Crossfire

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Prologue 123456789101112131415 Epilogue

Prologue ^» "One can never consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar." —Helen Keller

Lightning didn't strike twice. Wesley "Hawk"Monroeknew that, had learned the hard way, lived by the credo. He was a man who


dealt in cold, hard reality. Fate and luck had no place in his world. He'd learned to fight, to survive, in some of the worst hellholes imaginable. But all those defenses betrayed him now, let the danger seep closer. Because of her. Through the darkness he could sense her, feel her, moving among the shadows, just out of reach. Always, always just out of reach. The moonless night muted vision, but he didn't need sight to see her tall, willowy form moving toward him with a grace that could only be called predatory. The warning sounded next, loud, persistent, droning like a warped record. She didn't belong here. She had no place on the fringes of his world, no business being close enough to touch and feel. To remind. He'd worked too hard to dull edges that once had cut to the bone. Oblivion had come easier then, with thousands of miles and an entire ocean between them. He'd trained himself not to think of her. Not to remember. Not to want. But here among the shaded streets of Richmond, memories shimmied everywhere he turned. Even here. In his own little house south of town. His own bed. A whisper of movement then, closer. And the scent, soft, subtle, vanilla and something exotic, something that lingered like poison on his sheets. And leather. Ah, God, the leather… On a violent rush of adrenaline, he brought himself awake. Twisting against the sheets tangled around his body, he clicked on a bedside lamp and squinted at the glaring intrusion of light. The digital clock read5:43. Swearing softly, he grabbed the relentlessly ringing phone. "This better be good—" "Wesley." The deep booming voice hit like a bucket of ice water. He pushed upright, ridiculously reminded of what it was like to be a hormone-crazed teenage boy interrupted by his girlfriend's father at the worst possible moment. "Ambassador Carrington." "Jorak Zhukov has escaped," his employer informed him. The overseas telephone connection brought a slight delay to his explanation. "He's been missing almost two hours." And that was all it took. Those last hazy fragments of the dream shattered, leaving only the harsh light of reality. Heart hammering, Hawk disentangled himself from the covers and stood. He didn't need to be told the danger Zhukov presented to the family Hawk was paid to protect. The criminal who'd sworn vengeance on the Carringtons killed with the casual disregard most men channel surfed. "How in God's name does a prisoner escape from a federal detention center?" "Good question," Carrington bit out. "My family is not safe with that animal on the loose. I need you to


bringElizabethhome." Across the room, his Glock sat waiting on an old pine dresser. Of course the Carringtons weren't safe. He needed to assemble and disperse his team, to ratchet up security, and— He went very still. Elizabeth. Swearing softly he shoved the hair from his face. "Home?" he asked, committing the cardinal sin of letting memory intrude. He looked at his no-nonsense bed, the tangled white sheets, and saw her.Elizabeth. Right there in his bed, sable hair fanned out on the pillow he'd long since thrown out. "She's inCalgary," the ambassador said. "Accepting an award on behalf of the Foundation." "I'll call Aaron, sir. He—" "You. You're the best,Monroe. I want you with my daughter ASAP." Foolish man. Hawk put distance between himself and the bed. Cool morning air whispered across the heated flesh of his body, but did nothing to dispel the lingering rush of the dream. "Wesley." The ambassador spoke in that firm, no-nonsense voice of his, and Hawk realized he'd let silence hang between them too long. "Is there a reason you don't want to protect my daughter?" The wordprotect stopped the protest ricocheting through him. He didn't want tosee Elizabeth Anne Carrington, that was true. But protect… God. Once, he'd sworn to give his life for the sleek, elegant, oh-so-untouchable Elizabeth Carrington. Once, he almost had. Two years had passed since then, two telling years during which they hadn't shared one word, one look, not even when he'd been taken down by a sniper. Nothing. And for the hundredth time, Hawk wished he'd stayed inEurope. Then the ambassador wouldn't be asking him to walk back into his daughter's life. He'd rather have red-hot splinters shoved under his fingernails. "No, sir," Hawk said, heading for the bathroom. A quick shower and he'd be on his way. To her. Elizabeth. "No reason." "The Lear will be ready when you reach the airport. I'll feel better knowing you're with her. She trusts you." Hawk bit back a noise low in his throat. He and Elizabeth would be alone for hour after hour in a plane no bigger than a sardine can. She'd be close enough to touch. To breathe in the subtle scent of vanilla that had lingered on his sheets. To feel the heat from her body, the body he could still feel twined with his, when he screwed up and let his dreams last too long.


"I'll bring your daughter home," he promised, turning on the cold water. Anticipation ran hot. For a few hours her life would be in his hands. Finally, at last, she'd have no choice but to confront what she'd run from two years before. And this time she would have nowhere to hide. Chapter 1 «^» Someone recognized her. The icy sensation grabbed Elizabeth Carrington the second she entered the hotel lobby, sending a hated chill through her blood. Her heart kicked, hard. Her throat tightened. Like an animal locked in the sights of a gun, she felt her limbs go leaden, but self-defense training kept her walking across the marble floor, casually, as though she perceived no threat. But she did. She had all day. From behind dark sunglasses, she noted a man standing near a potted palm, studying a brochure. Then another man, this one younger and with a mobile phone to his face. Nearby, a young couple appeared locked in a romantic conversation. All normal occupants of hotel lobbies, but the knowledge did nothing to settleElizabeth's nerves. They'd been jangling since the moment she stepped from the hotel and into the coolCalgarybreeze. "Miss Carrington! Miss Carrington!" The sound of her name slammed into her like a bullet, but she kept walking. "You haven't answered my question about Nicholas Ferreday," the reporter who'd been trailing her like a bloodhound called. "Will he be joining you tonight?" At the secluded cubby of polished elevators,Elizabethhad no choice but to stop. "I'm not sure," she answered as she pushed the button. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait and see." Madeline Kitchens didn't back down. With her short blond hair and soft-pink suit she looked harmless enough, but the feminine facade hid killer instincts. "Is it true a reconciliation is in the works?" Elizabethheld her smile in place, but frustration fed a brewing headache. The public's fascination with her love life had worn thin. In the days following her broken engagement, the story had been followed like a matter of national interest. There'd been newspaper articles, segments on local and national stations, in-depth features and speculation in the tabloids. They'd all been dead wrong. Only Elizabeth and Nicholas knew what had gone down.


And Hawk.Hawk knew. "Nicholas and I are friends," she said, again depressing the button. Once, she'd dreamed of marrying the son of her father's best friend. Six years older than she, he'd been the perfect match for her, all tall and handsome, charming. Intelligent. She'd never imagined herself with anyone else. Never wanted. Never fantasized. Until HawkMonroewalked into her life and turned her world upside down. To this day she didn't understand how one decision, one mistake, could unravel a lifetime of well-laid plans. "Is it true you'll be attending the Carrington Foundation silent auction together?" Madeline persisted, microcassette recorder poised and ready. Mercifully the doors slid open, spilling a family of five. They rushed by, embroiled in their own little drama. "Friends," Elizabeth repeated as she stepped inside the mirrored cubicle and pushed the button for the twenty-forth floor. Only then did she remove her sunglasses. "Nothing more." The elevator closed andElizabethbreathed a sigh of relief. Growing up in a political family, she'd become accustomed to being followed, watched. Normally it didn't bother her. She could block it from her mind. Today was different. A keen sense of awareness had kept her edgy, alert. An unsettling energy she hadn't felt in a blessedly long time jumped through her. Nerves, she figured. Only four months had passed since a madman had used her sister as a pawn in a deadly game. They'd come horribly close to losing her. Miranda was home now, safe, crazy in love and planning a wedding, butElizabethcouldn't shake the lingering unease. Both her sisters had been touched by violence. One had survived. The other had not. She couldn't suppress the disturbing feeling she was next. The elevator cruised directly to her floor. She stepped into the narrow marble alcove, where an elaborate bouquet of blood-red roses greeted her. She had just enough time for a long bubble bath before dressing for the evening. Awareness hit immediately, stronger than before. Behind her, the doors slid closed. Swallowing hard, she reached a gloved hand into her pocket book and retrieved her pepper spray. The corridor stretched long and deserted, vacant but for the abandoned room-service cart outside a nearby door. There were no footsteps. No movements. No shadows. Just the preternatural knowledge that she wasn't alone. Because of the scent. Wildly masculine, alarmingly strong. It washed through her like a drug, jump-starting something deep inside. Her heart staggered, hard. Other parts of her softened. She swung around, fully expecting to see him standing there, all tall and hard, eyes hot and burning, mouth curved into that unmistakably carnal smile.


Instead she found the closed steel doors of the elevator, understated pastel wallpaper and an ornately framed mirror. The adrenaline left her body on a rush, much as it had arrived, leaving her standing there breathing deeply of the achingly familiar aroma of incense and musk. Someday, she vowed. Someday she'd be able to smell his cologne without remembering his touch. Without rememberinghim. *** Through the peephole he watched the door close behind her. Only then did he step from the room across the hall, pausing to listen as she clinked the chain into place. Then he smiled. She was so predictable. With black gloves covering his hands, he pressed his palms to the pathetic barrier between them. If he really wanted inside, no lock in the world could keep him from her. Nothing could. No one. Inside, he heard water rattle through the pipes and felt his body stiffen. She'd be taking off her clothes, he realized. She'd be naked and vulnerable and absolutely perfect. Over the years he'd learned photographs often surpassed reality. But not in this case. Elizabeth Carrington was more exquisite in person than the snapshots he'd taken to bed with him the night before. It was a damn shame she was just a means to an end. He always enjoyed sightseeing, but the rush he'd felt inside her room, going through her neatly packed suitcase, had exceeded mere pleasure. Her garments had been soft and sleek, much like she would be. He wanted to taste her before he broke her, hear her cry before silencing her. The elevator at the end of the hall dinged, prompting him to return to his room. Inside, he lifted a pair of silk stockings to his face and breathed the subtle scent of vanilla. He wondered if she'd smell him, too. If she'd realize he'd been in her room. Touched her panties. Taken a pretty little diamond earring all for himself. Fingering his treasures, he smiled. *** "It's an honor to be here tonight,"Elizabethtold the medical professionals gathered in the crowded ballroom. "The Carrington Foundation may help raise the funds, but it's you, the doctors and the researchers, who deserve recognition. Through your tireless dedication, progress is made daily." Flashbulbs snapped and applause exploded.Elizabethpaused, pulling in a deep breath as she scanned the semidarkened room. The dim lighting from the chandeliers kept her from making out faces, but she quickly found the table where she'd been sitting, the empty place saved for Nicholas, who had not shown up. "As many of you know," she continued, not sure whether she felt relief or disappointment, "the


Carrington Foundation was created by my mother, Pamela, after her father, aCalgarynative, was diagnosed with prostate cancer. My mother is with my father in Ravakia now, but sends her warmest regards." With each word, familiarity replaced tension. During the dark days following her broken engagement, her work had kept her going. She'd poured herself into the crusade to raise funds to defeat cancer. The fight, the cause, had helped her heal. "The war is not over," she said, nearing her conclusion. "But thanks to you, more battles are won all the time." She paused, scanning the room for impact. "In closing, I'd like to—" A sudden movement at the back of the ballroom interrupted her words. She tensed, squinted, saw the flash of light too late. "Get down!" a man shouted, but before she could move, the chandeliers went dark. A rapid burst of gunfire shattered the stunned silence, followed by a deafening roar. Shock tore throughElizabeth. She dropped behind the podium as Hawk had trained her to do, heart hammering with brutal force. The shooter had been aiming at her. The knowledge shouldn't have stunned her but did. She'd lived with threats for as long as she could remember, all the Carringtons had. But in the months since her future brother-in-law, Sandro, had brought down Viktor Zhukov, there'd been no signs of imminent danger. And yet, not all danger carried warning signs. Instinct demanded that she run, get out of the auditorium as quickly as possible. But she knew better than to expose herself, potentially putting herself in the line of fire. Panic tore through the stampeding crowd. Chairs crashed and china shattered. "Find her!" someone yelled. And then the alarms started to wail. "Fire!" Overhead, sprinklers kicked on. She had to get out of there. Elizabethclutched the edges of the podium and stood. The darkness would cover her as she ran for the emergency exit. She started right, but something solid plowed into her from behind. She went down hard, landing on her hands and knees. "Elizabeth!" "Don't fight and you won't get hurt," snarled an accented voice disgustingly close to her face. His breath was hot, riddled by the deceptively benign scent of peppermint. She shoved against him. "Take your hands off me!" Above the alarms, she barely heard her own voice. Rough hands pulled her to her feet. "Come on." Fight-or-flight kicked in, the countless hours Hawk had drilled her. Tested her. She fought every way she knew how, thrashing and swinging her elbows, squirming, kicking. Biting.


"You little bitch!" Her abductor slapped a hand over her mouth, and fleetinglyElizabethwondered if this was what it had been like for Miranda. "Let go!" she shouted, but his hand absorbed the words. His fingers dug into her upper arm as he dragged her toward the edge of the stage. She jabbed an elbow into his gut, but he didn't slow. Twisting, she smashed her knuckles against his windpipe. He grunted, collapsed against her and slumped to the ground. She fell with him, cried out when her sandals went out from beneath her and her ankle twisted. She landed hard, her attacker pinning her to the wet floor of the stage. Fighting for breath, she shoved against the dead weight of his sweaty body, surprised when he rolled with ease. She scrambled to her feet and tried to run, staggered instead. Pain shot up from her injured ankle, and one of her heels snapped. "Elizabeth!" She kept running, refused to slow. Memory chased her, the present tangling with the past, reality with drill. The rough-hewn voice that haunted her during the long hours of the night could not be heard above the furious wail of the fire alarm. She was traveling alone this time, her life in the hands of nameless, faceless security personnel. They were safer than him. The edge of the stage rushed up to greet her, but before she made it to the steps a second man grabbed her. She darted from him, but in the process lost her balance. She would have sworn she heard someone roar her name as she fell through the darkness. She landed on her hip, the impact jarring through her with the force of a sledgehammer. Her head slammed against the linoleum flooring. Her vision blurred. She tried to get to her feet, but he was too fast for her. On a seeming dead run he scooped her into his arms and ran for the side of the room. "Stop it!" Dizziness swept through her. She struggled against him, but his arms granted no reprieve. "You're making a terrible mistake," she warned. "It's mine to make," growled a low voice, and the man crammed her more tightly against his body. Something deep insideElizabethtwisted, hard. Memory leaked through. The flash was so strong, for a fractured second she was thrown back in time, into another man's arms. He'd turned her world upside down, but she knew, deep, deep inside, she knew he would have killed before he let some thug lay a hand on her. Her abductor never broke stride. He sprinted through the darkened room, pushing past tables and kicking chairs out of his way. The hard muscles of his body gathered and bunched, forcingElizabethto realize this was one man she would not overpower. The blare of fire alarms drowned out his words, but she knew they were not nice. She thrashed against him, anyway, but he barely seemed to notice. "Got you," she heard him snarl under his breath. "Got you." Revulsion coursed through her. Awareness poured in. Hawk had trained her for situations like this,


drilled her repeatedly. If this man got her away from the hotel, she would be completely at his mercy. He could take her anywhere. Do anything. There would be no one to stop him. No one to hear her scream. He hit the emergency exit and kicked open the door, burst into the crisp night air. It was only September, but this far north, summer fled early, letting the cold spill in. Icy rain pellets slashed down from the darkened sky and stung her exposed arms and her legs. "Help me!" she shouted above the wail of police cars and fire engines. "Please!" The man never slowed, showed no fear. He rounded a corner and pounded down the wet pavement until she barely heard the sirens and confusion of the hotel. The safety. Then he stopped abruptly. Time had run out. Hawk's training roared through her. Summoning her strength, she attacked, prepared to run the second he released her. She twisted toward the arm around her shoulders and bit down. Hard. "Ow!" the man protested, but didn't release his hold on her like she'd planned. "Christ,Elizabeth, that's a hell of a way to say thank-you." She went very still. Absolutely, completely, deathly still. Even the trembling stopped. She had to remind herself to breathe, and when she did, the woodsy masculine scent brought her senses surging violently to life. No. Dear sweet God, no. Her heart slammed hard against her ribs, bringing with it a rush of denial. She didn't want to look, to see, to know, but knew she had no choice. Very slowly, very deliberately, she forced herself to turn toward her captor. And saw those hot burning eyes. She blinked hard, stared, but the harsh face inches from hers never changed. "Hawk." His name came out on a shattered whisper, all she could manage through the tangle of shock clogging her throat. He smiled then, slowly, that mouth she'd never forgotten curving into the insolent smile he had down to an infuriating art form. "Expecting someone else?" "Dear God." His lips twitched. "Sorry to disappoint you, sweetcakes, but you got me instead." The world, the chaos behind her, faded. Words failed her. Two years had passed since she'd seen her former bodyguard, shouting wildly as two security guards removed him from her parents' home. It had been cold and wet that night, as well. She'd tried to carve the memory from her mind, but seeing him now, here, like this, with the rain plastering his dark blond hair to the sides of his brutally handsome face, brought everything crashing back in excruciating detail. "Ellie?" His voice was gentler now, not so amused. "You okay?"


No, she wasn't okay. Couldn't be okay. Not when Hawk Monroe held her in his arms, the heat of his body chasing away the chill of the rain. Not when she had only to lift a hand to touch the dark-gold whiskers on his jaw. Not when a simple breath drew him deep, deep inside her. "I'mfine," she said more sharply than she intended. "Put me down." She would have sworn he winced. But he did as she asked, easing her down the length of his rain-slicked body, keeping one arm secured around her shoulders. The second her feet touched concrete, she staggered from him. Cold water splashed over her broken sandals, and pain speared up from her ankle, but she gritted her teeth so that he didn't see. She knew better than to stare, but could no more have looked away than she could have run. Hawk Monroe. Here.In the flesh. Standing in the cold rain. As usual he looked rough around the edges even in slacks and a sport coat, courtesy of the gun in his hand and the empty holster strapped around his shoulder. His dark-gray button-down lay open at the throat, revealing the silver chain he always wore. "Elizabeth?" He lifted a hand to her face and snapped his fingers. "You still with me?" She closed her eyes, counted to five, opened them a moment later. He was still there, standing behind the bank of dumpsters, all tall and soaked to the bone. "What are youdoing here?" She tried for grit, but the question came out breathy and broken, making her cringe. "Your father sent me—" The words stopped abruptly, almost violently. His eyes went wild. "Those bastards hurt you." "No," she said. "They just scared me." He crowded her against the cold brick wall. "Tell me where." Before she could push away, before her heart could even beat, he shoved his Glock into its holster and had his hands on her body, running them down her bare arms and up the sides of her little black dress. "Damn it, this is my fault," he said roughly. "I'm fine," she insisted, trying desperately to ignore the feel of his big, brutal hands cruising over her body. She might as well have pretended this was all a bad dream. Her skimpy cocktail dress hadn't been designed for warmth, and the rain stung like shards of ice. Everywhere Hawk's hands cruised, heat lingered. Just like before. Back away, she told herself. Now. His touch was too demanding, the contact between their bodies too intimate. She thought of putting her palms to his chest and pushing, demanding he let her go, but the truth burned. Even if he hadn't wedged her between his body and the brick wall, her injured ankle made outrunning him impossible. HawkMonroewas a man of instinct and impulse. He'd be on her before she took two steps. She didn't want him on her ever, ever again.


He pulled back and lifted his hand. "How do you explain this?" In a faraway corner of her mind, the mix of blood and rainwater on his fingers registered, but it was the look in his eyes that stole her breath. They were hot and burning as always, but not with betrayal like the last time she'd seen him. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn they blazed with concern. Mortality. A fear that reached down deep and twisted hard. "Not mine," she whispered. "Not my blood." The breath sawed in and out of him. "Not yours?" "No," she said. "Not mine. I'm fine." He looked from her eyes to his upturned hand, washed clean by the steady downpour. "Not yours," he muttered, as though he didn't quite understand. Elizabethwanted to feel relief that he'd finally quit running his hands over her body, but he was standing so still. Too still. Unnaturally still for a man like Hawk Monroe, who wasn't still even when he slept. He tossed and turned, thrashed, transforming a bed into a war zone. Now he didn't move, just kept staring at his hand, as though blood might suddenly reappear. She knew better than to touch him, but raised a hand to his anyway. "Wesley?" That was her mistake. Touching him. Just like that night two years before. She tried to withdraw, to undo the damage, but he lifted his eyes to hers and she flat-out forgot to breathe. "Elizabeth," he muttered, and before she could pull away, before her heart could so much as beat, his mouth was on hers, and nothing else mattered. Chapter 2 «^» HawkMonroeprided himself on staying cool under fire. He didn't cling to plans if they didn't work. He didn't hesitate to improvise. Those were his rules, rules that kept him alive. Kissing Elizabeth Carrington violated every rule in his book. But God help him, with the world exploding around him and Elizabeth Carrington staring up at him through those tilted green eyes, he flat didn't care. There was nothing rational or cautious inside him, just hot, jagged edges and a burning need. He pulled her to him, roughly almost, knowing he could never get her close enough. Elizabeth.Cool, untouchableElizabeth. Nothing had prepared him for the sight of her,the feel, even across a crowded auditorium. Not memory. Not dreams. She'd been just as heart-jarringly beautiful as ever, just as elegant and regal and refined. He'd looked at her standing behind the podium, wearing a sexy-as-sin little black dress with the kind of square neckline that drove a man wild, and he'd had no choice but to remember what it had been like between them, the heat and the intensity, the passion she denied.


