CROSSFIRE (18 page)

She tried to pull back. "Wesley, don't," she said, and he could tell she spoke through gritted teeth, as though the intimate contact with his body offended her somehow.

Nothing had changed. Hawk knew that, had realized that when they'd boarded the helicopter and she'd pretended he was a stranger. She'd slept sprawled all over him, warmed by the heat of his body, but the second they were no longer alone, the second she had to choose between desire and protocol, he became an also-ran.

One night of sharing secrets and body heat didn't change a damn thing, not who they were, not the monoliths that divided them.

A renewed sense of purpose plowed through him. He'd accepted the assignment to keep her safe, that was true, but he'd had another objective, and that objective had nothing to do with comfort.

For either of them.

"From Ethan," he said, forcing himself to release her.

Long strands of sable hair had fallen into her face, prompting her to slide them behind her ears. Suspicion prowled her eyes. "He wouldn't be happy to hear that," she said with unmistakable directness. Her gaze slipped down, darted up quickly. "Obviously you've never hugged a sister."

Surprise kissed him in all the wrong places. She might as well have pulled off her T-shirt and asked him to take her right there on the granite countertop. This was the
Elizabeth
he'd known before, the one he'd met briefly in what seemed like another lifetime, the one who so desperately wanted to bolt outside the lines that had confined her for too many years. This was the
Elizabeth
he'd fallen for, the one who could stand barefoot in her kitchen and keep her expression completely blank, while mocking him for getting turned on.

This
Elizabeth
was an illusion, he reminded himself, one with the power to destroy. She wasn't real, wouldn't last.

But maybe, just maybe, she'd give him what he wanted.

"Hungry?" Instead of gesturing toward the pizza, he let a slow smile curve his lips. "I'm starved."

She held his gaze a long moment before answering. Then, just as he'd known she would, she breezed by him and reached for a plate. "No mushrooms for me."

Chapter 9

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^
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S
oon. The time for waiting was over. The time for planning. The time for watching, fantasizing. Soon he would make his move, and this time Elizabeth Carrington would meet her assigned fate.

But first she would be his.

Just the thought sent anticipation humming through his blood. There was nothing sweeter than collecting payment.

From the downstairs of her tidy, historic town house, a light still glowed.
Monroe
, no doubt. More than two hours had passed since he'd seen
Elizabeth
's silhouette through her bedroom window. She'd drawn the shade, but the shadowy outline of her body had provided a show of its own. She'd been stretching, bending and twisting with a sinuous grace that made his mouth water.

Monroe
had not joined her.

From his vantage point on the crowded, car- and tree-lined street, he turned to leave. He knew what he had to do. This time Elizabeth Carrington would not escape, not survive.
Monroe
could not stop what was coming. Sooner or later the arrogant fool would blink, and when his eyes opened again, he would discover the taste of failure.

Elizabeth Carrington would suffer, and an old wrong would be one step closer to being righted.

* * *

Nothing prepared her. She knew he'd spent the night. She knew he'd made himself at home, sprawling on the sofa with pretzels during those rare moments when he hadn't been prowling her town house, gun in hand, peering into the darkness. She knew he'd barely slept. Knew he'd showered an hour before.

She knew all that, but knowledge didn't prepare for finding him seated at her antique pedestal table with the newspaper spread before him and a glass of orange juice in his hand, his soft blue oxford cloth shirt wrinkled, its shirtsleeves rolled up, his jeans faded, feet bare. His dark blond hair was damp, falling against his cheekbones and curling at the nape.

Her heart did a cruel little stutter step.

In the years since she'd walked away, she hadn't let herself think of him, remember him, had tried to keep him even from the shadowy images of her dreams, but seeing him here, now, like this, drove home how easily the man dwarfed everything in his path. He dominated the cozy alcove, making the spacious area look cramped despite the bright sunlight pouring in through the plantation shutters. Even her huge ficus looked like a miniature.

The man didn't belong here. Having him at her table, in her home, her life, was not part of the plan she'd patched together that bitterly cold night two years before, when she'd told him goodbye. They were from different worlds. They saw life through different lenses. They could barely tolerate being around each other.

And yet, here they were.

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

The stream of emotion surprised her. Time was heralded as the great healer, but as she watched him read the paper and munch on an apple, it was as though not a second had passed. Everything came barreling back, the confusion and regret, the temptation, the pain. Because of the night on the mountain, she knew. The night when he'd listened when she needed to be heard, held her when she needed to be held.

No one asks us what road we want to walk. All we can do is choose how we walk it.

His words lingered, nudged. He was right, of course. There were two kinds of people. Those who ran from adversity and those who stood tall.

She was determined to stand tall.

"You going to stand there all morning?" he asked, twisting around to face her. His eyes looked darker than usual, with a faint bruise shadowing his right. His smile was slow, every bit as languorous as the night before, when he'd taunted about the depth of his hunger. "I don't bite, you know," he added in that smoky voice of his. "Not until you want me to."

The whisper of heat was immediate, completely unwanted. Mustering a breeziness she didn't come close to feeling, she let go of the banister and crossed to the alcove. "Any word on Zhukov?"

He watched her approach. "I never understood why you insist on wearing men's clothes."

Elizabeth
told herself not to take the bait but couldn't resist. She picked up a banana and joined him at the table. "I know you'd rather see me in a miniskirt and halter top, but the corporate world isn't ready for fashion à
la Wesley."

