!"

Hawk bit back a laugh, didn't have time to prepare. The older man looked beyond his daughter, to Hawk, and smiled. "Thank you, son. Thank you for bringing my girl home safe and sound."

Throat stupidly tight, Hawk stepped forward, took the other man's hand. "Just doing my job, sir."

The ambassador moved so swiftly Hawk didn't realize his intent. Peter Carrington released his daughter and hugged him. Hugged Hawk. The hired gun. "You took care of my girl, like I knew you would. For that, I'm once again in your debt."

The muted emotion turned sharper, prompting Hawk to squirm from the other man's embrace. From the moment Hawk had approached the ambassador with a proposal for taking over his security regime, the man had always, always treated him with respect.

Respect he'd not always, always deserved.

"You
should have her checked out by a doctor," he said. Frowning, he glanced at
Elizabeth
. She stood not two feet away, staring at her father and Hawk like she'd never seen them before. Little color had returned to her face. "Think she bruised her ribs pretty badly."

The lines in her father's forehead drew together. "Liz'beth? You're hurt?"

She shot Hawk a heated glare. "Not so bad anymore."

Liar. "Have her looked at, anyway."

Narrowing her eyes, she stunned him by moving close enough to lift a hand to his face, ease back his hair and reveal the gash at his forehead. "Look who's talking."

The ambassador swore softly. "I want you both looked at ASAP." He turned to his daughter, directed her toward the door to the terminal. Armed security personnel stood watching. Waiting. "You go on inside. I need to talk to Hawk for a few minutes."

Hawk saw the protest gather, but her father intervened with a kiss to her forehead. "Please."

Long sable hair blew softly in the warm breeze, making Hawk's fingers itch to ease the strands behind her ears. She didn't look happy with either of them, but after shifting her eyes from one to the other, she turned and headed for the building. He watched her walk away from him, again, the woman he'd once believed had no heart at all, but now knew still punished herself for the accident that killed her sister, and realized, for the first time, the real danger surrounding this assignment.

"How is she?" the ambassador asked.

"More shaken than she wants to admit."

"That's Liz'beth." Her father sighed. "Even as a little girl she put on a brave face, never wanted anyone to know when she hurt." He paused, frowned. "Once when she was, oh, I don't know, seven or eight, maybe, she got a new bike for Christmas, and she was riding it down the street. I was filming her with my 8mm. She was looking at me, waving, and never saw the pothole. She crashed, hard, just sprawled all over that cracked concrete."

Hawk cringed.

Memory, love and sorrow swam through the ambassador's eyes. "My heart just about stopped. I ran for her, saw her lying so still in the street, but before I could reach her, she was back on her feet, popping up like a jack-in-the-box, saying, 'I'm okay, I'm okay' even as blood stained her sweatshirt and blue jeans."

A warm wind whipped hair into Hawk's eyes and obscured his view of her, forcing him to shove it back. She opened the door and stepped into the terminal, never looked back. "Maybe she was just embarrassed."

"Maybe." But the ambassador's tone said he didn't think that was the case. "Now about Zhukov…
"

The older man kept talking, but Hawk barely heard. Through the windows to the terminal, he saw
Elizabeth
stop suddenly, saw another man pull her into his arms.

The glare of the sun turned punishing. Instinct demanded that he charge into the terminal and pry the man from her, but the truth stopped him from moving. He had no claim over Elizabeth Carrington, none whatsoever. And even if he did, he had no desire to come face-to-face with Nicholas Ferreday.

At least not yet.

Hawk had worked for the Carringtons for close to three years, but during that time he and Nicholas had never been in the same room together. They'd come close, but in the end, no enchilada. Nicholas had been in
England
when her father hired Hawk, and then, after his return, after she accepted Nicholas's marriage proposal, Hawk had been the one to leave.

Now, unfinished business awaited.

* * *

Elizabeth
stepped from the shower and pulled on her favorite terry cloth bathrobe. Her brother had given it to her for Christmas freshman year, and despite the passing of more than ten years and the arrival of several more robes, she refused to pack away the familiar dusty rose.

Steam shrouded the bathroom. She'd been in the shower for close to thirty minutes, letting the hard hot spray rain down on her back. Now she squeezed vanilla pear lotion into her hand and smoothed it along her freshly shaved legs.

At the hospital she'd been given a clean bill of health. A splatter of bruises covered her rib cage and arms, but nothing serious. The procedure Hawk had used to ease her dislocated rib back into place had worked flawlessly.

Hawk.

She'd learned more about him during one night in a cave than the entire six months he'd been assigned to her.

On a ragged breath, she slid her hands up her thighs to her stomach, where she gingerly spread the lotion. Too easily she remembered the feel of his hands on her body all through the night. She'd awoken several times, briefly registering the gentle stroking before drifting back to sleep.

The second the search-and-rescue helicopter had brought them onboard, everything had changed. The man Hawk had been during the long cold hours of the night, the boy who'd learned early on that life offered no guarantees, had vanished, replaced by the hardened soldier. Then, at the airport, even the soldier had vanished, leaving the rough-around-the-edges, volatile man she remembered from two years before.

He'd been watching her. She'd felt it from inside the terminal, the rush of sensation even as Nicholas held her. She'd made the mistake of glancing over her shoulder, had found Hawk standing with her father, watching her with the most scorched-earth eyes she'd ever seen. He'd stood there with the afternoon sun glinting down on him, in his mud-streaked jeans and torn shirt, and stared at her as if she'd somehow betrayed him.

She hadn't seen him since.

Elizabeth
put away the lotion and removed the towel from her head, reached for a comb.

"Liz'beth, you in there?"

The comb clattered to the tile floor. "Mira?"

"You decent?"

Elizabeth
opened the door to a blast of cool air from her bedroom and a warm hug from her sister.

"Dad said you were fine, but I had to see for myself."

"Just tired," she admitted, pulling back. God, her sister looked good. Her hair fell loosely to her shoulders, back to its normal color, an auburn just a shade more red than
Elizabeth
's. And her eyes. They always danced, but now they positively glowed. Love was truly the best makeup in the world. "A little hungry."

"How about pizza? Pepperoni and green olive, right?"

Her mouth started to water. "Perfect, but you know Dad." She rubbed a small towel against the foggy mirror, then started combing out her hair. "If a pizza doesn't have mushrooms, it's not a pizza."

Miranda hopped up on the counter, let her legs dangle. "Dad's not here."

Elizabeth
stopped fighting with her hair. Her father had insisted upon bringing her home, had been camped out on the sofa watching CNN when she slipped away to shower. "What do you mean Dad's not here? He was—"

"Relax." Miranda fiddled with the curve of a silk orchid, then caught
Elizabeth
's gaze in the mirror. "He had to drive to D.C., I think, some dinner or something. Hawk wasn't sure."

It was difficult, but
Elizabeth
kept her expression blasé. "Hawk?"

"He let me in," Miranda said, then smiled. "Maybe we should ask him what he likes on
his
pizza."

Elizabeth
just stood there. All that time she'd been in the shower, naked and relaxed, Hawk had been downstairs, no doubt sprawled out on her sofa like he owned the thing. "He's a mushroom man, too," she said woodenly.