He'd been making his way toward the stage when the auditorium went dark. He'd started to run immediately, instinctively. Toward her.Elizabeth. The woman he'd sworn to give his life for. Who'd tossed him out like month-old leftovers. Still, his body tightened at the realization of how close he'd come to losing her. He'd seen that man's hands on her. He'd heard her cry out. He'd wanted to kill. Not now. Now he wanted only to absorb, to feel every inch of her. He lifted a hand to her face, found her skin soft and cool, damp from the rain, flawless like he remembered. He wanted to spear his fingers into her hair, but she had it twisted off her face in one of those fancy styles that emphasized her killer cheekbones and those provocative eyes that incinerated common sense. Need twisted through him, hot and dark, punishing, to assure himself she was safe and unharmed, that she was in his arms and not just his dreams. The ones that had him jerking awake in the middle of the night, tangled in the sheets and vowing to never let her look down her perfect nose at him again. Cradling her like that, with his palm cupping her jaw and his fingers spread wide, he kissed her hard, he kissed her deep. He kissed her the way he kissed her in his dreams, his memory. And she was kissing him back. Sweet Mary, she tasted of red wine and fear, temptation and destruction all rolled into one impossible package. The way she had her hands curled around the lapels of his jacket, it was as though she sought to keep him from backing away. Christ. There was no way he could have torn away, not when she kissed him as she had that night so long ago, when boundaries had shattered and the world had narrowed to only the two of them. A hard sound broke from his throat as he pulled her closer, went deeper. He held her against him, ran his hands along her back. She was alive. She hadn't been hurt. He'd gotten to her in time. Dragging his mouth from hers, he skimmed along her jawbone. One of his hands drifted to her shoulders, down to her lower back, where he pressed her against him. His body was hot and hard and on fire, and— The hands clutching his sport coat began to push instead. "Don't," she said, turning her face from his. "Stop." Hawk went very still. Her brittle words doused the fire as effectively as the cold rain in which they stood. He pulled back to look at her, see her, found her eyes huge and dark and as icy as the night around them. No emotion glimmered there, not one trace of the seven hours when the rest of the world hadn't mattered, none of the heat or longing that pulsed through him. He found only the cool indifference he'd seen countless nights when he lay twisted in the sheets of his empty bed. And something inside him snapped. "Which is it, Ellie?" He worked hard to bring himself under control, but the question ripped out anyway.


"Don't?" he asked, biting out the word like a command. "Stop?" Briefly he hesitated. "Or don't stop?" Her eyes flashed, reproach replacing the moment of apathy. He held her angry gaze, enjoying even the smallest victory. For a minute there, a stupid, impulsive minute, he'd forgotten. He hadn't been thinking about the way she'd rolled over in bed and looked at him with horror in her eyes. He hadn't been thinking about the way she'd had him removed from her parents' estate. He'd forgotten the cold look on her face, the cutting words. He'd only knownElizabethwas safe and in his arms. Swearing softly, he took his hands from her body and stepped back. No way was he going to let her turn him into the bad guy. Wide-eyed, she lifted a hand to her mouth, pressing fingers to full lips colored not by cosmetics, hurt the relentlessness of their kiss. "What are yourdoing?" she asked with a breathlessness he knew she would hate. "Your were pale." He spoke with exaggerated simplicity, not about to tell her the thought of her being hurt had pushed him to the edge. He would never give her that leverage over him ever, ever again. "I wanted to put some color back into your cheeks." She lifted her chin, just as she always did when she was determined to pull herself under control. "A simple pinch would have been fine." But nowhere near as satisfying. Retrieving his gun, Hawk scanned the rain-dampened alley a block from the hotel. Many of the sirens had quit blaring, indicating the chaos was settling. SoonElizabeth's absence would be noted. "Nothing is ever simple with you," he said, returning his attention to her. She had this preconceived notion of how life should be and couldn't accept that just because a plan was made didn't mean it had to be followed. He'd tried to show her,had shown her. God, how he'd shown her. In return she'd accepted another man's proposal. "What do you want me to say?" he added, lowering the pitch of his voice. "That I wanted to kiss you? To know if you tasted like the red wine you had with dinner?" Her eyes darkened, but other than that, she denied him a reaction. "What are you doing here?" Walking back into a colossal mistake. "Saving your life, it looks like." She wrapped her arms around her rib cage, drawing his attention to the black pearls showcased by the square neckline of her little wet dress and the way she'd started to shake. "Why?" she asked. "What's going on?" He slipped out of his sport coat and draped it around her shoulders. "Here," he almost growled. "You shouldn't be running around half-dressed when it's freezing outside."


She didn't throw the jacket to the ground and stomp on it the way he'd expected, but pulled the tweed tightly around her. "Answer my question, Wesley. Why are you here?" The Dumpsters shielded them from view, but soon the authorities would come looking. Or worse. He needed her cooperation, and he needed it now. "Your father sent me. Jorak Zhukov broke out of prison." What little color he'd kissed into her face drained away. After her sister's ordeal, he figured just the name Zhukov would strike fear into any of the Carringtons. "Whyyou?" she asked, and he heard what she didn't say. Why not Aaron or Jagger oranyone other than him? "Your father knows I'm the best." He held her gaze, refused to let her see one trace of the cold fear still slicing him up inside. "So do you." The hair pulled from her face made it impossible to miss the way her eyes flared, the flicker of memory, but she quickly hid the reaction and looked toward the Dumpsters. Hawk didn't know whether to laugh out loud or slam his fist into the cold brick wall. Nothing had changed. He knew they had no future, he didn'twant a future, but the denial stung all the same. Here she was as cool and untouchable as always, while something deep inside him boiled. He caged in his response to her, unwilling to let her think she still had that power over him. Because she didn't. She never had. That was only adrenaline, the thrill of the chase. "Where did the blood come from?" she asked, looking back at him. "Did you shoot someone?" "With you in the line of fire?" The thought sickened him. "Sweet God, Elizabeth, what kind of man do you think I am?" She had the good grace to wince. "Then where did the blood come from?" Her failure to answer his question didn't go unnoticed. He knew what kind of man she thought he was. She'd made that bulletproof clear. The rain picked up, icy pellets slanting down on them both. And despite his jacket,Elizabethstill shook. A compassionate man would have pulled her into his arms, let the heat of his body warm her. Burt Hawk wasn't interested in another Elizabeth Carrington rejection, no matter how badly he hated seeing her tremble. The urge to hold her was just instinct, he told himself. Basic human kindness. Nothing more. "My guess is the fall," he said. "Zhukov's man must have cut himself, got his blood on you." The bastard had taken Hawk down, as well, lifting a leg in the darkness to send Hawk to his hands and knees. The impact had jarred him, but nowhere near as much as the sound of Elizabeth's scream. "Zhukov," she muttered, lifting her eyes to his. "Dear God, where's Miranda?" He stepped from the shield of the dumpsters and verified the coast was still clear. "Sandro has her.


They're safe." "Thank God," she breathed. Time was up. If the authorities found them, there'd be a fuss, questions, officials. There'd be delays. Cameras. Someone might try to separate them. Elizabeth, the woman who looked at him and saw her worst nightmare, wouldn't stop them. He swung toward her. "Can you run?" She looked at her mined strappy sandals, then back at him. "Run?" "I need to get you out of here, and either we run or I carry you." She snapped off the heel of her other sandal. "I can run." He bit back a laugh. She was so predictable. "Good girl. My car is just around the corner." Ready to go, he reached for her, but as he'd predicted, she stepped away from his touch. He came damn close to growling. "Quit fighting me, Ellie," he said as levelly as he could. "You have to let me do my job." "Is that what you're calling it these days?" Impatience snapped through him. "I call it saving your life," he said, then didn't give her a chance to protest further, just put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close to shield her from the rain and took off running. *** "It's not the Ritz, sweetness, but it'll have to do." Elizabethstepped into the small hotel room and heard Hawk close the door behind her. She drew a deep breath, but the stale air did nothing to soothe her nerves. Jorak Zhukov was out of prison. He'd threatened the Carringtons. Shots had been fired. And Hawk Monroe had saved her life. Hawk. God. She still couldn't believe it, couldn't stop shaking, even though he'd turned the heater in the car on full blast. She'd sat there, numb and clutching his sport coat around her body, listening to him explain the situation while trying not to draw the achingly familiar scent of incense and musk deep inside of her. She didn't want him there with her. She didn't want his warmth. And dear God, she didn't want to remember the way she'd kissed him. Because she had. Kissed him. Kissed Hawk. His mouth had been hot and hard and more than a little seeking, covering hers, coercing,


urging, rough, a seductive drug she'd never quite gotten out of her system. Adrenaline. A mistake. "You need to get out of those clothes," he said, coming up beside her. The heat of his body washed over her like a tempting embrace, forcing her to wonder how he could generate so much heat when his clothes were as drenched as hers. "I don't have anything else to wear." Too late she realized her mistake. For a man like Hawk Monroe, nudity wouldn't be a problem. She braced herself, waiting for him to cockily tell her he didn't mind one bit if she walked around naked. "I do." Holding his sport coat around her,Elizabethfollowed the sweep of his arm to the bed closest the window, where clothes spilled from an open gym bag and onto a ratty floral comforter. Twin thoughts hit her simultaneously. There were two beds, and Hawk had known they'd be spending the night in this rinky-dink hotel a few miles from the airport. "You planned this?" she asked, pivoting toward him. She didn't understand why the thought bothered her. He shoved dark blond hair, still damp, back from his face. "Sorry, sweetness, but I couldn't let you sleep in that hotel tonight, not with Zhukov unaccounted for." "I guess it never occurred to your to let me know what was going on?" "Not before the awards ceremony," he said with infuriating dismissal. "No. What occurred to me, as you put it, is that my time was better spent mapping out the hotel and beefing up security." She folded her arms over her chest. "A lot of good that did us." He was across the room before she could so much as breathe. The angles of his face hardened. She took an automatic step back, but he took one forward. "You're damn straight it did a lot of good. You're alive, aren't you? You're here, with me and not out in the woods with one of Zhukov's men." His voice was hard, angry. "Do you know what they would do to you?" Elizabethbit down on her lower lip. Surprise flickered through her, followed by an unexpected sliver of regret. Yes. She knew what Zhukov would do to her. "I thought you were one of them," she admitted, and the flash of horror streaked back, the insidious vulnerability she despised. "I thought you were dragging me off to do God only knows what." His eyes flashed. "Don't tempt me." The dark words whispered through her, as unsettling as they were familiar. The pieces, the memory, fell into place. "It was you," she muttered. No wonder her heart had taken a long freefall through her chest. "It was you." He tucked a finger under her chin and turned her to face him. "What was me?"


The masculine scent of incense and musk in the elevator lobby. The one that had prompted her to spin around, expecting to see him standing behind her, thumbs hooked into the waistband of faded, low-riding jeans, smiling that insolent smile of his. She forced herself to look at him, refused to give the satisfaction of thinking he rattled her.Because he didn't. "All day felt like I was being watched, followed. It was you, wasn't it? You were there." The planes of Hawk's face tightened, emphasizing wide, flat cheekbones. "I didn't get to the hotel until midafternoon." She stepped back, swallowed hard. The thought of Hawk Monroe following her unsettled her in ways she didn't want to analyze too closely, but it also brought a modicum of comfort. He was one of her father's men. Hisbest man, if she were honest. He'd been sent to keep an eye on her, escort her home, keep her safe. The threat he posed had nothing to do with her life. "If not you," she asked, keeping her voice steady, "who?" Hawk swore roughly, then strode to the air conditioning unit and fiddled with the controls. "Zhukov." Reality drilled deep. Jorak Zhukov. The man who'd sworn to make the Carringtons pay for his father's death. Make them suffer. He'd been in the hotel, watching her. Waiting. Planning. If Hawk hadn't been there… "I've got the heat going," he said, turning his attention to his gym bag. He pulled out a well-worn shirt, then crossed to her and put the flannel into her hands. "Go take a hot shower. Get warm. We can talk more when your teeth aren't chattering." She looked at the familiar green-and-black tartan balled in her hands and tried not to remember the way the fabric looked stretched across Hawk's shoulders, with those top three buttons open and exposing the silver chain nestled against the dark gold hair of his chest. She did not want to put that shirt on. She didn't want to crawl into bed with the soft, well-worn flannel whispering against her body. But she wanted to walk around naked or in a towel even less. "I won't be long." *** Thank you, Hawk. Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for giving me your jacket, for turning up the heater in the car so hot that you broke out in a sweat. Thank you for thinking ahead, making sure we had a safe place to spend the night. Thank you for offering me your shirt, so I don't have to walk around naked. Thank you for being such a sap. Hawk watchedElizabethwalk regally away from him, head high, damp hair sleekly twisted from her face,


his sport coat hanging from her stiff shoulders and extending below the hem of her little black dress. Her panty hose were muddied and torn. Her feet were bare. Rarely did he remember her looking more provocative. She stepped into the brightly lit bathroom and closed the door, fiddled with the lock on the doorknob. Biting back a few not-very-nice words, Hawk could do nothing about other impulses. He swept his arm across the dresser and sent the stupid little ice bucket and room-service guide crashing to the matted carpet. Nothing had changed. Elizabeth Carrington may have kissed him like there was no tomorrow, but when it came to anything beyond pure physical responses, she made it brutally clear she hadn't forgotten yesterday. Or rather, two years before. Once, he'd actually let himself believe a woman of refinement could want a rough-around-the-edges man like him. He didn't have a pedigree, but he had a code of ethics and a heart, and he'd thought that would be enough. He'd convinced himself her cool facade concealed a passionate woman, that if he could crack through her barriers, he could show her she'd planned the living out of her life. That there was a whole world waiting to be discovered. Instead, she'd shown him he was a fool. Hawk unfastened his shoulder holster and carefully placed his Glock on the nightstand between the beds. Just because he hadn't gone to Yale or Harvard, didn't mean he wasn't smart. He learned. He made adjustments. Circumstances had brought him and Elizabeth together again, but this time he would carry out the assignment and then walk away, this time with his heart, his self-esteem, intact. From the bathroom he heard the shower curtain rattle into place, the water run through the pipes. He hoped it was warm enough. He hoped the spray had enough pressure to actually do some good. He hoped— Nothing. He flat didn't need to be thinking of her standing naked beneath the spray, running the little bar of soap along the smooth planes of her body. If he did, he'd have to remember the way she'd braced her palms against the white tiles of his bathtub and let her head fall back against his chest, while he'd stood behind her, running his soapy hands along the soft skin of her stomach. He'd have to remember the feel of her hair as he'd applied shampoo and built a lather. A mistake, Wesley. Can't we just leave it at that? No. He couldn't leave it at that. If she'd just been civil about it, if she hadn't denied what they both knew, then maybe he could have let it go. But whether it was pride or ego or lingering hurt, he refused to let her pretend she hadn't come apart in his arms. He was willing to admit they were all wrong for each other, but for one night they'd been pretty damn right. He didn't understand why she pretended otherwise.


Honesty. That's all he wanted. Acceptance. Then theycould go their separate ways. She could cling to her plans like they were gospel and marry pretty-boy Ferreday, and Hawk could get on with his life. Without her. That's all he wanted. Frowning, Hawk grabbed his mobile phone and punched out a familiar number. "I've got her, sir," he said a few seconds later. He'd tried to place the call from the car, but had been unable to get a signal. "She's safe." "You're a good man," Ambassador Carrington said. "I knew I could count on you. As always, you have my sincerest thanks." "Just doing my job, sir." Hawk almost choked on the words. "What's this I'm hearing about shots fired?" Hawk sat on the bed he'd claimed for himself and lifted a hand to rub the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders. Despite the security he'd put into place, despite Zhukov's penchant for grandstanding, he hadn't expected an attack so soon. It burned that he couldn't figure out how the bastard had gotten through his net. "Z was there, sir, but he didn't count on you being one step ahead of him." "Not me, son. You. You're the one who got her out of there." Peter Carrington had always treated Hawk with the utmost respect, even when Hawk had been little more than a disillusioned ex-Army Ranger hungry and in desperate need of work. The older man had given Wesley and his newly formed security company the opportunity to prove themselves. He'd given him trust. In return, Hawk had taken the man's best and brightest for the ride of her life. "I'll let the authorities know my daughter is safe," the ambassador was saying. "I'd rather the two of you keep a low profile for now." "Agreed." Hawk filledElizabeth's father in on the events of the evening, leaving out only the stupid, reckless kiss. The sound of the bathroom door opening was the only warning he got. He glanced up, saw her standing with the bright light behind her, creating a glow around her damp, slicked-back sable hair. Her skin was clear and flawless. His shirt hung like a shapeless dress down to her knees. And Hawk forgot to breathe. "Is that my father?" she asked. Shifting uncomfortably, he gestured for her to join him on the bed. "I have someone here who'd like to talk to you, sir."


Elizabethtook the phone from his hands and sat next to him. "Dad?" Hawk stood, not wanting to share the mattress with her, not wanting to look at the way his flannel shirt rode high on her smooth thighs. "I'll shower up," he mouthed. "Holler if you need me." Her eyes, washed clean of all makeup, met his, revealed a flicker he couldn't quite decipher. Then she looked down at the carpet, and the moment passed with sobering speed. Grinning despite himself, despite her, Hawk walked away, confident he wouldn't hear a peep out of his charge. Elizabeth Carrington would rather walk barefoot over broken glass than admit she needed him. *** "I'm fine, Dad. Really. Wesley was…" Magnificent. Flawless. On top of his game."…there in time. He had everything under control and us out of there before anyone even knew what was going on." Her father didn't need to know the gory details. "Thank God. I've been anxious waiting for word." Elizabethsmiled. 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?"Elizabethasked, 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 inRichmond." 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, andElizabethknew 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,Elizabethstood 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. Elizabethpicked 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— Elizabethfroze, her hand going completely still against the familiar blue box.


A man in my line of work can never be too prepared. Heat flashed hot and hard and powerful. Her heart broke into a staccato rhythm, much like the rush after drinking a venti latte. That was life with Hawk Monroe, she knew. A caffeine overdose. Maybe that's why her hands had been shaking that night, as she'd reached for the little foil package and almost savagely ripped it open. Maybe that's why her vision had blurred, why she'd looked at Hawk and seen surprise and fascination, not hard, uncompromising lines. Maybe that's why she'd come apart in ways she'd never imagined possible. Never wanted to experience again. "Ellie?" Startled, she lifted her eyes to the mirror, where she saw Hawk filling the doorway, watching her through those hot,knowing eyes. "Find what you need?" Chapter 3 «^» Hawk just stared. Long damp strands of sable hair scraggled against her face, but not enough to hide the surprise, almost the … guilt, in her eyes. Her skin was slightly flushed. Her lips were parted. She looked almost exactly like she had when she— Uh-oh. It took effort, because he damn well liked the sight, but Hawk forced himself to look from the mirror to his shaving kit, where the box of condoms winked at him like a pal with the habit of reappearing at the worst possible time. And he knew. God have mercy, he knew whyElizabethlooked exactly the way she had that night two years before. Awkwardwasn't a word in Hawk's vocabulary. He always had just the right comeback, the right solution. But when he looked intoElizabeth's wide eyes and saw memory glowing back at him—the heat, the uncertainty—his body came to immediate and painful attention. Say something, he commanded himself. Break the moment before it breaks you. It was bad enough he had to spend the night with her. He didn't need to spend it with memories, too. "Don't worry, Ellie," he gritted out, spurred on by survival instincts that had failed him earlier. "I'm not here to get you into bed. We've been there," he said with a casualness he didn't come close to feeling, "done that, remember?" He paused, tried to smooth the jagged edges inside him. For effect he grinned. "And if I were a betting man, I'd lay money on the fact you threw out the T-shirt." Confident he'd said what was necessary to kill the moment of intimacy, Hawk braced an arm against the doorjamb and waited. But then the most amazing thing happened.Elizabethdidn't look away or lift her chin, she didn't skewer him with a pointed comeback. She … smiled.


"Actually," she said in that honeyed voice of hers, the one that rang of oldRichmondbreeding and hot Southern nights, the one she usually hid behind crisp boarding-school style, "Idonated the T-shirt." He didn't know whether to laugh or swear or eliminate the distance between them and show her just what she did to him. Still. Even now. Against every rule in his book. "You saying I'm a charity case, dear heart?" he asked, stepping toward her. The bathroom wasn't big to begin with, but with both of them standing in the cramped space and the heat of memory weaving between them like a net falling into place, the little white walls seemed to box them in. She tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. "Your words," she said with a breeziness that he recognized as dismissal, "Not mine." This time he did laugh. "Because if I'm a charity case and your job is fund-raising, then maybe we should seriously consider getting another donation together and—" She lifted her chin. "Go away, Wesley." He'd never been a man to back down from a challenge, and that cultured, clipped voice registered as a twenty on a scale of one to ten. "What are you afraid of?" he drawled, his voice low. "I've told you my intentions are honorable, and it's a little late for modesty." They both knew he'd seen her do far more than brush her teeth. "If I go away, who'll protect you from the bad guys?" Her eyes met his. "Maybe I'll take my chances." "But I won't." Then, because the Army had taught him the value of ending a campaign before the tide turned, he reached into his shaving kit, found the spare toothbrush and handed it to her. "Here." She took the red handle from him and ripped off the plastic wrapper. "I'd tell you you're a jerk," she said, meeting his gaze in the mirror, "but that would make you too happy." Very true. "And God knows that would be a crime," he muttered, then turned and walked out of the bathroom. He didn't look back. As much as he'd once enjoyed playing verbal chess with Elizabeth Carrington, that time had come and gone. They weren't dancing in the shadows now. Each encounter wasn't foreplay. They'd exploded and fizzled out, no matter how much a part of him deep, deep inside burned to see if he could still rattle her cage. He had a job to do. It was as simple as that. Out there somewhere, Jorak Zhukov lurked. Thirsting for revenge. TargetingElizabeth. Acting out of character. Striking quickly wasn't his style. The bastard preferred to stalk his prey slowly, deliberately, luring them into invisible traps. Desperation, however, could change a man. Hawk knew that well.