His gaze dipped over her soft rose silk blouse, buttoned almost to the throat, down to her taupe trousers. "What about leather?" Abruptly his eyes met hers. "Is the corporate world ready for leather?"

The memory flashed so hard, so vivid, she almost squirmed. She'd worn leather that night, in a silly attempt to prove she was not uptight. The look of pure shock on his face had almost been worth the consequences.

"I'll have to try it someday," she said, "let you know."

"Don't do that schoolmarm thing with your hair, either."

She felt her back go straight. "It's called a French twist."

He laughed. "Well, clearly they know how to kiss better than they know how to twist."

The control she'd pieced together slipped a pivotal notch. "That's a matter of opinion," she said, peeling back her banana. She took a bite and nudged the newspaper. "Anything on Zhukov?" she asked again.

His gaze darkened. "Wake up hungry, did you?"

She just barely managed to stop herself from ramming the toe of her pumps against his shin. "My appetite is not your concern, Wesley, my safety is." Narrowing her eyes, she went deeper on the banana. "Are you up for the job or not?"

Those eyes of his turned hotter. "What do you think?"

Enough,
shouted a little voice deep inside.
Don't let this man draw you across the line.
"Zhukov?" she asked for the third time.

He held her gaze longer than comfortable, then slid the paper toward her. "Nothing. He's likely underground by now." Gesturing toward the counter, he added, "Coffee's fresh."

She glanced at the headlines, frowned at the picture of her and Wesley emerging from the military plane that had returned them to
Richmond
. She hadn't even seen a reporter. They'd no doubt been using the kind of high-powered lens that had forever gotten Miranda into hot water during her college days.

She stood and headed for the coffeepot. "Think he's left the country?"

"Wouldn't matter if he had." No longer did amusement shimmer in his voice. He was all serious, the bodyguard her father had sent to protect her from a man who wanted to see her, her entire family, wiped from the face of the earth. "Zhukov's tentacles run deep. The man doesn't need a front-row seat to see the show."

A shiver ran through her. Hawk called it like it was, with no sugar-coating or glossy paint jobs. "He's got to know every law enforcement agency in the country is looking for him," she said, adding milk to the coffee Hawk drank black.

The second the words left her mouth, she realized the truth. Of course Jorak Zhukov would know that, and the knowledge would please him enormously.

"Hey." Hawk stood and crossed to her. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

She held the coffee between them. "Don't apologize. You're just telling the truth."

He took the mug from her hands, which had become frustratingly cold, and set it on the counter. "That man is not going to hurt you," he said slowly, firmly. "No way, no how."

She wanted to believe him. She really did. This was Hawk, after all. The man who'd once sworn to give his life for hers. The man who'd almost given his life for Miranda. It was nothing personal, just his job, a job at which he excelled. And yet a preternatural unease nagged at her.

"Even in prison that man made no secret of his desire to destroy my family," she pointed out.

He took her hands in his and squeezed. "Empty threats."

She welcomed the warmth, let it sink deep. "You don't know that." But, God, how she wished he did. "Until he's caught—"

"Nothing is going to happen." He lifted a hand to her face, where his palm cradled her cheek. "Not to you or your family."

The breath jammed in her throat. Her pulse tripped along dizzily. She didn't want to be afraid. She didn't want to put her life in someone's hands. And yet, in that moment, the fear didn't paralyze, and being in Hawk Monroe's hands felt oddly right. She searched the hard lines of his face, softened by gold whiskers he'd yet to shave from his jaw. His eyes glittered with an intensity that tightened her throat.

"I won't lie to you," he said. "Jorak Zhukov is a dangerous man." His gaze darkened. "But so am I."

Her heart kicked, hard.

"No one knows where he is or what he's planning next, but you need to know I'm taking every precaution."

"I know." And yet the truth pierced deep. Sometimes all the determination in the world didn't make a damn bit of difference, couldn't stop a coward drunk on dreams of revenge. This man, for all his ferocity and determination, could easily take the fall with her.

"But precautions don't always work, do they?" The question scraped on the way out. "People still blow up buses and cafés and God help us, buildings." Emotion tunneled through her, making it difficult to breathe, think. She could only remember.

"Every time I closed my eyes last night," she admitted, "I felt that man at the banquet, putting his hands on me, trying to drag me off." She paused, bit back the wave of revulsion. "If you hadn't been there—"

"But I
was
there," Hawk interrupted hotly. Something hard and unyielding flashed through the amber of his eyes. "Then and now."

Everything she knew, everything she trusted spiraled further away. Only curiosity remained, need, lingering loose ends that had punished her sleep for two long years. What would it feel like, she wondered fleetingly, if he stepped closer? If she slid her arms around his waist and lifted her face to his?

"No," she said, twisting from him. Cool air rushed against her cheek where his hand had been, but survival instincts kept her heading away from him. Already the lines had blurred too much. "I'm not doing this again."

"Doing what?" he demanded, charging after her. He caught her at the base of the stairs and took her arm, turned her to face him. "You're not doing what?"

Needing him. Wanting him.

The bright light of exposure glared relentlessly. He knew. He knew damn good and well what she refused to do. "Hawk," she said quietly. "Don't."

But quiet never worked with Hawk. "Don't what?" The lines of his face were harder now, more severe. "Call a spade a spade? Say what we both know?" A sound of male frustration broke from his throat. "Let me tell you something, sweetness. You can walk away from me all you like, but sooner or later you're going to realize you can't walk away from the person who scares you the most."