CROSSFIRE (23 page)

"Wesley." She said, piecing together all the patience she could. "Please." She took another step. "Talk to me."

Through the reflection in the window, she saw his eyes narrow, lock on to hers. "Trust me, Ellie. That's not a good idea right now."

His voice was low, harder than usual, with none of the warmth that tortured her during the long hours of the night, when she twisted in her sheets to the rhythm of her dreams.

Once, he'd accused her of being a coward. He'd claimed she lived in a neat and tidy world because the real world scared her. Not now. Now the need to touch, to understand, overrode the need for caution.

Slowly she lifted a hand to his shoulder, found the wrinkled cotton hot to the touch. "Wesley—"

He spun toward her. "That's not a good idea, either."

The breath jammed in her throat. She stared up at him, at the intensity blazing in his eyes, making them look like amber set on fire. "Then what is a good idea?" she asked boldly, maybe foolishly.

Dark blond hair fell against his wide cheekbones, emphasizing the hard lines of his face. He swore softly and moved so fast she found herself stepping back, even as his hands came down on the sides of her face and his mouth took hers.

Shock came first, only briefly, followed by an instinct as raw and primal as the look she'd seen in his eyes when he tore into her bedroom only hours before. She opened to him, arched into the kiss, twined her arms around his neck. She wanted to feel him pressed against her, all hot and hard and in control, even as he lost control.

This, she realized in some wildly cheering corner of her mind, this is what she'd wanted; not just from the moment he'd pulled her from the bed and into his arms, not just when they'd melted together in the gleaming white bathroom, but long, long before, in the mountains. In the cave.

For the past two years.

Wesley "Hawk"
Monroe
was not a man a woman forgot. No matter how hard
Elizabeth
had tried, she'd been unable to carve his touch from her flesh, his mark from her heart. He'd imprinted himself on her, imprinted himself deep, and the yearning had remained all this time, lingering, burning. Wanting. It's why she'd been unable to go to bed with Nicholas, even after she'd accepted his marriage proposal. It's why she'd ultimately called off the wedding she'd spent the better part of her life dreaming about. And now the fierce slant of Hawke's mouth on hers, the way his arms crushed her to him, his hands roamed her body, decimated every ounce of caution, of control, she'd pieced together in the aftermath of that night two years before.

Against the soft flesh of her belly, she felt him pressing against her, hard, ready. Excitement, anticipation, shimmied to every nerve ending in her body.

He ripped away so quickly, so violently, she found herself staggering back, reaching for the top of an old recliner to steady herself. "Wesley?"

"Go to my room, Elizabeth, and lock the door."

She just stared at him, tried desperately to breathe. "I don't understand."

He kept his distance from her, curled his hands into fists. His breath sawed in and out. "Just do it."

The sense of loss burned against the back of her throat. "Come with me," she said, extending her hand toward him. The light in his eyes turned to a glitter.

"Not on your life." His gaze raked down her body slowly, returned to her eyes. "You know what will happen if I do."

Yes, she did. And her body burned for it, for him. Ached. And finally, at last, she found she could voice the desire that had consumed her from the moment she'd laid eyes on him. "I'm not afraid."

A hard sound broke from his throat. "You don't have a damn clue what you're saying right now," he snapped, reaching for an autographed baseball displayed atop his television. He curled his fingers around the white leather, squeezed. "Adrenaline, Ellie. That's all it is. The thirst, the hunger that always, always follows danger."

Denial screamed through her. "I thought this was what you wanted."

Shadows played across the hard lines of his face. "You? Like this?" He dropped the ball, let it fall to the hardwood floor. "Not even close."

The hurt was immediate. "Wesley—"

He was across the room before her heart had a chance to beat. He crowded her against the nearest wall and took her upper arms in his hands in a gesture that could have been threatening, but … wasn't. He leaned in close, so close a whisper of movement would bring his mouth to hers. But he didn't make that movement.

"Tell me something, Ellie. Has anything changed? If we go in that room right now and pick up where we left off two years ago, if you give yourself to me as completely as you did then, if you let go as fully, come the morning, will you be willing to ride the wave and see where it takes us? Or … are you going to jump off as soon as it gets uncomfortable?"

Deep inside, something broke and gave way. She stared up into his eyes, so hot and hard and full of challenge, and saw, for the first time saw, all the pain, all the disappointment he hid behind his shield of bravado. The realization turned her breathing shallow, gave her a new lens through which to see.

A lens that came dangerously close to breaking her heart. "This thing between us," he said, and suddenly his voice was low again, smoky, the crushed velvet that made her want to cry, "it's never going to be like doing a crossword puzzle, sweetness. It's jigsaw, pure and simple, and the pieces will never be all neat and tidy the way you like. The pieces might not even all be there, won't always
fit."
Releasing her, he stepped back. "An admission, Ellie. That's all I wanted from you."

She just stared at him. "An admission?"

He scooped Ditka, or maybe it was Mean Joe, from the sofa and cradled the yellow cat in his arms, ran his hand across striped tawny fur. "I don't like being called a mistake," he said. "I don't like being turned out like a stray who doesn't measure up to standards." A knowing smile curved his mouth. "You wanted me that night, Ellie, just like you want me tonight."

Speechless, she watched him stroke the cat, heard the low rumble of a purr from several feet away. The memories washed over her, of what it felt like to have his hand skimming along her body, that wide, rough, callused palm spread over her flesh, teasing and promising, making her come completely undone.

He was right. She had wanted him, with an intensity that had staggered her, and she had cast him aside. "I never meant to hurt you," she whispered. Hadn't known she could.

He draped the cat over his shoulder. "I don't want to be your boy toy, Ellie. Just the truth. That's all I wanted."