Pacing, he glanced toward the nightstand, where his Glock lay next toElizabeth's black pearls. They shimmered against her skin, changed colors with her outfits. Once, he'd enjoyed holding them in his fingers, rubbing, caressing… On impulse he crossed the room and sat on the bed closest the window, picked up the pearls. They were soft and smooth, cultured, refined. Just like her. Swearing softly, he let the pearls fall from his fingers, but could do nothing about the sound of gunfire echoing through his memory. "You don't have any more surprises in store for me, do you?"Elizabethturned off the bathroom light and breezed into the main room. "Weare headed toRichmondtomorrow, right?" Hawk stretched out on the bed and linked his hands behind his head. When he'd left her a few minutes before, her eyes had been big and dark, memory glowing like a candle that refused to burn out. But classic Elizabeth Carrington, she'd washed all that messy emotion away and now looked at him through a gaze as refined as the pearls he'd been fingering moments before. "I don't know," he said, unable to resist. He lifted the remote and cruised away from CNN. "I was thinking we could take a scenic tour ofLake Louisefirst…" Elizabethswung around. "Wesley," she said with just the right blue-blood clip. "I'm serious." Hawk felt his lips twitch, clenched his teeth hard. Laughing at her wouldn't help matters, but she had no idea how she looked, standing there with her mother's glare in her eyes and his ratty flannel shirt hanging from her shoulders. "So am I," he drawled, then stopped channel surfing on a Toronto Blue Jays baseball game. "I was reading about a horseback ride up to a glacier, where there's this quaint little tearoom." Laughter almost broke through the words. "You like tea, don't you, Ellie?" he asked with all the innocence of the young elk pictured on the cover of the travel magazine beneath his Glock. "Why the hurry to get back toRichmondwhen you're in such a beautiful country?" he added, knowing the answer. "Does being around me make you that uncomfortable?" For a minute, there, he actually thought she was going to stalk across the room and smack him. Instead she lifted her chin. "Saturday is the charity auction. Nicholas and I—" "Nicholas." Hawk felt his whole body go tense. "I thought you two called it quits." She turned from him and stared a long moment at the ice bucket and room-service menu strewn on the floor. Frowning, she picked them up and returned them to the dresser. "We did." The momentary enjoyment he'd found in teasingElizabethhardened into something dark and entirely too familiar. He worked hard to shove the emotion down, but the reality of what that man represented overrode years of rigorous training.


"What happened?" He resisted the urge to close the distance between them and take her shoulders in his hands, force her to look him in the eye, deny what they both knew. "You couldn't marry him after we—" "No." The denial came out hard and fast, determined. But Hawk had to wonder. He knew she'd dreamed of marrying Ferreday since she'd been a young girl, long before Hawk entered her life. And he knew toElizabeth, plans were sacrosanct. But part of him wanted to think their night together had forced her to reconsider her plans, to realize what a pompous idiot Ferreday really was. The thought ofElizabethgoing from Hawk's bed, to Ferreday's, still had the power to grind him up inside. Keeping his voice level was hard. "Then why?" Her back stiffened. "I'm not discussing this with you." "Sure you are," he drawled, fascinated by the way she fiddled with the room-service menu. Elizabeth Carrington was one of those rare women who never seemed at a loss, who always maintained her poise and composure, even beneath the suffocating glare of the hotVirginiasun. "Otherwise you'll let my imagination take over, and we both know you don't want to do that." She pivoted toward him, flashed a tight smile. "Nothing happened, Wesley. The timing was just wrong." "And now?" Damp hair scraggled against her cheekbones, emphasizing the flicker of hesitation. "Things are … better." That's not what Miranda had told him. Only a few months before, when he'd escortedElizabeth's sister toPortugal, Miranda had looked him in the eye and told him Elizabeth and Nicholas weren't together anymore, thatElizabethhad never been the same since Hawk left. That the two of them should talk. He'd politely explained that the two of them had never … talked. Intrigued, he swung his legs to the side of the bed and lowered his feet to the floor. Things weren't better. And they weren't going to be better, not until Jorak Zhukov was behind bars. "I hate to break it to you," he said, needing her to understand the significance of the situation, "but until Zhukov is caught, public appearances are like handing an arsonist a can of gasoline and a match." Her eyes flared wide. "I realize that," she said softly, then glanced toward the vacant bed. Just as quickly, she looked away. "I don't make a habit of tempting fate." But she had. Once. The memory cruised through him, hot and damning, and though he knew the polite thing to do—the gentlemanly thing to do—would be to ignore the eight-hundred-pound pink elephant she'd just summoned from the past, he couldn't quit looking at her standing fewer than ten feet away, with her hair


starting to dry and falling loose around her face, her gaze startled, her lips parted. Even wearing nothing but his ratty, threadbare flannel shirt, she still managed to steal his breath. He met her gaze. "You sure about that?" Elizabeth glanced at the bedside clock and squeezed her eyes shut, and Hawk had his answer. "Life doesn't always unfold neat and tidy the way we want it to," he pointed out, leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees. He didn't understand his fierce need to force her to look in the mirror. "I'd have thought you'd realized that by now." Her gaze met his, quiet, seeking. "I've realized a lot, Wesley. Have you?" The question splintered through him. A hot comeback begged for release, but he refused to let her lure him on to a path he had no desire to travel. It was late, and tomorrow would be a long day. She'd probably been awake close to twenty-four hours. She'd been tracked, almost abducted, could have been killed. Any adrenaline had long since drained away. He wasn't sure how much longer she could stay standing. "Come to bed,Elizabeth. You're exhausted." She didn't move."Have you?" The control he'd been exerting crumbled. She wanted an answer? Fine, he'd give her one. "You want to know what I've realized?" The question broke from his throat rougher than he'd intended. "I've realized you've got your whole life mapped out, and nothing else matters. You know what you're going to do, what's acceptable and what's not, who you'll be with. Everything is black, or it's white. Gray confuses you." Elizabethcrossed to the little bed a few feet from him, then meticulously folded back the bedspread. Only when she finished did she turn to him, and when she did, she quickly stepped back, as though she'd just realized how close the two beds really were. If she moved two steps, she'd be standing between his thighs. For a moment she just looked at him, at his bare chest where the ugly scar was a brutal reminder of how little she gave a damn about him. Then slowly she lifted her eyes to his. "I suppose you think you're the gray?" "I don't fit into preconceived notions." If he had, if he was a gentleman like Nicholas, he'd be wearing a pair of pale blue pajamas, with the top buttoned all the way up to his throat, not lounging there more naked than not. "I don't play by the rules." "No," she agreed with brutal speed, then turned and practically yanked back the crisp white sheet. "You fly by the seat of your pants." And finally they'd reached the heart of the matter. "It's not a crime."


Elizabethstiffened, kept staring at the bed. He could tell she was on the verge of collapse, that she wanted nothing more than to crawl between the sheets and shut her eyes, wake up in a time and place where Hawk Monroe had never rocked her world. Finally she looked at him through a curtain of damp scraggly hair. "I never said it was." "Tell me how you'd rather me act. Tell me what would make you morecomfortable." Across the room the baseball announcer signaled a grand slam, but neither of them looked.Elizabethjust stared at him, no doubt considering a comeback. She'd be more comfortable if Zhukov was still behind bars and this nightmare had never started. She'd be more comfortable if Aaron or Jagger had been sent to bring her home. She'd be more comfortable if the bullet that had ripped into his shoulder four months before had landed a few inches lower. "Look, Hawk," she said. "We're adults. Can't we just—" "Pretend that night didn't happen?" That's what would make her more comfortable, he realized. If he'd never touched her. Never made her sigh. Never made her come unglued. "No," he answered before she could. "I can't do that. I don't pretend." That was the coward's way out. She frowned. "I made a mistake, Wesley. Nothing less, nothing more." Nothing. Less. Nothing. More. The seven most incredible hours of his life. Nothing less, nothing more. The burn started deep, spread fast. "If that was a mistake," he said slowly, pointedly, "it wasn't just one." Her eyes flared wide, and the memory flickered, burned hot. Color rose to her cheeks, much like the flush that had consumed her chest after they'd first made love. "You don't have to throw it in my face," she said quietly, and if Hawk didn't know better, he would have sworn her voice sounded more than a little breathless. "Throw it in your face?" He aimed the remote at the television and killed the power. "We're not talking about some heinous crime,Elizabeth." But to her, he knew that they were. "We're talking about you, and me, and why you're scared to be in the same room with me."


And why that room suddenly felt incredibly hot. "Wesley, please." She pushed the damp hair back from her face. "Let it go. I have." He looked into her eyes, searched deep. "Have you, Ellie? Have you really?" The room was excruciatingly quiet now, the television no longer blaring. If he listened carefully, he would have sworn he heard her heart pounding. Or maybe that was his own. "Yes," she said, not with the clip he'd come to expect, but with a complete lack of emotion that burned even deeper. "I suppose that's why you kissed me tonight like you never wanted to let me go?" Something odd flickered in her gaze, a light that vanished more quickly than the shooting star they'd seen one hot summer night two years before. "Don't confuse adrenaline with desire," she said softly. "There's a difference." A hard sound broke from his throat. "You think so?" For a minute, he thought about telling how in explicit detail just how wrong she was, but he knew she wouldn't listen. So instead he slammed his fist against the pathetic excuse for a pillow, then stretched out on the mattress. He didn't pull the covers over him, though. The room was too damn hot. "Get some sleep, Ellie," he said, reaching over to flick off the bedside lamp. "I'm here if you need me." *** The heater rattled relentlessly, interrupted only by the occasional airplane taking to the skies. The curtains blocked most of the light from the parking lot, but a sliver cut through, casting the man with the gun in shadow. She watched him standing there, alert and ready, still wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. His shoulders rose and fell with each deep, rhythmic breath he drew. The sound thrummed through her, and before she realized it, she'd matched his cadence. Frowning, she was tempted to turn away, to face the sallow wall instead of the man who stood rigidly by the window, but knew better than to turn her back on Hawk Monroe. If that was a mistake, it wasn't just one. Even now, hours later, the words made her shift uncomfortably, acutely aware that she was naked beneath his shirt. The blunt statement had caught her completely off guard, even though she knew Hawk Monroe wasn't a man to mince words. She'd never known anyone with such a complete disregard for propriety. I'm here if you need me. That's what worried her. Two years before, she'd realized a truth, made herself a promise. A promise she intended to keep.


Never would she allow herself to dance naked in a thunderstorm ever, ever again. Impulse seduced, but in the end it also destroyed. *** Early-morning sun glistened off the sleek Lear jet. Standing in the cool Canadian breeze,Elizabethnursed a cup of coffee while Hawk conducted his preflight inspection of her father's prized possession. The Lear had been in the family for seven years, giving them the flexibility and security to travel without the hassle of commercial airlines. Elizabethloved flying. She loved the freedom of soaring above the clouds. She loved the vastness. She loved the suspension from reality. You want to learn how? To fly? Are you kidding? I'd never kid about something so important to you. Hawk stood near one of the engines, touching and feeling like every good pilot did. It never ceased to fascinate her how a man who lived for the thrill of the moment could be so meticulous when it came to his job. He left no detail, no nuance to chance. The Army had taught him that, he'd told her once. Even a small miscalculation or oversight could result in hideous consequences. He was all business this morning, decked out in faded jeans and a khaki shirt, a well-worn leather bomber jacket. Mirrored aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. She accepted the change, welcomed it. They'd both be better off if they could get back toRichmondwithout trying to overanalyze their relationship. Relationship. The word scraped something deep inside, jarred her in ways she didn't understand, wasn't about to explore. Tension had always arced between her and Hawk, even in the beginning. Wesley "Hawk"Monroehad almost seemed to enjoy goading her. She'd tried to ignore him, much as her mother had insisted she ignore her twin brother, Ethan, when they'd been five and his single greatest pleasure in life was putting lizards and toads and other slimy creatures under her pillow, butElizabethhad never figured out how. The more she tried to ignore, the more effective he became. "Everything's in good shape," he said, coming around the plane with a clipboard in hand. The cool morning breeze ruffled his slightly long hair. "Did you file the flight plan?" "All done," she said, finishing off her coffee. The breeze whipped up, but, tucked inside a newly purchased Ski Banff sweatshirt and a pair of stiff jeans, she didn't shiver. "Then let's get this baby off the ground." Hawk signaled to the ground crew, then headed for the stairs leading to the jet. Elizabethdidn't move. "Something wrong?" he asked, turning to face her.


She squinted into the sun, lifting a hand to shield her eyes. "Where's your copilot?" Hawk's smile was slow, gleaming. "I'm looking at her." The breath jammed in her throat. "Me?" He shrugged. "Unless you're not up to it." Excitement surged. "Of course I'm up to it," she answered quickly, but shock pierced deep. She hadn't taken to the skies since Miranda's kidnapping. "I just thought after last night I didn't think you'd take any chances. I figured you'd have men crawling all over the place." In one lethally quick movement Hawk slipped off his sunglasses and destroyed the distance between them. "Chances?" he asked in a dangerously soft voice that made her chest tighten. "Let's get something very straight, right here, right now." All that simmer and amusement that had sparked in his eyes last night … gone, replaced by a hardness she'd rarely seen. "I take my job seriously. I don't play fast and loosewith your life, not on the ground or in the air." He gestured toward the roof of the terminal, where three snipers lay on their bellies, rifles in hand. "See those men?" He pointed to the ground crew, all sporting discreetly concealed MP50s. "And those? Of course I have men crawling everywhere, but once we're airborne, it won't matter if two or twenty people are onboard. As long as we can fly the plane." His eyes hardened. "Call me a jerk, but I thought you'd jump at the chance to fly this baby." Too lateElizabethrealized she'd insulted him. "Unless, of course," he added lazily, "it's not your life you're worried about, but your virtue." Heat flashed through her. "Don't be ridiculous." "I mean, think about it," he drawled. "It's not like I can drag you into the cabin for a quickie at twenty thousand feet." He stepped closer, lowered his voice. "Someone's got to fly the plane." She cut him a look. "How reassuring." With stunning speed, the hardness dissolved into a smile laced with dare. "Of course there's always autopilot," he mused, boxer-dancing out of the way. A very unladylike noise escaped before she could stop it. "You haven't flown on autopilot a day in your life." He tucked the clipboard under his arm. "What do you say, then? You up for flying?" More than he could possibly know. She hadn't realized how confined, how grounded she'd felt. "Careful," she said, breezing past him and heading up the stairs. "I might just push you out of the way and take this baby up all by myself." "Not in this lifetime, Ellie. You need me too much."


She stepped into the cool, plush confines of the corporate jet and headed for the cockpit. "Dream on." From behind her, she heard his rough laughter. "Trust me, sweetness. You don't want to know what a man like me dreams about." No, she didn't. That was true. "You forget," he added, catching up with her. He slid into his seat and began checking the controls, making sure the yoke moved in all directions. "I know you. Flying by the seat of your pants isn't your style, and the Lear is a two-pilot plane. If you want to get home today, in this plane, you're stuck with me." Elizabethsaid nothing, just blithely reached up and checked the oxygen mask. "What are you doing?" he asked, as she'd known he would. She turned to him and smiled. "Just making sure I'll be able to breathe if your ego takes up all the oxygen." *** From a cruising altitude of thirty-nine thousand feet, the vivid blue sky stretched on forever. Far below, the ruggedRockiesjutted up like toy mountains. The snowcaps looked little more than dots of vanilla ice cream. Elizabethleaned back and drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. She was eager to get back toRichmond and away from Hawk, but for now she savored the freedom of soaring. "Isn't the view gorgeous?" Hawk glanced at her. "Stunning." Her heart kicked, hard. Her throat tightened. "Don't, Hawk, okay? Not now." They sat too close, had too many more hours alone together. As it was, she couldn't breathe without drawing the scent of him deep inside. "Can't we just enjoy the flight?" The corners of his mouth curved into a smile. "Whatever you say, sweetness." Off to the right, a swirl of gauzy clouds curled like a comma. "Thank you." If she didn't know better, she would have sworn he stiffened. "Just doing my job." "For letting me fly with you," she clarified. For not treating her like a child. Nicholas barely let her drive. Hawk turned toward her. Mirrored sunglasses concealed the deep butterscotch of his eyes, but she knew they'd be gleaming. "I taught you, didn't I?" The question rushed through her. He'd taught her, all right. A lot. Lessons she would never forget. HawkMonroewas the best pilot, the best instructor, she'd ever known. He'd mastered flying while in the


Army, piloting Black Hawks into hostile territory in faraway places most people only heard about on the news. He never talked about the missions, but from the aftermath she'd witnessed in his eyes, she knew they'd been beyond dangerous. She wondered if he still thought about the years he'd given to his country, if sometimes he still woke up in a cold sweat. Call me a fool, but "Be all you can be" actually meant something to me. A smart woman would have turned away, looked straight ahead. Maybe even closed her eyes. But Elizabethfound it hard to look away. He looked deceptively casual sitting there with his headset on, faded jeans hugging his long legs, and the sleeves of his khaki shirt rolled up. On a glance he looked like a thousand other ex-military corporate pilots … except for the Glock shoved snugly into his leather shoulder holster. "What do you think about when you fly?" she asked before she could stop herself. Hawk took a long sip from a bottle of water. "I try not to think at all. I prefer to savor." Elizabethsmiled. Hawk loved flying every bit as much as she did. Before their relationship had become overly complicated, he'd taken her up often, sharing with her the promise of an early-spring dawn and the vibrancy of a late-summer sunset. "Have you been up much since the shooting?" "You know what they say about not keeping a good man down," he answered with a grin. "I was back up—" The change was subtle at first, a yaw like brakes on ice. They lurched forward, then backward. Then came the deafening roar of silence. The swirl of amber lights. The drone of buzzers. And the plane went from fast forward to slow motion. "Shit!" Hawk grabbed the yoke and immediately launched into the emergency procedures he'd drilled into her. Her heart slammed against her ribs. "We're losing altitude!" It wasn't a dizzying rush or a spiraling plummet, just a gentle sinking in the air, drifting. The hallmark of an aircraft with no power. Chapter 4 «^» "Pull up! Pull up!" "Shut up!" Hawk gritted out, but the mechanical female voice droned on. "Pull up! Pull up!" Nothing. The free fall continued with deceptive gentleness, like a toy plane whose batteries had suddenly


gone dead. Amber lights flickered from the instrument panel, warning the obvious. They were going down. From the high altitude corporate aircraft occupied, they had five minutes, seven tops. "Get on the radio." He kept his voice calm despite the adrenaline spewing nastily. "Tell ATC we've lost both engines." "Both?" He shotElizabetha quick look, found her face devoid of color. "Do it. Now." A fierce will to live kicked through him. The Army had trained him for situations like this, drilled him relentlessly. In Kosovo, drills had become reality. But he'd never thought to need that training somewhere over nowhereMontanawithElizabeth's life on the line. "BillingsCenter," he heard her say, and despite the fear sparking in her eyes, her voice rang strong and confident. "November Two Three Niner Bravo declaring an emergency." "Three Niner Bravo," came the calm male voice of the air traffic controller. "State nature of emergency." "Three Niner Bravo has lost both engines…" Someone had gotten to the plane. He knew that as sure as he knew there would be no miraculous restarting of the engines. He'd had the hangar protected, damn it. Armed guards on duty. But Hawk didn't believe in accidents, or fate, or bad damn luck. He believed in instinct and motivation and revenge. Every man created his own destiny. He wouldn't let a coward like Zhukov put an end to his. OrElizabeth's. The memory flared before he could stop it. The door to Ambassador Carrington's richly paneled office opened, and she strolled into his world with a grace and confidence that knocked the breath from his lungs. A black pantsuit sheathed her killer body, but it was her smile that grabbed him, her smile that slayed, wide and knowing, yet at the same time, mysterious. Vulnerable. "You must be Hawk." Then, he'd sworn to give his life for hers, to take a bullet if necessary. A knife. An anything. But there was no line of fire to step into now, no attacker to fend off, just a disabled plane carrying them both down. He wouldn't let it happen. He wouldn't let her meet a fiery grave, alone in the remote mountains of Montana. The glide didn't fool him. Within minutes gravity would take over, and then there'd be nothing gentle at all. Shoving aside everything but training, he focused on the emergency maneuvers he could rattle off in his sleep. "Throttle," he muttered, shoving them all the way back. "Cutoff." Sweat beaded on his brow. His pulse


blasted relentlessly. "Spoilers, gear, flaps, all up. Airstart…"He tried, no go. The engines were cold, dead. The cemetery was serene, peaceful, row upon row of gently tended graves, shaded by an army of maples. Elizabeth knelt before her sister's tombstone, a hand to her heart, tears swimming in her eyes. His gut twisted. No, damn it. No. He was a man who thrived on the unexpected, who believed that's when the majority of living occurred. But sweet Mary, not like this. Not like this. Clenching his teeth, he switched the fuel system to emergency, refusing to consider that in less than two minutes, he and Elizabeth might be dead, too. Failure was not an option. The snow-capped mountains dominated his line of vision, closer, larger, with every frenetic riff of his heart. "Pull up,"the aural warning kept insisting."Pull up!" Looking at her was a mistake. He saw her seated next to him, continuing her dialogue with Air Traffic Control, beautiful even in a cheap sweatshirt, but the steely resolve in her gaze barely registered. A slow light gleamed from her eyes. Her mouth curved into a smile. "Im not dreaming, am I?" "No, sweetness," he said. They broke through a bank of clouds and cruised into endless blue. "You're flying." Sable hair, loose around her face, caught on her mouth and fired his blood. "I've never felt so alive." God. "The best is yet to come." Hawk shoved the image aside, searched the rugged terrain for somewhere to put down the plane. They still had options. He was a skilled pilot. Any flat surface would work. "Come on, come on. There's gotta be a ski slope somewhere." Maybe in the movies, a voice deep inside snarled, but this was real life and smooth landing strips didn't just appear in the middle of nowhere. Trees cluttered the landscape, taller by the second, thicker. A glistening lake in the distance. A lake. "There!"Elizabethpointed toward the horizon. Hawk squinted against the glare of sun and saw what she did. Beyond the lake, a valley sprawled against the base of a cruel mountain. If he could hit the grassy area, they had a chance. If he missed, they went up in flames. "Make love to me, Wesley." Long, sable hair tangled around her face but didn't hide the desire glowing in her eyes. "Make me lose control." Adrenaline fueled determination. The plane barreled toward the target destination, gaining speed as they approached. He kept the flaps up as long as possible, releasing them at the last minute to slow the plane


down. "Sweet God," he said, more in prayer than exclamation. "This is it!" More than anything he wished he could turn to look at her one more time. Touch her. Take away her fear. But knew he couldn't. The valley, damn it. If he didn't get the plane down in the next ten seconds, they were going to miss the valley. And if they missed the valley, they found the mountain. "Mayday! Mayday!"Elizabethshouted into the radio. "November Two Three Niner Bravo crash landing—" He had no choice. None. No option. Elizabethgrabbed his arm. "Hawk!" He never had a chance to respond, to look at her, to take her hand. They slammed down hard, the sleek jet cutting through a forest of pine. Christmas filled his line of vision, a brilliant explosion of light. Then nothing at all. *** The birds were singing.Elizabethshifted in her slumber, moving her head to rest in the crook of her arm. She loved listening to birds singing. A family of robins had a nest in the ancient maple outside her window, and when the sun nudged over the horizon, the entire family awoke in song. It wasn't so bad during the winter months, when the days were short and the sun didn't awake so early, but during the hot months of summer, when the sun rose long beforeElizabethwanted to, then she wasn't quite so fond of her little family of robins. The robins didn't sing like this. The realization jarred her from her stillness, prompting her to concentrate on the unfamiliar song. The birds almost sounded … anxious. And then she remembered. Her heart slammed hard. She opened her eyes and stared at the remains of the cockpit. Amber lights still flashed, but the manic voice had stopped warning them to pull up. Hawk. The blast of cold robbed her of breath. Everything came crashing back, sharp, punishing, ramming into her with the force of the plane hitting the floor of the valley. The sudden loss of both engines. Wesley's unwavering determination to retain control. The mountains rushing up to greet them. The incredible skill with which he'd put the plane down in the valley and not against the side of the mountain. It was nothing short of a miracle that they'd survived— Violently she swung to her left and saw him. Hawk. Slumped against the instrument panel. Still. Completely unmoving. "Hawk!" she tried, but his name scraped against her vocal chords. "Wesley!" Nothing. He didn't turn to her, didn't flash that carnal grin, didn't so much as move his shoulders in breath.


Horror screamed through her. HawkMonroewas a man of action. He was always in motion, pacing, touching things, assessing a situation. That's what made him such a competent bodyguard. But now he lay hideously still against the panel of flashing amber lights and shattered glass, dark blond hair matted with blood and falling against his face. And something inside her started to bleed. "No!" She lunged toward him, cried out when the safety belt cut into the flesh of her stomach and chest. Viciously she fumbled with the clasp, lunging across the small cockpit the second it opened. His body was big and hard and warm, the cotton of his shirt drenched from perspiration. And blood. "Wesley?" Nothing. Dread jabbed into her throat. They were in the middle of nowhere. The Lear had a first-aid kit, but she was no paramedic. If the worst came to pass— No, she wouldn't think it. Instead she muttered a silent prayer and slid a hand along the warm, clammy flesh of his neck, using two fingers to search for a pulse. "Wesley?" Nothing. The composure she'd been grappling for crumbled. "Don't do this to me, damn it!" she shouted, running a hand along his back. Her fingers fisted in the hair loose at his shoulders. "This isn't the way it's supposed to be!" There. She felt it. A fluttering beneath her index finger. Faint at first, then stronger. Hope surged. "Wesley. Can you hear me?" There. She heard it. A low sound breaking from his throat. "What?" "Quit … pulling my hair." The words were slurred, but they rushed through her like the cool wind whipping through the plane. "Come again?" His big body shifted, turning toward her to reveal eyes burning overly bright. "I'm not goin' anywhere, sweetness—you don't need to hold on so tight." His breath rushed against her neck, warm and strong and vital. She went very still, staring at the swirling butterscotch of his eyes, the dilated pupils and gleam that warned of shock. Cuts streaked across his face, a tiny piece of glass embedded at the base of his right cheekbone. But he never blinked, never looked away. Very slowly she looked from his face to the back of his head, where her fingers clenched his hair like a lifeline. Reality punched hard. Her lungs refused the oxygen she tried to deliver. "I got you awake, didn't I?" she asked with a simple logic she didn't come close to feeling. Fear and relief crashed inside her. She wanted to dive against him, feel the warmth and strength of his body, assure herself he was all right. Instead she forced her fingers to uncurl.


"Desperate times call for desperate measures," she said. "Isn't that what you always say?" The corner of his bloodied mouth lifted. "Since when have you listened to a damn thing I've told you?" Only once, and the fallout had destroyed. "I didn't have a choice this time," she said, sidestepping. The more lucid he became, the more the heat of his body soaked into hers. She still had a hand at the base of his neck, could feel his pulse thumping more strongly every second. "You were out cold—" "I'm fine." The flash of his eyes was the only warning she got. He came to life almost violently, pushing from the trashed instrument panel and discarding the safety belt that hemmed him in. And then, just like the night before, he had his hands on her body. They were big and warm, his callused palms surprisingly gentle, and everywhere he skimmed, she burned. He ran them along her sides and her arms, up her neck to her face. The abrupt transition from out cold to in command jump-started her heart. "I'm okay, Wesley," she said,wanting—needing—his hands off her body. "Really." He skimmed a finger along her cheekbone, drawing her attention to moisture she'd not noticed. "The hell you are you." Wincing, she lifted a hand to her face, feeling the warmth of his fingers and the stickiness of blood. "Just a cut." So much less than what could have happened. "There's glass—" He didn't let her finish. He had her against his body before her heart could beat, his mouth on hers before she could pull away. The kiss was hot and hard and demanding, completely without finesse. He had one hand against the small of her back, the other tangled in her hair. Whiskers scraped her jaw. Shock staggered deep. Pull away, she told herself. Now. But the intensity of his kiss kindled a like intensity in her. The need to affirm life blazed as strongly as the pulse humming through her blood. She opened to him, lifting a hand to his chest, where beneath the damp fabric of his shirt, his heart thudded a frenetic rhythm. And then he was gone. He ripped away without warning and narrowed his eyes. His breathing was ragged. "Don't start something you're not willing to finish, sweetheart." She just stared at him. Incredulity slashed at the haze surrounding her, letting shards of clarity bleed through. "I didn't start anything," she said quietly. But dear God, she'd responded. "That's right," he muttered, adjusting the holster that still carried his Glock. "Your specialty is endings." The words stung, but before she could say anything, he turned from her and shoved open the cockpit door, letting in a blast of sunshine. "Sweet mercy." Elizabethcrawled to his side and stared at where the fuselage should have been. The belly of her father's prized possession lay a good twenty feet away, as though giant hands had savagely ripped the Lear into two pieces. Hawk stepped through the doorway and stood to his full height. His feet automatically went shoulder width apart, his hand to his gun. "Son of a bitch."


Elizabethscrambled after him, wincing when her weight came down on the ankle she'd twisted the night before. Crisp mountain air whipped at her, but rather than shivering, she said a silent prayer of thanks, starkly aware how different the outcome could have been. She wouldn't be standing on an injured ankle to feel the dull throbbing at the base of her neck or the whisper of wind against her cheek. "This is wrong." Hawk broke toward the wreckage, stopped by the left wing. Eyes narrow, he inhaled deeply, roughly expelled the breath. "Smell that?" Elizabethmoved closer, drawing in a breath as he'd done. It was strange seeing him outdoors without his mirrored sunglasses. "Pine," she said, glancing toward the spruce that surrounded them. "Like Christmas." His scowl deepened. "But no jet fuel." And no burning wreckage.Elizabethstared at the fuselage and felt a cold chill snake through her. Jet fuel was highly flammable. When a plane slammed down, explosions and fire usually claimed the lives the impact spared. They should have had a full tank, plenty to burst into flames and incinerate them both. The truth staggered her. "This was no accident, was it?" "He must have paid someoneoff," Hawk said, moving toward the passenger section. He kicked a broken seat and sifted through a pile of debris. "That's the only way he could have gotten access." Elizabethdidn't need him to say who "he" was. She was being hunted. Twice in less than twenty-four hours Jorak Zhukov had tried to end her life, all because her family had been instrumental in bringing his father to justice. The knowledge of how close he'd come to succeeding chilled. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she stared at the sunlight glinting through the thick pine forest and wondered how in the world a search-and-rescue party would find them. If they would find them. She'd done her best to radio their coordinates during those frantic final moments, but she couldn't be sure the transmission had gone through. Days could pass before they were found. Nights. Long, cold nights. Alone. With Hawk. The thought unsettled her in ways she didn't want to analyze. He stood across the clearing, a tall man against a backdrop of pine, some downed by the plane, others standing tall. Big black birds circled against a sky as crisply blue as the one into which she'd first taken flight. Beyond, rugged mountains jutted up against the horizon. Snow already blanketed the highest peaks. They really were in the middle of nowhere. Alone, butalive. "What can I do to help?" she asked, moving toward him. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up now, and if she didn't look too closely, it would be easy to mistake the bloodstains on the gray cotton for perspiration. He pulled his gym bag from under one of the seats and slung it toward the edge of the clearing, where her roll-aboard lay on its side. "See if you can find the first-aid kit. It must have been thrown on impact."


Debris lay strewn everywhere, leather seat cushions, oxygen masks, a silver lockbox, recent editions of Fortune andGolf Digest. Her throat tightened when she remembered the huge smile on her father's face when he'd acquired the Lear. He'd said the plane afforded them a freedom they'd never had before. It had seemed like a perfect plan. There's no such thing as a perfect plan,Hawk had once told her.There's always a weak spot, a vulnerability. There's always a way to intervene. Frowning, she started to turn toward the wreckage, but went very still instead. The big black birds were gone, their caw replaced by a low rumble on the horizon. "Wesley—" But he'd already heard. He stood at his full height, the lines of his face tight and his eyes narrow. "Shh." Excitement surged, followed by a quick punch of alarm. The plane had come down in a pine forest. Without smoke, it was questionable whether a search-and-rescue team would see them. And then she remembered the lockbox. Her heart burst into a staccato rhythm. She ran for the silver box and fumbled with the fasteners, then reached inside and grabbed one of three flares. One quick shot and— Wesley's hand came down on hers, knocking the flare to the ground. "No, damn it!" "Are you out of your mind? We have to get their attention." "Do we?" he asked with a chilling softness. "Are you sure?" She didn't understand the hard glint to his eyes. "We don't have much time. They're looking for us. We've got to get their attention." "And just how do you know whothey are?" She frowned. "What?" "There's more than one person looking for you, Elizabeth. Do you really want to announce our location until you know who's in that helicopter?" The question was hard, and it stopped her cold. "You think it's Zhukov?" Hawk took her hand and practically dragged her to the edge of the clearing cut by the plane. "It's too soon for a formal search party." He led her into a dense cluster of pine. "To be here, now, someone would need advance knowledge of what was going down." A hard sound ripped from his throat. "No pun intended." Elizabeth's throat tightened. "But if Zhukov sabotaged the plane, he'll think we're dead." "Maybe." Hawk stopped abruptly and looked into her eyes. "And maybe he just wants to admire his handiwork." ***


"Stay here until I get back." Hidden in the undergrowth,Elizabethpushed to her feet. "You're leaving?" In just about any other circumstance, he would have loved the horror in her question. But this wasn't any other circumstance, and he didn't love the horror. Her father had trusted him to get her home safely, not to play hide-and-seek with her in the wilds of northernMontana. She insisted she was fine, but he knew her well enough to see the fear she tried to hide. "Here." He handed her the semiautomatic he'd retrieved from his gym bag. "You remember how to use this, right?" She took the Derringer and turned it over. "Yes." Memory drenched her voice, her eyes, all the hours spent at me shooting range, her standing in front of him, his body bracketing hers, practicing taking aim and firing, over and over and over. Even after she'd perfected her aim, she'd continued to suggest they practice. And he'd obliged. But this wasn't practice, and he might not be around to back her up. The helicopter had put down five minutes before. Soon, they'd be swarming the area. To catch them off guard, Hawk needed to make his move before they discovered that he and Elizabeth had survived. "Don't make any noise, and no one will know you're here. But if anyone comes near you, fire." There was a slight tug at the corner of her mouth, where lipstick smeared and blood stained. "Even you?" He put a thumb to her face and rubbed away the discoloration. "That's entirely up to you, sweetness." The increasingly cool breeze blew tangled hair against the sides of her face. "What are you going to do?" Whatever he had to. But he didn't tell her that. "Make sure those bastards never come within a hundred feet of you." Never see her, touch her. Never hurt her. Awareness darkened her gaze. She was a smart woman. She knew the score. The danger. But any fleeting fantasy he'd harbored of her throwing herself into his arms and begging him not to go, not to leave her, died as quickly as they'd formed. She just lifted her chin and watched, somehow managing to look provocative even with her hair tangled and blood on her face, her sweatshirt torn. A gun in her hand. There was a resilience to her, a strength he'd always admired but she'd never trusted. "Be careful," was all she said. He refused to feel even the slightest flicker of disappointment, just as he refused to think he'd heard concern in her voice. "I know what I'm doing," he said vaguely. Caution didn't get a man anywhere. Reward came from risk. She frowned. "That's what worries me."


Once, her words would have electrified. Once, they had. He would have counted every second until he was back to her, to continue the game she'd started and show her how exciting life could be when you didn't pay attention to constraints. Now he stepped back, wouldn't let himself touch, imagine. Remember. "You're going to have to trust me on this, Ellie." "You've got a plan?" He cocked a brow, tried not to grin. "That would make you feel better, wouldn't it?" Frustration flashed. "This isn't a game, Wesley." "No, it's not. It's your life and my life, and every second I debate strategy with you brings Zhukov's men another second closer to finding us." Anticipation tightened through him. He had plans for Zhukov's men, all right, but not any he wanted to share withElizabeth. "If I don't come back—" She grabbed his arm. "You're coming back." "That's the pl—" He bit back the offensive word before it slipped free.Elizabethwas the one who clung to plans like gospel. Not him. He trusted his gut, and his instinct. They'd kept him alive this long. There was no reason to change now. "That's my intent. But until you hear me whistle, I need to know you're not going to so much as bat an eye. Zhukov's men won't be anywhere near as patient as I am." Or as gentle. Resolve streamed into her gaze, overshadowing a fear that ate into his gut. "The dove whistle?" He nodded, felt relief flood him. She remembered. "Twice in quick succession, like we practiced." He looked at the Derringer in her hand. The sight of her long fingers curled around the weapon disturbed him, but nowhere near as mud as the knowledge of what would happen if she had no means of protecting herself. "I won't be long." Rather than turning away, like he expected, she pushed up on her toes and lifted a hand to his face. He braced for the feel of her touch, of cool fingers feathering against his jaw of her mouth pressed to his, open and seeking. But instead she narrowed her eyes and moved in with fingernails. "What the—" "Glass," she said blithely, easing back to reveal the jagged shard of the airshield now in her palm. "It looked painful." She had no idea what pain was. Grimacing, he brought his own hand to his face and felt the rush of fresh blood mixing with whiskers. "Not another word," he said, motioning for her to sink into the underbrush. Surprisingly she did. Off to the west, the sun edged toward the tops of the mountains, indicating the beginning of the end. Only a few hours of sunlight remained, and with the vanishing light, the warmth of the day would drain away, as well. Nighttime in the mountains could be brutal, particularly this time of year. Abruptly he shrugged out of his well-worn bomber jacket and dropped it around her shoulders. "I'll be back before you have time to miss me."


"I'm holding you to that," she said quietly. The promise blasted through him, triggering the ridiculous impulse to pull her to him and finish off some of those nasty loose ends. But just because he was willing to walk through the fire didn't mean he wasn't cautious. Or smart. Elizabeth Carrington would neither miss him upon his departure, nor hold him upon his return. He turned from her before he did something he'd regret and strode through the thicket of pine, pausing several feet away to turn back and inspect her hiding place. Hazy sunlight slanted through needles of pine, creating an otherworldly feel to the forest. The air was cooler here, damper. Sound more compressed. She would be able to hear the enemy long before they could see her. She would be ready. She would be safe. And yet, walking away from her, leaving her alone in the dense undergrowth, with a gun in her hand, resolve in her eyes and bloodthirsty criminals on the prowl, was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Despite the past. Despite the present. Despite everything. The reality of that ground deep. He'd made a vow that cold, rainy night two years before. That night when she'd stood warm and cozy and dry in her chic little black dress, watching two security guards drag him through the drizzle. Elizabeth, don't do this. We need to talk! Self-respect was not something he'd come by easily, but never again would he let anyone slash at the threads he'd meticulously woven together. Never again let anyone rattle his sense of purpose. And that included now. There would be no more reckless kisses, no more memories, no more impossible fantasies. Just because she fired his blood didn't mean anything had changed. He was only human, after all, and with her tall, willowy frame, that silky sable hair and those wide eyes, she was a striking woman. His response to her was perfectly normal and purely physical. Nothing more. A chill permeated the pine forest, oozing up from the damp floor and whispering around the massive tree trunks. His shoulder ached more than usual, reminding him of the time in Portugal, when he'd come obscenely close to meeting his maker. The sniper's bullet had penetrated a crease in his flack jacket, ripping through muscle before exiting his body. For a few blinding seconds, he'd seen nothing but scalding white light. And thought of Elizabeth. Hawk stopped abruptly, but the memory kept coming. He'd been taken to a hospital, where upon his return to consciousness, he'd found Ambassador Peter Carrington sitting by his bed. The older man had flown toPortugalthe second he'd learned of the shooting. He'd stayed with him, even as he'd orchestrated the search for his youngest daughter. The ambassador had cared. WhileElizabethhad not.


To this day, Hawk didn't understand what fool notion had led him to think she might call, or write, or … anything. To say thank you for helping secure Miranda's freedom. To say she'd heard about the bullet he'd taken. To tell him she was glad he was alive. The burn started low, spread fast. Hawk gritted his teeth against it and stooped to smear mud on his face. Until the moment he chose to make his presence known, he needed to leverage whatever advantage he had, and that included blending in with the greens and browns of the forest. Voices drifted from the direction of the wreckage. He stepped over a young pine downed when the plane had cut through the trees and eased behind another that had to be at least a hundred years old. Funny that mere inches separated life from death. Some called it fate, but Hawk knew it was just luck. Either yours was bad or it was good, but he didn't for one second believe every minute of his life was predetermined from the moment he was conceived. That would mean he had no free will, that he couldn't change his destiny. And that, he could not abide. "You stay here. We'll get the girl." American, Hawk noted. Maybe Canadian, but definitely native English speaking. Carefully, with his back to the trunk, he turned to inspect the clearing. He saw the first man immediately, not ten feet away, tall, bulky, standing with his feet shoulder width apart, an MP50 in hand. The lookout. The poor bastard didn't have a prayer. Beyond, two others strode toward the wreckage, one breaking for the smoking fuselage, the other heading for the cockpit. He waited until both vanished before slipping around the tree and slamming his forearm against the lookout's windpipe. A grunt whooshed out as the man stiffened, then slumped with the grace of a fainting spell. Chapter 5 «^» Avicious stream of obscenities burst from the cockpit, followed by the older of the three men. He tore into view, the expression on his lean face tight, angry. "Did you find her?" The man kicking around the fuselage swung toward him. "She's not in there?" "No." "Then where the hell is she?" Lean face squinted against the late-afternoon sun. "She must have been thrown from the plane." He looked toward the edge of the clearing. "Yo, Mander—" His words broke off. "Where the hell is Mander?" The second man swung toward the spot where the lookout had been standing. "Must be taking a leak or something."


"Idiot. Find him, then split up and find the girl. We can't go back without her." "What about the pilot?" Lean face spat a wad of tobacco. "I hear the bears are hungry this time of year. Maybe they'll appreciate a free snack." All his life Hawk had been underestimated. And all his life he'd taken pleasure in proving his naysayers wrong. This time would be no different. "Mander, dude, you'd better get back here." Heavy footfalls crunched on dry pine needles. "Durgen is pissed, can't find the girl." And neither will you, Hawk vowed silently. He slipped from his hiding spot and, as the Army had trained him to do, easily took the second man out. Two down, one to go. Anticipation blasted through him, but like every good special op, he tempered it with patience. Durgen was next, but before Hawk silenced him, the man was going to sing like a bird. *** The birds had stopped singing.Elizabethcrouched in the thicket, listening carefully for the coo of a dove. Or the crunch of footsteps. Or worse, the sound of gunfire. Only the wind made its presence known, rattling the brittle pine needles surrounding her. At least, she hoped it was the wind. Her legs burned from the awkward position in which she sat, her hand cramped from holding the gun. But she refused to move, to relax, to let down her guard. In the hour since Hawk had left, the temperature had steadily dropped. Not much sunlight squeezed through the thick undergrowth. The only warmth came from the leather of his jacket, which she'd shrugged into the second he'd turned from her. The scent of musk mingled with that of pine and mud. Somewhere beyond the thicket, needles crunched. Relief blasted through her, kicking her heart rate into fast forward. Two years ago she'd never wanted to see him again, but now she couldn't imagine wanting anything more than to see him pushing through the undergrowth. Seconds dragged into minutes, minutes into a sharp reality that prompted her to lift the Derringer and tighten her fingers against the grip. She waited, each quiet breath burning low in her chest. Her heart shifted from frenetic to slow motion. The silence turned deafening. Everything would be okay, she told herself for the hundredth time. Zhukov's men would not find her. Hawk wasn't dead. He'd return any moment, maybe with a search team. He denied having a plan, but she knew better. His denial sprang from his ridiculous desire to keep her off balance. No man embarked on a mission like that without a plan. No man who wanted to live, that was.