The revelation should have relieved, should have uncomplicated everything. And yet, deep inside,
Elizabeth
bled.

"Looks like you have it, then," she said, then turned and walked toward his bedroom. She didn't look back.

He didn't follow.

* * *

The smell of coffee teased her awake.
Elizabeth
stretched against the firm mattress, enjoying the slide of her legs against cool sheets, then opened her eyes to the light of the early-morning sun. The bright wash streamed in through a bare window and lit even the darkest corner of the room.

Not so for her.

Deep inside, the shadows remained, thicker, heavier than the night before. She hadn't locked the door, nor had he tried to turn the knob. She'd heard him, though. Heard him roaming the hard wooden floors of his house, muttering to his cats, even on the phone a time or two.

But he'd not come to her.

Confusion tangled with disappointment, both slicing deep. She pushed to an upright position and stared at the white sheets twisted around her body, and felt her throat tighten. She'd slept in this bed before. No, not slept. Not really. At least not much.

She'd loved in this bed.

Loved?
The word stopped her cold. No, not love. She'd learned in this bed. She'd come unraveled in this bed. She'd let go of herself, of the discipline upon which she relied, and for the first time in her life she'd lived. For seven heart-stopping hours, she'd known nothing but Wesley and what it felt like to be possessed by him. Loved.

Loved.

There was that word again, and this time it manacled her chest and squeezed.

Adrenaline, Ellie. That's all it is. The thirst, the hunger that always, always follows danger.

She threw off the covers and welcomed the rush of air-conditioning. She'd pulled on one of his T-shirts to sleep in, the well-worn, gray cotton hanging to just above her knees like a summer dress. Through the short hours of early morning, when she'd twisted in his bed, the scent of incense and musk had stayed with her, burning deep.

Now another scent drew her. She left his bedroom and padded toward the aroma of fresh coffee drifting from the kitchen.

"Whoa, come back here!"

That was the only warning she got. A ball of golden fur shot across the den and crashed against her legs. A warm pink tongue came next, assaulting her calves and knees.

"Down, Homer, down!"

Slowly,
Elizabeth
looked from the puppy making out with her legs to the man striding toward her. "Aaron."

"Morning,
Elizabeth
," he said sheepishly. He squatted and reached for the puppy's collar. "Sorry about that. I didn't know you were up."

Homer twisted around to gaze at her with the deepest, most soulful eyes she'd ever seen, and her heart just melted. All the lectures she'd been giving herself, the preparation for facing Hawk, for confronting what had gone down between them the night before, faded to the background.

She dropped to her knees. "He's wonderful—is he yours?"

The puppy, some kind of retriever mix, flopped on its back, baring its belly for Aaron to rub. "Nope. Hawk says this little guy belongs to your sister."

She blinked.
"My sister?"

Aaron found the magic spot, and soon had the puppy's paddle foot thumping madly. "Sandro's wedding gift, I think. Hawk's keeping him until Miranda's ready."

Elizabeth
sat back and stared. This, she realized, was the secret mission Miranda and Hawk had embarked upon yesterday. Miranda had told
Elizabeth
about the malnourished, flea-infested dog Sandro had once rescued. Virgil, she remembered. Miranda's eyes had misted over as she talked about Sandro's love for the yellow dog no one wanted, how he'd nursed it to health and given the stray a home.

Warmth trickled deep as she realized her sister's intent. She looked closer at the deliriously wiggling puppy and saw what she'd not seen upon first glance. Ribs, so visible she could count them. Patchy fur. A deep, circular cut around his neck.

Her throat tightened. This puppy had more than suffered; he'd been abused. And Miranda had rescued him. For Sandro.

"Such a good boy," she murmured, rubbing the top of his snout. His little nose was cold. Still on his back, he watched her intently, pushing his head against her palm. She obliged and stroked his silky ears. One of the cats—Mean Joe or Ditka, she didn't know which—wandered over and eyed the dog, lifted a paw, swatted and hissed all in one movement, then swaggered back to a swath of sunlight cutting across the hardwood floor.

Elizabeth
couldn't help but laugh.

"Just let me know when you're ready and we'll head on over."

She watched the cat stretch lazily, then glanced at Aaron. "Head on over where?"

He stopped rubbing Homer's belly. "To your parents' house."

The momentary delight she'd found in the puppy splintered into cold awareness. "My parents' house?"

"Hawk's having your place worked over today."

She stood. "Where is he?"

Aaron scooped up the wiggling puppy and pushed to his feet. "Not sure. He left a couple hours ago."

A couple of hours ago. While she'd been in his bed, twisted in his sheets. "When will he be back?"

"Didn't say." Aaron draped Homer over his shoulder and headed for the kitchen. "Told me to take you to your parents' and keep you there." At the doorway he paused. "Coffee's fresh, if you want some."

He wasn't coming back, she realized. Maybe Aaron knew, maybe he didn't, but
Elizabeth
had no doubt.

An admission, Ellie. That's all I wanted from you.

And she'd given it to him. She'd given him what he'd wanted, and in return he'd walked away.

Just like she'd done two years before.

* * *

"Where was your bodyguard, Elizabeth?"

She looked up from an amazingly perfect Peace rose and into Nicholas's furious blue eyes. "Aaron was downstairs, I already told you that."

"Not the backup," he said. "The one in charge.
Monroe
."

They stood in her mother's prized rose garden, surrounded by bushes, some of which had been in the family for over twenty-five years. Her mother had tended the plants meticulously, had been distressed to leave them when her father accepted the overseas assignment in Ravakia. But even in her absence they flourished, especially the Peace rose, planted in honor of Kristina.