The thought stopped her cold. Did Hawk Monroe want to live? During the six months he'd been assigned to her, when she'd listened to him talk of his time in the Army, she'd often wondered if he'd harbored a death wish, but when she'd broached the subject, he'd turned her question into a challenge. What's the matter, sweetness? Worried about me? Wesley, I'm serious. Trust me, doll. You don't want to know what a man like me wishes. The memory washed over her, tightening her throat. For some reason she'd never figured out, the man thrived on playing with fire. He deliberately walked too close to the edge. The bigger the chance, the gamble, the more it appealed. He lived for the adrenaline rush. So far he'd always landed on his feet, but Elizabethknew firsthand you could only tempt fate for so long before the grande dame decided to have some fun. Learning that truth had robbed her of a fundamental piece of herself, a piece she could never get back. Letting out a jagged breath, she winced at the sharp pain in her rib cage. She didn't need a primer. She was grateful for the way he'd skillfully brought the plane down, but that's where she drew the line. There was no room in her life for a man who thrived on coloring outside the lines in big, bold strokes. The man might have a death wish but she did not. A loud crack destroyed the stillness. For a punishing heartbeat she went very still, then lifted the gun and spun around. The fading sunlight practically blinded her. Sharp rays slanted in through the canopy of pine needles, casting an indiscernible army of shadows. They shifted and blurred, merged. She squinted against the optical illusion, her heart slamming so hard she almost missed the gentle coo of a dove. He emerged from behind a massive ponderosa pine, tall, battered, lifting his hands like a hostage taker in surrender after a lengthy standoff. His amber eyes were hard, his shirt torn, his faded jeans covered in mud. "Wesley."His name left her throat in a painful rush. She started toward him, forced herself not to run. She could have shot him. The awareness of how close she'd come staggered her. Alone in the middle of nowhere, there would have been nothing she could do to help him, except hold his hand as he bled to death. "Did you find them?" She forced herself to focus on the matter at hand. Now was not the time, nor was Hawk Monroe the man, for emotion. "The men in the helicopter? Was it Zhukov?" He didn't move, didn't so much as breathe. She stopped inches from him, so close the heat of his body washed against hers. She could see the readiness of him, the animal-like hum of energy. She'd grown used to that, had even found comfort in his readiness. Stillness, however … stillness disturbed in ways she didn't understand. "Wesley? Are you okay?" Slowly he reached out and curled his fingers around the barrel of the Derringer, then lowered it toward


the ground. "Women with guns make me nervous." She couldn't help it. A laugh slipped out all by itself. "I didn't think anything made you nervous." His expression sobered. "You'd be surprised." The invitation dangled, but she refused to accept. The last thing she needed was another Hawk Monroe surprise to distract her. "The helicopter? Were you right? Was it Zhukov?" His eyes met hers, and in those swirling butterscotch depths, shone a glimmer of awareness. He knew. He knew she'd sidestepped his dare, and in doing so she'd somehow stung him once again. "There were three of them," he said flatly. His tone, more than the actual words, chilled. "Were?" He took her hand and led her toward the thicket. "They're no longer a threat." Horror shuddered through her. She glanced at his torn shirt, at the stains she didn't want to identify. "You killed them?" He turned toward her, stood entirely too close. "Would that bother you?" The question tightened around her chest like a vise. HawkMonroewas a dangerous man. She'd always known that. He was a soldier. He was trained to take life with his bare hands. And yet, she'd rarely seen him in commando mode. Most of their time together had been idle, routine. Now the thought of him taking the lives of three men to protect hers lashed against something deep inside. "Life is precious," she said quietly. "Which is exactly why I couldn't let those men get their hands on you. Zhukov wouldn't think twice about using you to torture your father." She swallowed hard. "Is that what they wanted?" He lifted a hand and smoothed the hair from her face. "They wanted you, Elizabeth. Dead or alive. For Zhukov." The rough-hewn words chilled, but she refused to let the reaction show. She didn't want Hawk to feel compelled to comfort her. It was bad enough his fingers lingered against the side of her face, that she absorbed their warmth like a benediction. She didn't need him drawing her into his arms, holding her against his chest. She didn't need to hear the steady thrumming of his heart. "They told you this?" she asked with a calm that would have done her mother proud. "In a roundabout way, yes." Her throat tightened. She didn't want to know exactly how he'd procured the information, nor exactly what Zhukov's men would have done with her. She knew enough about the coward. Because of him, her sister had almost lost her life.


"What now?" she asked. Hawk glanced toward the west, where brilliant slashes of gold and crimson streaked from behind the mountains. "We find somewhere to stay for the night." Soon, darkness would cover the land, and with it, the cold would penetrate more deeply. She'd hoped a search party would find them before she had to spend another night alone with Hawk Monroe. She could barely draw a breath without a white-hot poker of pain searing through her rib cage. Soon he would notice. And then he would insist upon inspecting. "What about their helicopter?" she asked. "Can we use that?" Frowning, he slid his hand from her face to his shoulder, where he rubbed. "Already tried. They must have hidden the keys." "What about the radio?" "Too risky. There's no telling who might intercept our message. Our best bet is to find shelter for the night and wait for a search party." Resolve nudged against a bone deep instinct for self-preservation. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she hugged his jacket to her body and fought the automatic wince. The desire to feelhis arms around her instead made absolutely no sense. Thrill-a-minute Hawk Monroe was the last man she should depend on. At the moment she had no choice. *** "It's not the Airport Inn, but it sure beats the Grizzly Motel." The darkened cave opened beforeElizabeth, small, cool, no bigger than her mother's closet. Neither of them could stand upright, but after more than an hour of hiking through steadily dropping temperatures, the damp rock formation beckoned like a virtual paradise. Each step had sent a spear of pain through her side. She couldn't have gone much farther. Hawk skimmed the light of his kerosene lamp around the rocky room, revealing ledges but no other occupants. "Looks like we'll have it all to ourselves." She dropped the small bag he'd allowed her to carry and slid down against a wall, ignoring the rocks jabbing into her back, the chill oozing through her jeans. "Thank God for small miracles." He settled across from her and reached for his bag. His knees brushed hers. "Personally I was hoping for an abandoned cabin withastocked kitchen and flannel sheets on the beds." Her mouth tilted all by itself. "I was holding out for a chalet." He laughed. "Ah, likeThe Shining."


She thought about kicking him, but it would have taken too much effort. "More likeThe Sound of Music." His lips twitched. "Figures." But this was real life, she reminded herself, and God knew real life never worked out as tidily as the movies. The fact that she had to spend another night with Hawk Monroe bore testimony to that. They couldn't even light a campfire, at the risk of the smoke drawing unwanted attention. They had only the kerosene lamp for light and a small wool blanket for warmth. "Hungry?" He pulled out a plastic sack and dumped its contents between them. Over twelve hours had passed since the fast-food breakfast they'd shared on the way to the airport. Focused on survival, she hadn't thought once about food. Until now. Ravenously she stared at the pile of energy bars and bottles of purified water he'd insisted upon picking up before their flight. The rumble of her stomach echoed through the cave, answering for her. He pushed two of the four bars toward her. "Eat up. You'll need your strength in the morning." She didn't hesitate. She took a bar and peeled back the foil wrapper, bit into the tart lemony taste. Her mouth watered with gratitude. "Aren't you going to have any?" He unscrewed a bottle of water and drank deeply. "Maybe tomorrow." She swallowed the last of the first bar and looked at the second sitting at her feet. "Don't tell me you're not hungry—" "I'm fine." Through the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, she just stared at him. Cuts and dried blood streaked across the wide cheekbones of his brutally handsome face. A nasty bruise had started to form beneath his left eye, as though he'd caught a fist he'd not told her about. His shirt was torn, his jacket around her body. She didn't want him sacrificing for her, damn it. She didn't want him blurring the lines like that. "Don't be ridiculous, you have to eat." A strange light glinted in his eyes. "I'm trained for situations like this. I've gone days without food. You haven't." Her throat tightened. She knew he spoke the truth, but hated the reality he'd lived. "Just because you've done it before doesn't mean you have to do it again. We have food. I don't need all of it. You know you want to eat." He stretched out his long legs. "Ellie, Ellie, Ellie. I want a lot of things, that doesn't mean they're right or smart or that they should happen. Don't tell me you haven't realized that by now." She stiffened, but could do nothing about the memory. The images flashed sharp and hard and vivid, sending her heart into a low thrum. Vividly she saw Hawk standing on the stage of the smoky, dimly lit bar, doing a mean Mick Jagger impersonation. The crushed-velvet voice of his had seemed directed


solely at her as he'd sung of not getting what he wanted. He'd gotten what he wanted that night, all right. Sometimes she still couldn't fathom how she'd lost control so completely. Alcohol, she wanted to think, but knew one beer was not enough to make her throw inhibitions aside and treat Wesley to a dose of his own medicine. A woman didn't need beer or wine or even whiskey around Hawk Monroe. He emitted his own elixir, and onceElizabethhad succumbed to curiosity enough to sip, the thirst had consumed her. For seven mind-blowing hours. She looked at him now, sitting not two feet away, and imagined she could feel the warmth of his body roll over her. "This isn't about wanting," she said quietly. Because he was right. Wanting was a surefire prescription for disaster. "It's about survival," she reasoned, knowing the exact angle to play. "Zhukov could have more men out there—" "Fine," he bit out, grabbing a bar and ripping off the wrapper. He shoved half of it in his mouth and chewed thoroughly, then polished off the remainder. "There. Is that better?" She smiled. "Much." His scowl deepened. "Zhukov's men are not going to lay one hand on you." The fierce words sent an unwanted sensation twirling through her. She'd played dirty by dragging his job into the argument, but she'd known that was the only way to break through his stubborn self-sacrifice. "I know," she said softly. Something hard and knowing flashed in his eyes. He looked away abruptly and retrieved the first-aid kit. "Where does it hurt?" The question caught her off guard. She looked at him sitting mere feet from her, the resolve in his eyes, the medical supplies in his hands. "I'm fine." "No, you're not," he said, crawling toward her. "You think I don't see the way you wince when you breathe? Yon think I don't hear that catch in your breath when you think I'm not listening?" Her heart started to pound, hard. "It's just a bruise." "Let me see." There was a hard note to his voice, one that made it clear he meant what he said. And yet she didn't move. "It's no big deal." "I'll be the judge of that." Frustration pushed through her. Unease raced closely behind. To show him where it hurt, she'd have to lift her shirt, exposing the flesh below her bra. "Really, Wesley, I'm serious. It's no big deal. Why don't you let me clean up the scratches on your face instead?"


"After."He reached for his jacket, still secured around her body, and fumbled with the bottom button. "It's your ribs, isn't it?" He slid the zipper down between them. "Are they broken?" Elizabethswallowed hard. "No," she managed. "Just bruised." He reached for the hem of her sweatshirt and pulled it up, winced. "Holy God." Cool air rushed against exposed flesh. "Please." The word skidded from a throat gone dry. "Don't." Hawk went absolutely still. Absolutely, horribly still. He lifted his eyes to hers, revealing a slow burn like nothing she'd ever seen. Then he swore softly. "What kind of man do you think I am,Elizabeth?" He released the fabric of her shirt, let it fall against her body. "You think I can't touch you without it being sexual? You think I'm going to turn broken ribs into some kind of fumbling pass in the dark?" Regret burned her throat. "No." The word came out hard, emphatic. "That's not it." Not entirely. She didn't want his hands on her, that was true. But not because she thought he would touch her inappropriately or try to take advantage of her. She didn't want his hands on her because she didn't want to feel his warm callused flesh against her stomach, the gentle movement of his fingers. "Then what?" he demanded. There was no easy way out, no easy answer. "There's nothing you can do," she hedged, knowing good and well that wasn't true. There was a lot Hawk Monroe could do. "Let me be the judge of that," he said roughly. "Broken ribs are not something to take lightly. They could puncture a lung." "They're not broken." His gaze darkened. "I hope you're right, but there's only one way to know for sure." He lifted his hands palm up. "Let me make sure, Ellie. Let me touch you." She eyed his hands, the wide, square palms and strong competent fingers. She remembered those hands, knew just how capable they were. She also knew the truth. She wasn't afraid of him touching her. She was afraid of not wanting him to stop. Slowly she looked up and met his eyes. "Okay." "I'll be gentle," he promised. "Scout's honor." Her mouth went dry. Conventional wisdom would have said a man like Hawk Monroe could not be gentle, butElizabethknew that wasn't true. The second time they'd made love, he'd given new, excruciating meaning to the word gentle. Lowering his gaze, he slowly lifted the hem of her sweatshirt, revealing the pale flesh of her stomach. She held her breath as the fleece rose higher, not sure what she was waiting for but unable to relax. He lifted the shirt to her chest, stopping just shy of baring her breasts. They tightened when he pressed his forearm against them to hold the shirt in place. But true to his word, there was nothing sexual about the intimate contact.


Elizabethlet out a slow breath, felt herself wince. Hawk glanced at her. "Did that hurt?" Her mouth had gone so dry she could barely form words."No." He returned his focus to her stomach, lifting a hand to her rib cage. She braced herself for contact, maybe even a blast of chill, but this was Hawk, she realized the second his hands slid against her body. His touch delivered only heat. And yet she shivered. "Is this okay?" he asked, easing a hand to the right of her rib cage. "Not too much pressure?" Her heart hammered so hard she thought for sure he could feel the rhythm. "Not too much." "Good." He slid his fingers to circle her side. "Here, hold this," he said, motioning to the bulk of her sweatshirt, which he still held against her chest. Elizabeth took over holding her shirt up for him, allowing him to inspect her rib cage with both hands. She tried to concentrate on the shadows dancing against the walls of the cave, cast by the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, on the sounds of the night beyond, the occasional screech of an owl or howl or a wolf, onanything other than the sight of Hawk's big hands cruising along the bare flesh of her body. He pressed a tender spot midway down her left side. "What about this?" She cried out before she could stop herself. "That's it." White spots clouded her vision. "That's where it hurts." The warmth of his breath feathered against her stomach. "It's dislocated," he assessed, pressing gently against the tender spot. He looked up and frowned. "This might hurt." She nodded, bit down on her lip. "That's okay." "Here." He brought the bulk of his leather jacket toward her face. "Bite down on this so you don't scream." She did as he instructed without hesitation, having no desire to let Hawk Monroe make her scream. Again. "Ready?" he asked. She nodded. "Okay. Deep breath in," he instructed, sliding his fingers into place. "Now let it out slowly." The spear of pain streaked through her like an arrow. She bit down hard on his jacket, muting the animalistic cry that burned her throat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, gathering her against his chest. He cradled her tenderly, rocked her


gently. "It's okay now." She sagged against him, reluctant to risk another breath. The spots crowding her vision faded, leaving the feel of his arms around her, his hands skimming along her back. "You have to breathe, Ellie." But she didn't want to, wasn't sure she could. Not when he held her like this, when a breath brought the risk of stabbing pain and the certainty of carrying his scent deep inside her. And yet she had no choice. Very slowly she eased in a breath of cool mountain air and braced herself for the sear of pain. Nothing. She hesitated, then with equal care, exhaled. Nothing. Hawk pulled back and lifted a hand to her face. "Better?" "Yes," she whispered, trying not to lose herself in those hot, burning eyes of his. Her body was still pressed to his, her sweatshirt still bunched around her breasts, his hand cruising the bare skin of her lower back. "It doesn't hurt anymore." Liar. His gaze darkened. "Good." He slid his thumb to her mouth. "Sometimes pain has to get worse before it gets better." Emotion scratched her throat. She drank in the feel of his hands on her body, the intensity in his gaze. Dark blond hair fell against his wide cheekbones, bringing her attention to a series of nasty scratches in the hollow of his cheek. "Let me help you, too, Hawk. I can make it better for you, also." She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't for him to swear softly and pull back. Before her heart could beat, he tore away, put as much distance between them as the cramped cave allowed. "You can't help me, sweetness. Trust me on that one." Chapter 6 «^» Something deep insideElizabethresponded to the hard edge in his voice, the automatic defense that kept the world at bay. Once, she'd tried to strip away the roughness, the crudeness, to find the man inside. What she'd discovered had rocked the foundation of her world. He was right. She couldn't help him, not in any way that mattered, not without losing herself, the life she'd carved out for herself, in the process. "Your face," she said, steering the conversation to safe ground. "I wanted to clean the cuts."


He held her gaze for a long, charged moment. "Of course you did," he said quietly. "Anything else would be too messy." The words stung. Denial vaulted through her, but she refused to defend herself to this man. He didn't understand her, never had. He preferred to judge. "I can handle more than you think I can," she tossed back.Had handled. "Just because I grew up a Carrington doesn't mean my life has been all fluff." And just because she didn't rant or unravel or lose control didn't mean she didn't hurt. Part of her would never recover from burying her older sister. That brilliant winter morning would live inside her forever, when she'd put a bouquet of wilted daisies into her sister's hand … and watched the funeral director close the coffin. "I know how much you can handle, Ellie. That was never our problem." Deep inside, something shifted. She looked at him sprawled against the wall of the cave, with the kerosene lamp casting shadows across his face and awareness glowing in his eyes. She didn't know how he did it, how he twisted a simple conversation into something dark and complex and completely futile. "No," she admitted. "That was never our problem." Then, because he wouldn't stop watching her, she brushed away all those nasty emotions that served no purpose other than to complicate reality, and reached for the first-aid kit. "I'll need that bottle of water, too." He laughed softly but didn't sound the least bit happy. "Just wash it all away, is that the plan?" Gritting her teeth, she fished out a package of gauze and fleetingly wished for a bottle of sleeping pills. That's how Miranda had solved a problem with Sandro during their race across the Portuguese countryside. The thought of rendering Hawk silent for the rest of the night held a certain wicked appeal. But of course she knew better than to tempt fate. Zhukov could still have men out there. No matter how uncomfortable Hawk made her, she wasn't foolish enough to risk their lives. "Letting it fester won't do either of us any good," she said instead. A brittle sound broke from Hawk's throat. "No, it won't." The cave was small and dark, with only the one entrance. Frigid air spilled in from the rocky area beyond, but without the benefit of circulation,Elizabethfelt only the heat of Hawk's gaze, the tension of his challenge. She scooted closer and poured a small amount of water on a gauze pad, then lifted it to his face. "Let me know if I hurt you." "Why? Will you stop?" She kept her movements brisk and efficient, concentrating on cleaning the cuts along his jaw and not the warmth of his skin. "Not if I think it's for the best," she said. "But I could be more gentle." The planes of his face tightened. "Gentle is highly overrated." Curiosity screamed through her, but she tempered it with caution. Tomorrow they would part. If she was lucky, their paths would not cross again. She'd talk to her father, let him know her preference. She didn't need more memories of Hawk Monroe to take with her. God knew she already had enough. She didn't


need to know why he thought gentleness was highly overrated, to know who or what had hurt him so. Silence spun out between them. She kept at her task, switching from water to astringent, but his stony expression never changed. He didn't wince, didn't relax. He just sat there with that dark blond hair falling against his wide cheekbones, his jaw clenched, and stared beyond her to the far side of the cave. It was the stillness that got her. At least when Hawk spoke or moved, she knew his intent. And when she knew, she could protect. Deciding none of the cuts required bandages, she rocked back on her heels and packed away the medical supplies. "Do you think they're looking for us?" He turned to look at her. "Your family would move heaven and earth to find you. You know that." Yes, she did know that, but she also knew plane crashes rarely yielded survivors. Her mother and father would have received the news hours ago. Maybe they were even on their way to the States. To bury a second daughter. "Ellie?" She looked up through a sheen of tears, fought back the emotion drowning her heart. He took her hand and squeezed. "They're going to find us." She swallowed, nodded. "But until then, my family will think we're dead." The thought devastated. Finally, at last, Hawk's expression softened. The hard look faded from his eyes, replaced by a glimmer of compassion that beckoned like a lifeline. "Elizabeth. Your father isn't a man to jump to conclusions." "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 thanElizabeth, 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.Elizabethhad 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 whileElizabethhad 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 wasElizabeth'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."Elizabethwould 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,"Elizabethrecalled. 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.'"Elizabethpaused, 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. Elizabethgrinned. 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?" Elizabethsqueezed 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 throughElizabeth. 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. ButElizabethhad never been the starry-eyed dreamer in the family. That was Miranda.Elizabethdealt 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 likeIceland." 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." Elizabethjust 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 hadElizabethalone, 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?" Itwas 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." Lantern-cast shadows played across her face, emphasizing dark circles beneath her eyes. "You sound like my therapist." He wondered if she realized what she'd just let slip, why she needed professional help. But he didn't ask. "I'm a man of many talents, remember?" That got signs of life from her. A shot of color returned to her face, light to her eyes. "So was Davy Crockett, but look where that landed him."


He fought the instant grin. "You comparing me to a national hero?" More life, this time a whisper of heat beneath his fingertips. "What do you think?" "I think you're trying to change the subject," he said. "I think you're afraid to tell me what happened." And he wanted to know why. Instinct told him whatever she held locked inside was important, a piece of the enigmatic puzzle he'd never been able to put his hands on. She looked away, toward the mouth of the cave, but didn't pull away, remained tucked against his side. Against his leg, one of her hands opened. "She was a senior at theUniversityofVirginia," she said in a voice that reminded him of the Lear's mechanical warning that had begged him to "pull up, pull up!" "I was a sophomore. We'd just returned from Christmas break." From the toasty confines of the Carrington ancestral home. Hawk had already been in the Army for two years, stationed in Kosovo and sharing drafty, cramped barracks, with absolutely no knowledge that his mother had just been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. "We'd only been back a few days when a blue norther slammed into the East Coast and dumped record amounts of snow. The whole campus turned into a winter wonderland." Long-forgotten images clattered through him, of the rare snow days of his youth. He'd never known his father, but his mother had done her best to be both parents to her only child. She'd bundled up her son and taken him to a hilly park west of town, where the sledding had been killer. After hours of play, they'd always built a G.I. Joe snowman before heading home. Frowning, Hawk shoved the mushroom cloud of memory aside. "It was a Tuesday," Ellie went on, "the night Kris and I always met for dinner. But classes had been canceled and the whole day blurred." A day without structure, he thought, but did not say. Normally he didn't miss a chance to razz Ellie about her strict adherence to plans and protocol, but the trance-like tone to her voice warned him now was not the time. "I loved days like that," he said instead. When he'd been a kid, a day without the litany of chores and reminders had been a gift. A faint smile curved Ellie's mouth. Her lips were no longer the pale shade of blue that had alarmed him, but instead a hint of coral gave them life. "So did I. Miranda and I could lose a whole day playing in the snow, making snow angels and castles." "And Kristina?" The soft sound that broke from Ellie's throat could only be called nostalgia. "She was always too busy, working on an assignment for school or a project for Dad." Hawk shifted against the wall of the cave, ignoring the bite of cold against his back and his hamstrings as he allowedElizabethto sink deeper against him. He doubted she realized she no longer fought him.


Slowly he stroked a hand along her back. "That doesn't surprise me." From the stories he'd heard, Kristina Carrington had been fierce and driven and unyielding, rarely taking time to stop and smell the roses. She'd followed her father's plan for her, going so far as to date the son of his best friend, a wealthy Richmondbanker. There'd been talk of a new dynasty in the making. "She could be such a drag,"Elizabethsaid with a richVirginiadrawl sliding into her voice. "We always teased her about being no fun." The bittersweet words slammed through Hawk. And for the first time, he began to see a different picture of Elizabeth, one of a young girl torn between her picture-perfect older sister and her free-spirited younger sister. From what she'd told him tonight, she'd leaned more toward Miranda than Kristina. But somewhere along the line that had changed. Somewhere along the lineElizabethhad turned her back on mischief and embraced structure. Instinct warned that snowy day in January eleven years before had a hell of a lot to do with the change. He knew better than to let himself be drawn back into her world. He knew better than to hold her, listen to her, let his fingers drift through her hair. This was the woman who'd agreed to marry another man just six days after sharing Hawk's bed, and he'd long since quit believing fundamental truths changed. Trying the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different outcome was truly the definition of insanity. Pull back,the detached survivor in him warned.Pull back now. And yet he couldn't force himself to move. "What happened, Ellie? What happened the day classes were canceled?" Nestled in the V of his legs, she stiffened. "I … I called her in the morning to see if she wanted to go sledding with me and the guy I'd been dating, Shane, but Kris said she had a paper to work on. I…" She paused, dug her fingers into his thigh. "I was hurt. I don't know why, but I took her decision personally and I … told her." Hawk winced. He had a bad, bad feeling he knew where this conversation was going. He'd always thanked God that while he'd been unable to be with his mother when she drew her last breath, at least the last time he'd talked with her, the morning he'd received word that her condition was deteriorating and that he should get back to the States immediately, he'd told her he loved her. "The two of you argued?" he asked carefully. Elizabethshook her head, sending long sable hair drifting across his chest. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to twine the strands through his fingers. "Kris had this way about her," she said, staring into the light of the lantern. "She didn't argue. She simply made her point, and that was that." Shadows flitted across the hollows of her face, fueling the urge to touch. But he didn't. This, he knew, was something she needed to do on her own terms. "And what was her point?" Against his thigh, her fingers pushed harder, deeper. And when she spoke, the edge to her voice bordered on devastation. "That life wasn't all fun and games. That some day, when I grew up, I'd realize


that." Abort, abort, abort!The command rang through him, loudly, fiercely, warning of the bedrock ahead. But Hawk had never been one to obey orders. "Ouch," he said softly. Damn it, to hell with caution, he thought as he slid a hand along her back to tangle in her hair. "Did you go sledding, anyway?" "Yes," she said slowly. "We did." Kristina Carrington died in a car accident, that much Hawk knew. He could see the sisters had not been on good terms at the time of her death, but the rigid feel of Elizabeth's body against his told him there was more. "What happened, Ellie? Tell me." Beyond the confines of the cave, the night had grown quiet. The wind barely whispered through the opening in the rock. Whatever fox or coyote had howled earlier had moved on, leaving only the two of them and shadows of the past. "Every Tuesday Kris and I met for dinner, but that day I forgot. Just the day before she'd told me she really needed to talk with me about something, but after the way we'd argued, I totally forgot. Shane and I had such a good time sledding, and then we went back to his place for hot cocoa. We were laughing and everything seemed so perfect and—" She bit back the words and lifted a hand to her face. A bad, bad feeling settled low in his gut. Gently he pulled away her hand and tilted her face toward his. "And what?" Chapter 7 «^» Elizabethstared at him long and hard before answering. A fierce light burned in her eyes. "Shane was my first," she said. "That night was my first." Oh, sweet mercy. She'd lost her virginity the night her sister died. No matter what he felt toward Elizabeth, no matter how bulletproof his determination to never let her under his skin again, the realization sank through him like a lead weight. "It wasn't your fault," he said grimly. "Kristina's death had nothing to do with what you did that night." "But it did!" She ripped away from him and wrapped her arms around her middle. "She got worried when I didn't show for dinner. She called my apartment, but I wasn't there. That was before everyone had cell phones. She left a message on my answering machine saying she was worried and was going to drive out to the park, to see if something had happened." Hawk squeezed his eyes shut. Because finally, at last, he realized the truth. The reason the Carringtons didn't talk of the night their oldest daughter died. "Christ, I'm sorry," he said, opening his eyes. The words sounded lame even to his own ears.


"Black ice," she murmured. "They say she died instantly." Hawk couldn't help it. He couldn't sit there sprawled against the wall of the cave whileElizabethfell apart in front of him. He crawled toward her and pulled her back to his body, held her tight. For the first time in two years, the way she'd walked away didn't matter. "It wasn't your fault," he insisted, stabbing his hands into her hair. He was a soldier, a man trained to fight. To protect. He could infiltrate an enemy compound in broad daylight, keep his gaze steady when an assassin held a gun to his head. The wordhelpless didn't exist in his vocabulary. But here, now, seeing the woman he'd always thought of as invincible like this, hearing the jagged edge to her breathing and feeling the complete lack of fight in her body, ripped at him in ways he didn't understand. Never once had he imagined the hell in which perfect Elizabeth Carrington lived. Every instinct he owned screamed to fix this somehow, make her understand the truth. He pulled back and gripped her upper arms, spoke with deliberate firmness. "It wasnot your fault." She looked up at him, revealing eyes huge and dark and devastated, brimming with a vulnerability he'd never seen from her, hadn't imagined possible. "How can you say that?" "Because it's true." Damp sable hair fell against her cheeks. "If I hadn't been with Shane, if I'd remembered our dinner, she'd still be alive." It was an awful kind of logic, the kind that gnawed relentlessly at the soul, growing stronger rather than weaker with the passage of time. Mom, you've lost too much weight. You need to see a doctor. Wesley. A woman doesn't complain when she loses weight. She celebrates. Mom— Quit arguing. Take the money and buy yourself those new boots you've been eyeing. His mother had always put her son first. In the end her refusal to tend her own needs, to listen to him, had killed her. "You don't know that," he said roughly. With both hands he framed her face, refusing to let her look away from him. "None of us is God. It's not for us to say what might have or could have been different." The hypocrisy of his words burned, but there was no way he could sit there and letElizabethblame herself for her sister's death. "All we can do is accept." "She wouldn't have been on that road if not for me." There was no way to refute her claim, so he didn't even try. "Elizabeth." He rubbed his thumbs beneath her lashes, brushing away the tears. "If Ethan had been taking Kristina to dinner, and a drunk driver had run a red light and broad-sided him, killing Kris, would you have blamed him?"


Beyond the cave, the wind had picked up, pushing frigid air through the narrow rocky opening. Even he, who normally loved cold temperatures, felt the bite of the chill. But he didn't pullElizabethclose as he wanted to. His question, the force behind it, wasn't about comfort. It was about truth, and the two rarely went hand in hand. No matter how strong his determination to keep Elizabeth Carrington at an emotional arm's distance, this was one battle from which some stupid, battered code of personal integrity would not let him walk away. After, he told himself. After he forced her to see this truth, he would force her to confront another. And then, then he would walk away. "Would you?" he asked again. Temper flashed. "It's not the same thing." "Answer me," he said firmly, refusing to let her derail the conversation. "Would you blame your brother for an accident beyond his control?" She let out a deep, uneven breath. "No." The word was soft, but it echoed between them. The admission cost her, he could tell. He could also tell the scars on her heart would never be erased. "It wasn't your fault, either," he said. "Bad things happen. The weak crumble. The strong keep moving forward." Because his thumbs itched to stroke the length of her cheekbones, he pulled his hands from her face. "No one asks us what road we want to walk." God knew no one had asked him. "All we can do is choosehow we walk it." A stubborn light flashed in her eyes, telling him he'd hit pay dirt. Elizabeth Carrington was many things, but weak was not one of them. "All my life I've tried to fix things," she said in an oddly remote voice. "Ethan's piggy bank that broke during a game of hide-and-seek, the wing of a baby blue jay Mira found in the backyard." She hesitated. "But this…"she said raggedly. "I can'tfix this." And slowly but surely that truth was killing her. The urge to yank her back into his arms almost knocked him over. Instead he sat there, very quiet, very still, while the truth nudged at him with surprising force.Elizabethcouldn't fix the past, so instead she'd fixed the future. She'd drawn her life into such a rigid box, maintained such incredible control, that there would never be anything to fix, because there was no room for anything to break. Certainly not her heart. "Some things can't be fixed," he said more roughly than he'd intended. Promises were broken. Dreams shattered. People died. That was just life. "All you can do is accept. You can't spend the rest of your life beating yourself up." Her chin came up. "I know that," she said. "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't give anything to take away the pain. My father…" Her voice trailed off. "My God. I never knew a grown man could fall apart like that. And Nicholas…" Nicholas.The name slammed in like a rockslide, blocking the light and preventing exit. He felt himself stiffen, felt himself pull away, physically, mentally and every other way possible. All that stupid tenderness he'd felt hardened into the jagged edges he'd never learned to live with.


Nicholas. The man Elizabeth had turned to after rolling from Hawk's bed. He wondered if she realized this was the first time she'd brought up his name since the plane went down. She kept right on talking, though, as though the Nicholas of eleven years ago, the one who'd dated her sister, was not the same man whose marriage proposal she'd accepted while she still had marks of passion on her body from another man. "They'd broken up before Christmas, but just because he'd realized he wasn't in love with her didn't mean he didn't care." Yeah, right. Automatically Hawk's hands curled into fists. He knew damn good and well what Nicholas Ferreday cared about, and it wasn't a woman's feelings. "How long did they date?" A bitter taste swarmed his mouth. "Off and on for years. Our dads were best friends. From the time we were little, they talked about how wonderful it would be if their children married." Deep inside, those hard edges splintered. He'd picked up enough to know Elizabeth had harbored a crush on the older, sophisticated Nicholas, as though he was some dashing prince in a fairy tale, dreaming he would some day see beyond her perfect sister to her, sweep her off her feet, and together they would live happily ever after. Personally, he'd never understood the appeal of the Cinderella fantasy. Tragedy made strange bedfellows, he'd once heard. Lines blurred, vanished altogether. People turned to each other in grief as they wouldn't have in joy or passion, he knew that, but Elizabeth and Nicholas's relationship had always made him uneasy. "It's better not to look too far into the future." If you didn't have plans, hopes, they couldn't be broken. The thrill of the moment offered far more satisfaction. And in this moment he didn't want to waste one breath on Nicholas Ferreday. The urge to stand, to pace, to move, to do something,anything physical, grated at him. The walls of the cave kept pushing closer, closer, hemming him in like a foxhole. "Don't worry so much about your father, Elizabeth. He sent me to you for a reason." He'd go outside soon, he told himself. Survey the perimeter. Make sure he saw no signs of campfire in the distance. "And contrary to what you might think," he added as lightly as he could, "it's not to torture us both." Even if every second he spent with her, looked into her smoky eyes or breathed of her, felt like just that. "Until he has proof otherwise, he's not going to let himself believe the worst. I have a knack for defying the odds. Your father knows that." For a long moment she said nothing, did nothing, just sat there dwarfed by his bomber jacket and tracing circles against the floor of the cave, as though she'd not heard a word he said. Then she looked up and blew his mind. "You're right." That was the only warning he got. He tried to retreat, reached for his Glock, realized too late he'd turned the conversation to himself. "I'd better do a quick check outside," he said, turning toward the mouth of the cave. A welcome blast of frigid air swirled toward him like open arms. "Holler f—"


"Wesley." Just his name, that was all she said. But the way she said it, in that slow, honeyed, Southern drawl, stopped him cold. He didn't turn to her, though. Didn't want to see the shadows playing across her face. "I never thanked you for helping rescue Miranda." Forafrozen second he did nothing, said nothing. He didn't trust himself to react. Instead he just hung there, crouched between the aftermath of her words and the invitation of the cold night beyond. Instinct demanded he keep right on going, out of the cave and into the darkness, but something else, something he didn't want to name, wouldn't let him leave. Slowly he turned toward her, kept his face as hard and unyielding as the rock surrounding them. "I was just doing my job." No longer did Elizabeth draw stick figures in the dirt. No longer did she look away, anywhere but into his eyes. She sat straight, toward the far wall of the dimly lit cave, with her shoulders straight and her chin high. The oddest light glowed in her gaze. "You helped save my sister's life," she said with the same cadence she'd used the night before when praising the medical professionals dedicated to cancer research. "You were shot in the process. You could have died." He stiffened, much as he had when the bullet had slammed into him, ripping flesh and tearing muscle. His jaw tightened against the blast of shock. He didn't want her gratitude, damn it. No matter how many nights he'd lain awake in his hospital bed, cursing her for not bothering to contact him, he didn't want the meaningless sentiment now. "Comes with the territory." No way would he let his hand drift to his shoulder, which picked the worst times to throb. A soft smile curved her mouth. "I'll bet your mother just loves hearing you talk like that." The zingers just kept coming, one after the other. The second she'd spoken his name he should have liberated himself to the night. "She doesn't hear me," he said with a gruffness he didn't try to polish. "She's dead." Elizabeth's perfect mouth tumbled open, simultaneous with a flare to her eyes. "I'm so sorry," she said, and true to her impeccable breeding, sounded like she meant it. "I didn't know." No, she hadn't, because she'd never asked for personal information and he'd never volunteered. He knew better than to hand a loaded gun to someone who wanted to use it. He'd learned to keep his private life private, and while he and Elizabeth had shared one night of mind-blowing sex, they'd never traded secrets. Compassion welled in her eyes, but before she could voice it, he did his best to disarm. "She'd been sick for a while," he said. "I like knowing she's not in pain anymore." "And you?"


Cold night air seduced from just beyond the cave. "And me what?" "Are you still in pain?" He lifted a hand and rubbed beneath his left shoulder. "Life goes on," he said. "There's really no choice." "Pain or no pain," she whispered. A hard sound broke from his throat. "Pain or no pain." *** For a long momentElizabethsaid nothing. For a long moment there was nothing to say. Hawk had been on his way out, she knew. The second he'd sensed the tide turning, he'd tried to jump ship. Now he stared at her from his encampment by the misshapen rock that led to the world beyond, his eyes narrow, his face a study of hard lines and soft shadows. Dark blond hair fell against his cheekbones in that slightly messy, wholly reckless manner that made her fingers itch to brush the strands back. Fascination and curiosity did a dangerous dance inside her. During their time together, Hawk had sidestepped any kind of meaningful conversation with the same reliability that Miranda avoided protocol and Ethan demanded facts. Now, though, now they were alone in the middle of nowhere and the wounded-animal look in his eyes wouldn't let her back down. "What about your father?" she asked. His mouth flattened into a hard line. "It's late," he clipped, turning toward the darkness gaping beyond the cave. "You get some sleep and I'll make sure everything's secure." Elizabethbit back the smile that wanted to form. "Now who's uncomfortable?" He swung toward her. "Come again?" "Last night you accused me of being uncomfortable sharing a room with you." She paused, met his eyes with her own. No way was she letting him off the hook. "But I'm not the one trying to run away now, am I?" He shoved the hair back off his face. "You think I'm running?" She settled against the wall of the cave, grateful the thickness of his leather jacket absorbed the sting of the cold. "Looks that way to me." He swore softly. "I'm trying to do my job." "You're avoiding my questions," she corrected. She'd always thought of Hawk Monroe as tough and invincible, unaffected by the world, the people, around him. Now she had to wonder. Curious, she pushed harder. "You only want to play when it's by your rules."


His scowl was almost comical. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" It was like fishing, she decided. Bait the hook, reel them in. Her grandpappy had taught her that. Of course, Grandfather Carrington, esteemedUnited Statessenator, had fished for far more tricky prey than the occasional bass or trout. "As long as you were the one doling out the questions," she said slowly, pointedly, letting the words roll off her tongue for full effect, "all was fine and you were in control. Now it doesn't feel so good, though, does it?" "I'm not afraid to answer your questions." With a pointed smile, she simply lifted a brow, and waited. His glare turned lethal. Seconds dragged into minutes, minutes into the inevitable. This was one challenge she was not going to lose. On a particularly brutal blast of cold from beyond the rocky opening, Hawk edged closer and leaned against the wall. She could tell he wanted to pace, was going stir-crazy because the cave hemmed him in. He was a man of wide-open spaces. He never stood still. She could practically see the energy buzzing around him. He picked up a handful of rocks. "Okay, you win, dear heart. I'm all yours. What juicy secrets would you like to know?" She just barely managed not to laugh, and that surprised her. Last night someone had tried to kill her. Today, her plane had been sabotaged. They were stranded, maybe presumed dead. A damp chill permeated the cave, but for the moment none of that mattered. She had Hawk's back against the wall, and for a change, it felt good. "Your father?" she asked. "Died inVietnam," he answered like a game-show contestant. "Never met him." She absorbed the revelation, noted the complete lack of emotion in his voice. "That's got to have been hard." He tossed a pebble to the ground. "Mom and I did okay." "Brothers or sisters?" Somehow she didn't think so. Hawk had always struck her as a loner. "Not that I ever knew." "Not that you knew?" The answer struck her as odd. "Did your mom give up a child for adoption?" He winced. "God, no." Finally, she thought. Emotion. "Mom was born to be a mother," he added after a hard silence. "She had a difficult time staying pregnant. I was her third pregnancy, discovered a month after Dad left for 'Nam. After she died, I—" He paused, turned inward. "I found a birth certificate for a brother I never knew. Born the same day as me."


Be careful what you fish for, her grandfather had warned. If you explore unfamiliar waters, you might find something you don't know how to handle. "A twin?" The word scraped against emotion on the way out. Hawk tossed another rock, this one against the far wall. Of course, it wasn't that far. "Also found his death certificate." Elizabethcringed. "Oh, my God." No wonder Hawk had struck her as a man alone. "She never told you?" "Not a word." And her silence had hurt him, that she could tell. But his mother was gone now, and he could never ask her why. "I can't imagine what I would do if anything ever happened to Eth," she said, drawing a hand to her heart. "It's like he's the other part of me. We've always known exactly what the other is saying or thinking without having to say a word." Hawk just shrugged. "It's hard to miss something you never had." She didn't entirely believe that, but chose not to argue the point. Not now, anyway. "You do miss your mother, though. I can see it in your eyes." She expected him to shutter away the emotion, but his gaze remained naked for a change, unguarded. "She was a special lady." The smile touched her lips so naturally, she didn't try to fight it. A single mother raising a hellion like Hawk Monroe. The woman must have been a saint. "What?" Hawk demanded. She saw no harm in speaking the truth. "I'll bet you were a handful to raise." His smile was slow, naughty, completely breathtaking. "Nah, that didn't happen until later." Deliberately, Elizabeth pulled in a deep breath and ignored the voice of caution growing louder by the heartbeat, the one that warned her to end this conversation. Now. "Tell me," she said, reaching for her bottle of water. "Tell you what?" She unscrewed the lid and took a slow swallow, careful to leave some for the morning. "About your life. Your mother. Growing up." Hawk muttered something under his breath. "Twelve." She blinked. "What?" "My shoe size," he said. "I figured it was only a matter of time before you demanded that, too."


The rush of heat almost had her unzipping his bomber jacket. She glanced at his dusty boots, hisbig dusty boots, and wondered how in the world the man could turn a conversation that fast. The memory assaulted her freely, wholly, of his big bare feet. You know what they say about the size of— She broke off Miranda's giggled comment before the memory could consume her. Yes, she knew what they said. She also knew it was true. "Growing up," she said, all business. The cave was dark. No way could the man see the flush that swept up her neck. "Your life." He knew, though. He knew, because somehow he'd deliberately backed her into that corner. The purely amused, purely masculine laughter in his eyes told her that. "It all started on a dark snowy night," he said, hunkering down across from her. He sprawled against the wall, letting his long legs fall open. "My parents forgot to use protection and—" She kicked him. Before she even realized her intent, she'd rammed the toe of her tennis shoes against his shin. "Behave." The gleam in his eyes turned wicked. "Come on, Ellie. Lighten up. It's much more fun to be naughty." In the moment, maybe. But later, after, that's when consequence stripped away pleasure, leaving only pain. "I'm not trying to be fun." His smile faded, from his eyes and his mouth. "Maybe you should." More heat, coiling around more places. "My rules now," she said. "You've already had your turn." The second the words left her mouth, she realized how they sounded. "Tonight," she clarified. "You had your turn tonight, and you chose to spend it playing twenty questions." Thank God. "Now it's my turn." He held her gaze a moment, then let his dip from her face down her body, slowly, thoroughly, like he'd once done with his hands. And his mouth. "You sure twenty questions is all you want, sweetness? It's cold outside. Maybe you'd like to find some way to stay warm instead?" This, she thought. This was why the two of them could never spend more than fifteen minutes alone without going for each other's throats. She knew what he was doing, the control he was trying to regain. He wanted to distract her. Infuriate her. Shut her down. Tonight, it wasn't going to work. "I'm plenty warm," she said, then mentally cringed. It was freezing cold outside, with a howling wind that gusted stronger by the minute. If she was warm, it could only be for one reason, and the gleam in his eyes told her he knew the reason. "I'd rather have your life, thank you." Silence then, as the statement she'd meant flippantly wobbled between them. "Your life story," she clarified.


"Ah, yes," he said, and she could tell he worked hard not to laugh. "Of course." But first, he nudged a booted foot against hers. "There's a price, though." Well-worn leather and brand-new canvas separated their feet, but the rush of contact ran up her leg. "I've already paid." This time he did laugh. "I'm talking about now," he clarified. "What's done is done, doesn't matter anymore." "I told you about Kristina," she reminded. Maybe that had seemed inconsequential to him, but she'd never talked of Kristina's death before, not even with Nicholas. She couldn't figure out how Hawk had barged through the barriers. "I want a dance." AndElizabethwanted to strangle— A dance. The word caught up with her, landed deep, jammed the breath in her throat. Her heart rate revved up a notch. A trained special forces operative, the man knew how to move in for the kill without a sliver of warning. He leaned against the cave wall, one leg cocked at the knee and the other stretched before him, drumming his fingers against his denim-covered thigh like he hadn't a care in the world. But his eyes … his eyes glowed with a predatory intensity that set her blood on fire. Chapter 8 «^» "We can't even stand up in here," she pointed out. Hawk glanced around the small dark cavern, toward the darkness beyond, at her. "Not tonight," he said, his gaze skimming her face like his fingers had two years before. "At the charity auction." She just stared at him. Her family hosted the auction every year, a stuffy, black-tie affair designed to raise money for cancer research. He would be there, of course. He would be there if they made it to Richmondand Zhukov remained at large. That would be his job, to protect the Carrington family. HawkMonroeand tuxedos went together about as well as grizzly bears and tea parties. "The choice is yours," he said in that low, crushed-velvet voice he could slip into with damning ease. "Fair is fair. I'll give you what you want, but you have to give me what I want." The memory assaulted her, slowly, fully, hotly. They'd danced that night, in public and in private. As long as she lived, she didn't think she'd ever forget the surprise that had flashed in his eyes when she'd taken him up on his dare, determined to prove she wasn't the uptight, spoiled, scaredy-cat he said she was. The leather pants she'd found in Miranda's closet had been perfect. His shock had been priceless. What happened afterward had been … shattering.


"It's just a question of how badly you want it, Ellie, that's all." The burn started low, spread fast. That's how it had begun before, she realized in some dimly lit corner of her mind. With well-chosen words strung together for maximum impact. He was right, of course, but not in the way he thought. It wasn't his past she wanted, but her own future. To prove she'd learned from what happened, moved on. If she refused him a dance, if she didn't accept his dare, she gave him the false impression he could get to her, rattle her. Which he couldn't. Not anymore. She was the one calling the shots now. And she was the one who'd stumbled across a sore spot he wanted to avoid. There was something about his past he didn't want to tell her, didn't want her to know. He thought she'd rather back down, let the subject drop, then endure three minutes in his arms. He was wrong. "A dance isn't a problem," she said with a breeziness that pleased her. The auction was two days away. A lot could change by then. They might not even be home. "Now, talk." The light of the lantern flickered across his face, drawing her attention to the white of his teeth when he smiled. They gleamed particularly bright against the backdrop of gold and red whiskers. "You want it that badly?" More by the second. "You're digging your own grave,Monroe. The more you try to scare me off, the more curious I become." "Then maybe I should have asked for a higher price." She didn't stop to think. She picked up a rock the size of her fist and tossed it at him. "Talk." He easily caught the rock and closed it in his hand. "Not much to tell. Mom dropped out of school to have me and never went back. She lived with a girlfriend for a while, and Macy would watch me in the evenings while Mom waited tables." The words were point-blank and matter-of-fact, as though he was talking about a person other than himself. "Go on." "When I was seven, one of her regulars, a widower, offered her a job keeping his house, cooking meals, running errands, caring for his children, et cetera. He had a small apartment above his garage and let us stay there." "Your mom didn't have to work nights anymore?" Something hard and sharp flashed through his gaze. "No, not really." He stared into the light of the lantern. "Steven treated us fairly. He was a good man. Sometimes he'd help with my homework or baseball swing. A few times he and his daughter came to my games." Elizabethsmiled. Every boy deserved a male role model. "That's wonderful."


His jaw tightened. "He never treated us like hired help. He even talked of setting up a scholarship fund so I could attend college. For a while life was … good." Too late she realized they weren't headed toward a happy ending. She heard it in his voice, saw it in the hard lines of his body. "Something changed?" "He died." The fingers he'd closed around the rock opened, letting it fall to the ground. "A hunting accident." "The college fund?" He turned to look at her, revealing a lack of emotion in his gaze that rivaled that of his voice. "You know what they say about the best laid plans. Steven's son resented every second his father spent with the maid's son. He wasn't about to honor his father's promise, not when doing so cut into his inheritance." The chill returned, cutting to the bone. "Legally—" "Steven's death was unexpected. Whatever his intentions, they weren't in his will." And so Hawk and his mother had been left with nothing. He'd joined the Army, and she'd died. Alone. "I'm sorry,"Elizabethwhispered. Regret nudged at her. She'd been viewing his past, his childhood, as a game. A challenge. A way of gaining the upper hand. She'd never stopped to consider the impact dredging up the memories might have on him. "You deserved better." The light of the lantern glinted in his eyes. "I got better," he said. "Life has a way of balancing. We don't always get what we want, but in the end we usually get what's best." The words hung between them, forcingElizabethto realize how much she did not know about this man. She'd given him her body and trusted him with her life, but until this moment, this night, alone here in this cave, with each of them backed into their respective corners, she'd had no idea what lurked behind that in-your-face, macho bluster. There was a wisdom to his words, a blunt acceptance that could only come from pain. "Happy now?" he asked. Emotion stabbed into her throat. Through the darkness, she looked to where he sat so belligerently against the cave wall, watching her with those hot burning eyes. "No." A deeply ingrained sense of caution told her to keep her distance, but there was no way she could pretend to be unaffected, not even to protect herself. She took no pleasure in his suffering. She took no pride in what she'd thought of as victory only a short time before. "I'm cold." From the inside out. She'd done this to him. In a quest to prove he could no longer affect her, she'd stripped away his insolence and proved just the opposite. He held her gaze a long moment before answering. "You don't have to be." Slowly he opened his arms. This time she didn't hesitate. She maneuvered across the rocky distance and lowered herself against his body, felt his arms close around her. The infusion of warmth was immediate, shocking.


"Thank you," she whispered. He shifted, allowing her to sink fully against him. She'd forgotten how big he was. How hard. How when he held her, the rest of the world didn't seem to matter. "Just doing my job," he muttered. His job. That's all she'd been to him before, a job, an assignment, a challenge. She'd known that, and yet not even knowledge had stopped her from stepping too close to the fire. Her fault, not his. He'd never promised her anything more. Never even hinted. Pull away, the voice of caution whispered. Go back to the other side of the cave, accept the cold. Physical discomfort never lasted. That of the emotions, however, uneasiness that stemmed from within, rather than without, lingered, festered. "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. Elizabethrocked 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 hotRichmondsun 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 toRichmond. "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. Elizabethpulled 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. "Youshould have her checked out by a doctor," he said. Frowning, he glanced atElizabeth. 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 Elizabethstop 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 inEnglandwhen 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. *** Elizabethstepped 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. Elizabethput 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?" Elizabethopened 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 thanElizabeth'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." Elizabethstopped 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 caughtElizabeth'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, butElizabethkept her expression blasé. "Hawk?"


"He let me in," Miranda said, then smiled. "Maybe we should ask him what he likes onhis pizza." Elizabethjust 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. "Think we can arrange a trade for tomorrow?" Elizabethblinked. Though the same size, she and Miranda rarely traded anything. Their tastes ran too different. WhereasElizabethopted for conservative and tradition, Miranda preferred funky. "A trade?" "Hawk for Sandro." The vertigo she'd been fighting whirred closer, forcing her to realize she was not quite as together as she'd thought. "Lizzy?" Her sister stared queerly at her. "You okay?" Yes, she was okay. She had been for a long time. Two years, actually. Two nights and a handful of adrenaline-charged kisses couldn't change that. She glanced at Miranda, who'd brought the bottle of vanilla pear lotion to her face. "Did I just hear you right?" Once, her sister had seized every opportunity to disparage the man she'd referred to as a brooding Viking, but after the role he'd played in bringing her and Sandro back together, he'd become her new best friend. Now she didn't miss the chance to gush about him. "You want Hawk?" Her sister laughed in that infectious manner she'd been blessed with since birth. "Desperately," she said with her flare for drama. Then she winked. "But not quite like you do, of course." Elizabethdid her best to shoot her sister a withering glare. "What isthat supposed to mean?" Miranda squeezed a blob of lotion onto the tip of her finger and rubbed it against her forearm. She looked up then and studied her sister, chewed on her lip. "As if you don't know," she said. "Tell me, Lizzy. What was it like being with him again?" The surge of heat was automatic. "I wasn't with him," she shot back. "Not like you werewith Sandro, anyway." But Miranda would have none of it. "Come on, this is me you're talking to. We both know you and Hawk can't be alone together for five minutes without—" "—wanting to kill each other,"Elizabethfinished for her. Last night didn't count, she told herself as she brought the comb back to her tangled hair. Last night had been extenuating circumstances. The fact that he'd listened quietly while she talked of Kristina, that he'd told her about his mother, meant nothing. "The man has a knack for making me want to scream." Miranda grinned. "You don't say?" Through the mirror,Elizabethnoted the knowing look in her sister's eyes. "Not like that."


Miranda was back to fiddling with the orchid, bending the stem in a completely different direction. "Has Nicholas ever made you want to scream?" she asked. "In any way, shape or form?" The thought almost made Elizabeth laugh. "Of course not." "What about cry? Has he made you cry?" Memories staggered back, of sobs shared only with her pillow, sobs meant for no one's ears but her own, pain and confusion her sister had overheard and refused to forget. "Let it go, Miranda, okay? I have." "Maybe you shouldn't," her sister said quietly. "Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with a man who doesn't know how to make you feel anything? Who can't reach you?" The observation scraped. "It's not like that," she defended. "Nicholas understands me. We want the same things." Miranda lifted a brow. "Boredom?" Elizabethcouldn't help it. She laughed. "No, not boredom." She paused, considered. "He's been a good friend to me." Except those dark days two years before, when he'd wanted to take his fiancée to bed and Elizabethhad frozen. "We're compatible." To him life was more than just physical sensations. He respected goals and plans, dreams. He knew the consequences of living on the edge. "Are you in love with him?" The question zinged in, landed hard. Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, she wanted to feel. At one time she'd thought Nicholas the perfect man for her, otherwise she never would have accepted his marriage proposal. But she'd broken the engagement six short weeks later. "Where is he anyhow?" Miranda asked. "I figured he'd be all over you like glue." Elizabethadjusted her robe. "I wanted to be alone tonight." She'd talked to her mother, her brother. Now she just wanted to sleep for the next ten hours. "He respected that." "My point exactly!" Miranda crossed her arms over her chest. "A man shouldn't just roll over and play dead like that. A man should fight for what he wants." Like Sandro had done for her. Like Hawk had done— No. Absolutely not. Hawk had done nothing for her but confuse everything. "What do you want him for anyway?" she asked. Miranda looked horrified. "I donot want Nicholas." "Hawk. You said you wanted to borrow Hawk."


"Oh, that. Yes." She beamed a smile. "Shopping, of course." Elizabethblinked. Keeping up with her sister was like keeping up with a shooting star. "You want Hawk to go shopping with you?" Miranda nudged the stainless hair dryer closer toElizabeth. "I have a lead on my wedding present for Sandro, but…" Without warning the sparkle drained from her gaze. Shadows returned, reminding Elizabethonly a few months had passed since Miranda had endured her own nightmare. "He won't let me out of his sight," she said, and her voice swirled with sorrow and love. "With Zhukov unaccounted for, it's like the old Sandro is back, the commando. He'll barely let me breathe without him." The tickle of envy caughtElizabethby surprise. "He loves you, pipsqueak. He's not about to let anything happen to you." She could only imagine a love like that, so consuming, so all-encompassing, that a man would rather die than let harm come to the one he'd given his heart to. Sandro had done that for Miranda. He'd risked his life for hers inPortugal, andElizabethknew he wouldn't hesitate to do so again. "I never knew it was possible to love someone so much," Miranda said. "Sometimes … it's almost like it hurts." Elizabethset down her comb and took her sister's hands. "That's because it's real," she said. She'd dreamed of that kind of love her entire life. Until Miranda had brought Sandro home, she'd thought it only existed in fairy tales. "You're very lucky." Moisture rushed her sister's eyes. "You'll find it, too," she said. "I promise. Love always, always finds a way." Elizabethpulled her sister into a tight hug. "Let's concentrate on getting you married first, okay?" Miranda laughed. "I can borrow Hawk, then?" Elizabethreleased her. "He's all yours." Like he was hers to give. But still, the thought of Miranda dragging Hawk through the mall made her grin. "Why don't you go ahead and get that pizza ordered?" It had been over forty-eight hours since she'd had a real meal. "You bet," Miranda said, then turned and headed for the bathroom door. "Oh." Glancing over her shoulder, she tossed her sister a wicked smile. "Sandro still makes me scream, and I wouldn't have it any other way." *** "I suspect they'll find the fuel line tampered with," Hawk told Ethan. He stood at a screen door that led toElizabeth's small backyard and stared at three hummingbirds hovering near a red feeder dangling above the patio. The sun had dipped below the tree line, sending swirls of peach and yellow above the tops of the birch and maple dominating the long narrow yard behind her Church Hill town home. "I suspect Zhukov got to someone at the airport. You'll want to have everyone's background investigated."


"I'm all over it," Ethan said from his office at the Justice Department inWashington. Conflict of interest had prevented him from formally joining the team prosecuting Zhukov, but he'd made it clear he wasn't standing on the sidelines now. "We'll need a formal statement from you." "No problem." "So help me God, that bastard is going to pay," Ethan vowed. "I just thank God Lizzy is okay. How's she holding up?" Hawk glanced toward the stairs leading to her second-story bedroom. She'd yet to come down from her shower, despite the fact over thirty minutes had passed since he heard the water shut off. "She's a trouper," he told her brother and meant it. "A night or two of rest, and she'll be fine." "Give her a hug for me," Ethan said. "Tell her I'll be home for the auction tomorrow night." Hawk swore softly. "Will do," he said, then disconnected. He'd forgotten about the auction. She'd be dressed to the nines, in her element. She'd also be with Nicholas. The thought of seeing her in another man's arms, of watching him touch her, whisper to her, kiss her, messed with the clarity he'd been finagling for since leaving the mountains. If he let himself, he could still feel her soft curves sprawled against his body, shifting in her sleep, whispering her hand across his chest. And beyond. He chose not to let himself. Last night had been a colossal mistake, he reminded himself. Not only had survival forced him to lose sight of his objectives, but for some idiotic reason he'd let her back him into a corner. He'd let her coerce him into talking about his past. He'd give almost anything to take back those damning moments, when he'd come close to revealing details that were none of her concern. What had gone down under Steven's roof was ancient history. It didn't matter anymore, no longer carried the power to wound. Love you? You thought I loved you? He shook off her smoky voice, but the memory kept right on slithering. Puh-lease, Wesley. Be real. This wasn't about love. We're from different worlds, want different things. You know that. Then what the hell was it? Melanie hadn't even hesitated.Fun, of course. What else could it have been? Forever, he'd thought at the time. The real thing. Retrospect had a way of changing things, though, and now he realized the stolen moments with Steven's daughter had been nothing but rebellion and exploration for her. A touchstone for him. He'd thought he was the one teaching Melanie, exposing her to pleasures she'd never dreamed of. Instead, she'd been the instructor, her lesson one of the most important of his life. Thirteen years laterElizabethhad provided a friendly little reminder. Resolve replaced the ridiculous tenderness he'd felt in the mountains. He stalked across the hardwood floor ofElizabeth's antiques-crowded living room, toward the front window, where he stood until the pizza deliveryman arrived. After paying, he closed the door and turned, only to find her standing at the


foot of the stairs, wearing a pair of denim shorts and aUniversityofVirginia T-shirt. "Gosh, that smells great," she muttered, then glanced around the town home. "Where's Mira?" He carried the pizza to her small, shockingly white kitchen. "Sandro picked her up about twenty minutes ago." She followed. "I thought she was staying for dinner." The rich smell of tomato and mozzarella reminded him just how long had passed since he'd eaten. He pulled open the carton and drew a deep breath, let out a low groan of anticipation. "Secret agent man had other plans for her," he said with a knowing wink. "She didn't seem to mind." "Oh."Elizabethstared at the pizza, then at the quartet of vigorously blooming African violets in her windowsill. "I thought she was hungry." Hawk couldn't help it. He laughed. "She left with Sandro, didn't she?" Now she did look at him, looked hard. Her hair was damp, slicked back from her face and emphasizing her killer cheekbones. "Very funny." He didn't give himself time to think, time to change his mind. He crossed the meager distance between them and pulled her into his arms, careful not to crush. The doctor had pronounced her ribs in good shape, and she insisted she felt fine, but he knew they had to hurt like a son of a bitch. She would never admit it, though. He knew that about her. She'd put on a happy face, even if deep inside she was dying. That was the Carrington way, and when it came to being a Carrington,Elizabethexcelled. After last night, he refused to let himself consider why. She stiffened at the contact, held herself completely still as he slid his palm up her back and under the damp curtain of her hair. She felt damn good in his arms, despite the fact she stood more rigidly than the posts supporting her patio. He could change that, he knew. With a few well-executed strokes, he could change resistance to acceptance, make the hard lines soft. Of course, the opposite would be true for him. There was nothing soft about him. He didn't need to be harder. Contrary to what she thought, he was not a man who enjoyed torture. But God, she smelled good, like vanilla as always, but with a hint of something new. "Peaches?" he murmured. 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 theElizabethhe'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 theElizabethhe'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. ThisElizabethwas 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 «^» Soon. 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 seenElizabeth'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. Monroehad 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.Monroecould 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." Elizabethtold 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 àla 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 toRichmond. 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 Iwas 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." The well-timed words hit hard, landed deep. Reeling, she did the only thing she could. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. "What makes you think I'm scared of anyone?" she asked with a nonchalance that would do her mother proud. Cool, calm, collected. Unaffected and untouchable. Meet adversity with a smile, and no one ever had to know you bled. But Hawk smiled. Damn the man, he smiled with a knowing edge that cut to the bone. "Ah, Ellie, you have to ask?" Warning alarms reverberated through her, but she refused to tuck tail and run. "I know you," he rolled on. His hand still curled around her upper arm, not with force but restraint. "I've seen you when you think no one is watching. I've touched you when you thought no one could. I was there in that cave, remember? I saw, and I heard, and no matter how fiercely you deny the truth, I know what drives you, and yes, sweetness, I know what scares you." Her throat tightened. "Who, then?" she asked, even though caution demanded she walk away. "Who am I so afraid of?" Morning sun poured through the plantation shutters, intensifying the glint in his eyes. "Next time you look in the mirror," he said, releasing her arm and bringing his hand to her neck. He didn't circle, just spread his fingers and caressed. "Ask yourself a little question. Ask yourself who you're most afraid of. Zhukov, maybe? Me? Or maybe, just maybe, you'll find the answer staring back at you, through the most amazing green eyes I've ever seen."


Denial rushed through her. "You don't have a clue what you're talking about." "I wasn't part of your plan, sweetness, was I? I'm not neat and tidy the way you like. I'm not comfortable." Stepping closer, he slid his thumb over her chin and rubbed it along her lower lip. "But you got naked with me, anyway, and that scares the hell out of you." Heat swam through her, awakening places she'd forced into slumber. She'd done a lot more than get naked with this man. She'd done more with him than with her only other lover. More than she'd known possible. Until that night, those blurry, almost desperate hours in his arms, his bed, she'd not known it was possible for a human being to simply unravel. "Do you have to be so crude?" she asked, curling her hand around the wood of the banister. He let his hand fall from her face. "No," he returned, "I don't. But any other way confuses you." There was a hardness in his eyes now, a light that gleamed somewhere between anger and disappointment. "When was the last time you did something unplanned?" he asked in that velvety voice. "When was the last time you acted on impulse, did something totally unexpected, just because you wanted to?" The answer vaulted through her and hovered between them, unspoken, powerful enough to jam the breath in her throat. "I do plenty of things because I want to." His smile was slow, knowing. "Like what?" Like follow her bodyguard to a bar, look him in the eye, and vow there's nothing he can do to scare her away. Nothing that would make her run like a coward. Nothing that would make her lose control. "Like this," she said, then turned and walked up the stairs. She wanted to feel triumph in the comeback, but a tiny voice deep inside accused her of retreat. "Elizabeth." She knew better than to stop. She knew better than to turn around. But the way he said her name, deep and dark, thickwith an edge of challenge and gravity, stoked a curiosity she wanted to ignore. "What?" she asked, pivoting toward him. He stood at the base of the stairs, arm propped against the mahogany wood of the banister, legs crossed at the ankles. "The best things in life," he said slowly, deliberately, "aren't planned. They just happen. Remember that." Then he turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving her standing there, body on fire, heart bleeding from an emotion she didn't know how to name. *** The smoky words stayed with her long after the man himself left with Miranda. "I'm thinking remote," Sandro said after lunch. He sat at the small round table in her office and flipped through vacation brochures. "The fewer planned activities the better." Elizabethlooked up from the proposal she'd been skimming. "I suppose that rules out a cruise."


"No cruise," he agreed in that wonderful accented voice of his. His dark, dark eyes gleamed, just as they always did when he spoke of Miranda. "I want my wife all to myself." The smile happened all by itself. If she'd custom designed a man for her sister, she still would not have come up with someone as perfect as Sandro. He respected Miranda's individuality, admired the free spirit that had always ruled her. "That's what honeymoons are for," she said. "Yes," he agreed, "it is." He stood and walked toward her, only a slight limp remaining from the leg he'd broken in the showdown with Viktor Zhukov, the man who'd tried to use Miranda as a bargaining chip. Since then, Sandro had been working intelligence stateside. "You can tell me," he said, propping a hip against her desk. "Where were Miranda and Hawk going?" Elizabethclosed the proposal. "Your guess is as good as mine." Her sister had been excited, though. Terribly excited. She'd whispered something to Hawk, who'd merely nodded and hustled her out the door. She didn't understand their relationship. Miranda and Hawk could pal around like buddies. Everything between them was easy, uncomplicated. There were no challenges or tests, no taunts. He didn't push her buttons, didn't bring her to the edge. "I'm back," Miranda announced, strolling intoElizabeth's office. Sandro crossed to her immediately, kissed her as though it had been years since they'd last seen each other, not hours. "So where's my surprise?" he asked, pulling back. Amusement shimmied in her eyes. "Somewhere safe," she said tartly. "Somewhere you won't find until after the wedding." "Ah,bella," he muttered. "You do not play fair." Elizabeth stood and reached for her pocket book. It was time to head home and dress for the auction. Normally she looked forward to the event, but after the past couple of days, the black-tie affair carried no appeal. Hawk would be there, shadowing her every step, every breath, tracking her movements as if she was the criminal, not Zhukov. She glanced beyond her sister. "Where's Wesley?" Miranda looked around Sandro. "Something's come up. He had a statement to give or something." Sandro's expression turned downright lethal. "He left you alone?" Miranda swatted at his ann. "Be real. He brought me here, to you, then left." LeavingElizabethalone. She watched the way her future brother-in-law looked at her sister, with pure love glittering in his eyes, a hand always on her body, and didn't understand the disappointment whispering through her. "Aaron's on his way up," Miranda added. "I think he'll be with you at the auction tonight."


"I see," she said through a throat suddenly raw, tight. Hawk wouldn't be there. She wouldn't look up from some stuffy conversation with one of her father's politician friends and find him watching her through those hot, burning eyes. Wouldn't feel his presence no matter how far away he stood, no matter how many guests separated them. Wouldn't have to worry that if she turned, he might be standing too close. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she waited for the shawl of relief to settle around her. It didn't. *** "Looking for someone?" Elizabethspun to find Nicholas standing behind her, a glass of merlot in his outstretched hand. "Just seeing who's here," she answered vaguely, taking the wine. "I haven't seen Ethan yet." "Ah." He slid a hand to the small of her back and steered her toward a less crowded corner of the historical hotel's ballroom. "All eyes are on you, you know," he murmured, brushing his mouth against the side of her face. "Your dress is stunning." Once, his words would have pleased her, but now a chill slithered deep. She didn't want all eyes on her. She didn't want to be watched. Not with Zhukov unaccounted for. Not with Hawk absent. "Elizabeth?" Nicholas tilted her face to his. "Something wrong?" She shook off his concern. "Just chilly." Her dress extended to the floor, but the halter cut of the bodice, with a plunging neckline, a triangle cutout beneath her breasts, and no sleeves, bared a good portion of her upper body. Hawk had circled the dress with a black marker in a catalog two years before, then looked up at her and dared her to place an order. "Maybe this will help," Nicholas said, drawing her closer. "You know what they say about body heat." She felt herself stiffen, could do nothing about the flash of memory. Yes, she knew what they said. She also knew it was true. At least sometimes. When Hawk had eased her against him in that cold dark cave, the blast of heat had been immediate. Slowly Nicholas ran his hands along her arms. "That bastard is not going to hurt you, Elizabeth. You can mark my words on that." She looked up abruptly, into the startling blue eyes she'd fantasized about as a young girl. "What?" "Zhukov," he clarified, and the tightness in her chest relaxed. "Who else?" She forced a smile. "No one." "Dance with me, then," he said, leading her to the small wooden floor where a handful of couples swayed to the soft jazz played by the band Miranda had selected for her wedding.


The sensation hit so hard she stopped dead in her tracks. It crawled over her, the awareness of being watched, tracked. Shadowed. She spun around, searched the throng of guests for someone who didn't belong. Aaron Wright broke toward her. "What is it?" Nicholas asked. Constricted airways made it difficult to talk. "I … I don't know," she said honestly. "Just a feeling." One she'd fought all evening. The same feeling she'd fought inCalgary. "Elizabeth?" Aaron took her arm and hurried her off the dance floor, as far from the windows as possible. "Did you see something?" Her heart hammered hard. "No," she told the tall man Hawk referred to as his number two. Aaron Wright towered over her, a hand hovering inside his tuxedo jacket, where she knew a Glock hid. "I…" She didn't know how to put the sensation into words. "I can't shake the feeling someone is watching me." Waiting. Wanting. Aaron's crystalline blue eyes hardened. "Under normal circumstances I'd hold your dress accountable, but tonight that's not a chance I'm willing to take." He shifted his attention to Nicholas. "Keep her here a few minutes. Let me make a sweep, check with security." Nicholas drew her close. "I won't let her out of my sight." "Hawk was worried about tonight," Aaron commented, then vanished into the throng of auction attendees. The sense of loss made no sense. She tried to focus on the guests swirling around the dance floor, on Miranda and Sandro perusing a grandfather clock up for auction, but could see only a cold dark cave in the mountains of westernMontana. Ridiculous, she knew, and yet, during those hours she'd seen a side of Hawk Monroe she'd never seen, and God help her, she'd remembered what it was like to feel alive. Now, though, reality, with all its splintered edges, pressed close, the hurt that always, always came from walking too close to the edge. "You trying to hold up that wall by yourself?" Elizabethblinked, saw her brother striding toward her. "Eth!" He captured her in a bear hug, crushing her against his chest. She winced as he squeezed her tender ribs, but said nothing, didn't want him to pull away. "You look gorgeous, as always," he murmured against the hair she'd twisted off her face. She pulled back and smiled up at him. "And you look ready to steal a million hearts." She paused, drank in the sight of him all tall and dashing in his black tuxedo. "As usual." "Nick." He extended his hand. "It's been a while."


"Too long," Nicholas agreed. Once, a long time ago, the two had been the best of friends. After school they'd taken different paths, Ethan's quest for justice taking him to D.C., while Nicholas's desire to expand his deceased father's business interests kept him inRichmond. "May I borrow her?" Ethan asked. "Just for a little while." Nicholas took her hand and brushed a kiss along her knuckles. "Just for a little while." Her brother slipped an arm around her waist and steered her toward the drink table. "You okay?" The question didn't surprise her. This was Ethan. He knew her as well as she knew herself. "Just tired. I didn't get much sleep last night." Not with Hawk prowling her town house, only a heartbeat away, close enough to be in her room if she so much as breathed the wrong way. Ethan ordered a Scotch. "You don't have to be here tonight. You know that, don't you?" "And miss a chance to see my baby brother?" Twelve very critical minutes separated them in age, twelve minutes she took great pleasure in leveraging. "Where's Carly?" She skimmed the crowded room for the striking redhead who would one day be her sister-in-law. "Not here." The note of finality, more than the actual words, had her turning toward him. "Not here?" "We're not together anymore." The answer was so Ethan, curt and matter-of-fact, straight to the point, no fluff or extra explanation. "Since when?" "Since June." Two months. Her twin brother and his girlfriend of three years had split two months before, and he'd not bothered to mention one word to her. "What happened?" He took a deep swallow of Scotch. "Doesn't matter." "It does to me." He frowned. "Not here, Lizzy, okay? Not tonight." She wanted to be angry with him, but sensed the turmoil lurking beneath his razor-sharp smile. He could hide his emotions from the world—that's what made him such a good attorney—but when it came to his twin sister, he was as transparent as a plate-glass window. "Tomorrow, then." He clinked his glass against hers. "You can try." She started to smile, but the sensation slid over her again, sleet pelting from the inside out. She glanced beyond her brother's shoulder, but even as she did, knew she wouldn't find anyone who didn't belong. "Lizzy?" Ethan's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"


This night. Being here. Wondering where Hawk was, why he wasn't here. Wishing that he was. Knowing it was better that he wasn't. "I'll be back," she said, her throat uncomfortably tight. She handed him her wineglass. "There's something I need to do." "I'll be with Mira," he said, but she barely heard. She could hardly breathe. She needed to be alone, just for a minute, away from the throng of partygoers and well-wishers. She needed to regroup, find the balance that had evaded her all evening. Hawk's presence wouldn't have made a difference. Having him hovering nearby would only deepen her discomfort. "Evenin', Miss Carrington," Lucy said from her post inside the spacious ladies' room. The attendant's smile was warm, genuine. "Quite a party you're throwin' tonight." Elizabethsmiled. Lucy was as much a fixture of the grand old hotel as the breathtaking marble columns and romantic archways. "Thanks." The sprawling white room welcomed her, giving new meaning to the termrest room. Cushy white sofas lined one wall, while an antique floor-to-ceiling mirror dominated the other. Her strappy black sandals clicked loudly against the pristine marble floor. Here she could breathe. She smiled politely at a friend of her mother's before slipping into one of the stalls. She stood and closed her eyes, let the silence wash through her. No chatter of voices. No lively strains of jazz. No nagging questions. No eyes watching her. Waiting. Footsteps echoed against the floor just before the door opened and closed, leaving her alone. At last. Time slowed. The coil of anxiety unwound, leaving a blanket of calm in its place. Even the chill lessened, the unsettling sensation that had assaulted her the moment she'd entered the historic old hotel. She wasn't a coward, she reminded herself. She would return to the ballroom, find Nicholas and Ethan, enjoy the rest of the evening. It didn't matter that Hawk wasn't here. Security was tight. No one lurked in the shadows. Feeling better, she opened the door and stepped from the stall, headed for one of the antique pedestal sinks. She didn't get far. She sensed him before she saw him, felt him before she heard him. By then it was too late. "I've been waiting for you, Elizabeth," he said, but didn't move. "Watching." Wanting. And now he had her all to himself. Chapter 10 «^»


The room tilted, blurred, everything except the man lounging against the arched entryway of the bathroom, his black tuxedo a startling contrast to the brilliant white sanctuary. "Wesley." His name came out on a rush, more a breath than a word. His smile was slow, devastating. "You didn't think I'd miss the chance to see you in that dress, did you?" The question did cruel things to her heart. It slammed hard, colliding with ribs already bruised. He remembered the dress, the dare. He'd said it was too risqué for her, bared too much flesh. She'd ordered it to prove him wrong. Now she just stared at him, refused to let herself drink too deeply of the sight. She'd seen him dressed up before. She'd even seen him in a tux. But God help her, she'd forgotten. She'd forgotten how good a man so rough around the edges looked in a well-cut suit. She'd forgotten how the jacket stretched across his wide shoulders, how the crisp white of a dress shirt accentuated his deeply tanned skin. She'd forgotten what his hair looked like queued back, how it emphasized wide cheekbones and deep-set eyes of butterscotch, the gold and red whiskers of his jaw. The unease she'd been fighting all evening seared deeper, disturbing her in ways she didn't understand. Hawk was here.Here. Not just at the auction, but oh, dear Lord in heaven, in the ladies' rest room. She glanced toward the door. "Where's Lucy?" He laughed. "Standing guard," he said in that crushed-velvet voice of his. "Sweetheart that she is, she understood when I told her I needed you alone, that it was a matter of life and death." The breath lodged in her throat. "Life and death?" she asked, heading toward him. "Has something happened? Is it Zhukov? Is he here?" He pushed from the wall and met her halfway. "Do you really think I'd be hanging out in the ladies' room if Zhukov was within ten miles of you?" That got her. She stopped, stared, realized the truth. Of course not. The Glock would have been in his hand, the carnal glimmer gone from his eyes. He would have hustled her far, far away. "Then I don't understand." "No, I don't suppose you do." He lifted a hand to the side of her face, where he used his index finger to loosen a curl from her twist. "Much better." Heat trickled through her. She stared at the crisp white shirt, not buttoned high like the other men, but open at the throat, the constricting black bow tie hanging around his neck, untied, and felt the rhythm of her pulse deepen. "You've been here all along, haven't you?" she asked, finally, finally understanding the edge of awareness that had niggled her all evening. It had always been that way between them. She could be blindfolded, handcuffed, with blaring music drilling at her through earphones, and still she'd know. "Did you feel me?" he asked, skimming a finger along her cheekbone. "Is that why you kept glancing over your shoulder?"


Her chest tightened. She had felt him. Deeply. Disturbingly. "We can't stay in here," she said, glancing at the door. Unease skittered through her, like fall leaves in a gale-force wind. "Someone could come in any minute." His eyes, hot and gleaming a heartbeat before, turned cold. "Would that be so bad? Being found here, alone, with me?" The question stabbed deep. The undertone, the expectation of repudiation, stung. "This is a bathroom," she pointed out, and tried to keep her tone light. "For women." Briskly, she moved to go around him, but he stepped to his right, blocking her path. "Wesley," she said, and this time, frustration leaked through. "You can't hold me hostage here." "I don't want to hold you hostage." The control she'd wrapped so tightly around her slipped another notch. "Then what do you want?" she asked, but immediately regretted. Some truths, some desires, were better, safer, left unspoken. He streaked his finger over her chin and down her neck, to the dip at the base of her throat. "I thought it was time for a little demonstration." "A demonstration?" Disbelief gave way to an excitement she had no business feeling. "Are you out of your mind?" "Maybe," he answered, dragging the tip of his finger along her collarbone, "but that's not the point." He paused, lifted the string of black pearls into his hands. "These suit you." Her mouth went dry. "Black?" "No," he murmured, fingering the iridescent strand. "Beautiful. Mysterious." Oh, God, she had to get out of here. Something deep inside was screaming, begging. No one ever talked to her like this. No one ever set her on fire with mere words. The way he looked at her, touched her… "Wesley—" "Relax." He lifted his finger to her mouth. "This won't hurt at all. Promise." Every instinct for self-preservation demanded she rip away from him, but the stream of curiosity wouldn't let her move. "What, Wesley? What is it you think you need to demonstrate in a ladies' room?" The possibilities sent a wicked little thrill licking through her. Too well, she remembered what he'd demonstrated the last time they'd been alone in a bathroom. "Ah," he murmured. "Yes. The demonstration." He stepped closer, slid a hand to the curve of her waist. "I'm here," he said slowly, quietly, "to show you how exciting it can be to do something unexpected, unplanned, maybe even unorthodox."


Her heart kicked, hard. "Hawk—" "You said you weren't afraid of taking chances," he murmured, drawing her against the wall of his body. "So I thought I'd let you prove it." He slid a hand to the small of her back, the other up to possess her shoulders. "Dance with me." She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. "I don't have to prove anything to you." His mouth curved into an alarmingly gentle smile. "Then prove it to yourself." Leave, she told herself. Don't let him back you into a corner. But standing in the circle of his arms, with the heat of his body soaking into hers, she could no more pull away than she could have landed the disabled plane by herself. "You promised, Ellie," he said, sliding the fingers at the small of her back lower. "In the mountains. You promised me a dance." He pulled back, met her eyes with his own. They were hot, gleaming. Just like always. "You're not afraid, are you?" The question slipped through her defenses, drilling into a sea of raw emotion she neither understood nor wanted. Yes, she was afraid! How could she not be? This man—he represented everything she didn't want. He was coarse and brash, thrived on adrenaline and risk, lived outside the lines. Every time she was around him she felt the discipline she lived by spiraling away. And yet … and yet, when he looked at her like that, touched her, everything she'd taught herself about survival faded into a nonsensical language she didn't care to understand. She knew she should walk away. She was a strong woman. She'd forged a will of iron. If she really wanted to, she could pull away, walk away. But, heaven help her, standing there pressed to the hard lines of the body she'd never forgotten despite how diligently she'd tried, she realized a disturbing truth. She didn't want to pull away. And he was right. She had promised. In exchange for a little piece of himself she'd promised him this. A dance. It was a small thing really. Nothing compared to what he'd revealed in that cold dark cave. He deserved better than life had given him. He deserved better than scrapping for every break he'd ever received. He deserved better than the way the world had been yanked from beneath him following his mentor's death. "That's it," he murmured, starting to sway. "Let go." His voice came to her through a misty tunnel, registering peripherally, seeping through her, softening the resistance she wanted to feel. She felt herself sinking against him, her arms slipping around his waist, her hands sliding up the hard planes of his back. The achingly familiar scent of incense and musk washed through her, carried her to an alternate reality, where nothing mattered but the feel of this man holding her. Slowly she let her eyes drift closed. "Just go with it," he coaxed, and the warmth of his breath fanned over the exposed flesh of her neck and shoulders. "Live in the moment."


She'd never been very good at that, she realized in some hazy corner of her mind. She'd never excelled at letting go, enjoying the moment, not worrying about, planning for, the future. But here, now, with Wesley's body swaying against hers, moving in slow, drugging circles, the future didn't much matter. On a deep breath, she opened her eyes and found the mirror, found them reflected in the antique surface, she in the black sheath dress he'd picked out for her, he in his striking black tuxedo, her bare arms curved around the width of his middle, his hands skimming possessively along her back. And his eyes, oh, dear God, his eyes. They weren't hot or burning as she expected; they weren't gleaming or shimmering, weren't radiating with challenge or dare. They were … closed. His eyes were closed. Deep insideElizabethsomething shifted, threatened to give way. The movement of their bodies started to turn her from the mirror, but she couldn't look away, couldn't figure out how it was possible to see so much naked, raw longing on his face, without even the aid of his volatile eyes. His features were relaxed, his mouth slightly parted, his lips unbearably soft. A few strands of dark blond hair had slipped from the leather band behind his neck and now fell against those wide cheekbones, the ones she'd sprinkled kisses along that one devastating night two years before. And then he was gone, or rather, she was gone, no longer able to see their joined bodies in the mirror, only able to feel his breath feather against her flesh, his hands, so wide and strong and capable, cruise along her back, holding her close to the hard lines of his body. She felt the ridge against her belly, responded instinctively to the width of him pressed close, the width she'd never been able to forget. "Elizabeth," he murmured, skimming his mouth along the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. She shivered, melted. Confusion clashed with desire. This, she realized. This was what she'd never been able to understand, how this man who made her want to scream, could also make her want to cry. Emotion jammed into her throat, burned the backs of her eyes. Tenderness shouldn't destroy, she thought in that hazy corner of her mind, her heart. Tenderness shouldn't shred. I never knew it was possible to love someone so much. Sometimes … it's almost as if it hurts. Miranda's words whispered deep, unleashing a stream of denial. This was different, she told herself. What flared between her and Wesley had nothing to do with what Miranda felt for Sandro. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with a man who doesn't know how to make you feel anything? "Whoa," he said, pulling back and tilting her face to his. One of his hands slid to cradle her face. "What just happened?" She stared up at him, didn't understand what she saw in his eyes. "We were dancing," she said. It took effort, but somehow she kept her voice fluid, free of the emotion drenching her like a summer downpour. "You were proving a point, remember?" His expression darkened. "Not that, sweetness," he said, and the endearment rolled over her like a caress. "You went all tense on me." She couldn't help it, felt herself tense even more, even as she mourned the moments of weightlessness. "Just thinking."


"Maybe you shouldn't, then," he said with a carnal little smile. "Maybe you should just concentrate on feeling." That's what she had been doing. And in the process she'd almost let herself slip so far away she doubted she could reclaim the pieces vital to survival. "It's not smart to do one to the exclusion of the other." "Then why is it you only allow yourself to think, Ellie?" he asked quietly, lowering his face to hers. "Why won't you allow yourself to feel, for even a few moments?" He didn't give her time to answer, to think. He skimmed his mouth over hers, those ridiculously soft lips feathering against hers, enticing her to press up on her tiptoes and tug his face closer. He pulled back, frowned. "I don't think you want to do that,Elizabeth." The cry of confusion and frustration rose through her, tightening her chest and jamming in her throat. "Isn't that what this little demonstration was about?" she asked with a bitterness he didn't deserve. "To prove you could unravel me?" His eyes took on that glitter she remembered from so long ago, the one that made her pulse sing and her body hum. "Tell me something, Ellie. Is this cold white bathroom really where you want to make love again?" That got her. She stood there, locked in his arms, pressed so close to his body it was impossible not to know how badly he wanted her, and finally, finally, sanity returned. "There won't be another time, Wesley." Couldn't be. Couldn't. He released her abruptly, stepped back completely. "Go, then. Go back to Nicholas." The backs of her eyes burned with an emotion she didn't understand, didn't dare name. "Just like that," she said. Like a switch turned off. His lips twisted. "The demonstration is over." God help her, the moisture started to do more than burn, it started to spill over. "Thank you, then," she said, "for a lesson I won't forget." Dragging together a poise she didn't come close to feeling, she flashed a tight smile, then turned and walked away, through the bathroom doors, where Lucy stood like a soldier, Nicholas glaring down at her. "Elizabeth," he murmured, reaching for her. "Thank God." She bit back the tears threatening to expose her. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting." "Are you all right?" He stared at her queerly. "You look a little flushed." "I'm perfect," she lied, then flashed a smile to prove her point. "Just perfect." The concern on his face lightened into a smile. "How about a dance, then? Everyone's been looking for you."


"A dance sounds…" Horrible. "…terrific." Woodenly she tried to move with him, but couldn't forget the feel of another man's arms around her, another man's soft words of encouragement that had whispered through her like intimate kisses. The sensation hit immediately, a disturbing combination of hot and cold. But this time she knew why. Lifting her chin while Nicholas tried to dance with her, she turned toward the discreet hallway leading to the rest room and, just as she'd known she would, found him standing there, watching her through eyes not hot or burning, but ominously emotionless. With a little smile, he lifted a wine goblet toward her in a mock toast, drank deeply, then dropped the glass and walked away. *** "Dead? What do you mean, dead?" Ethan asked. Hawk kept his back to the dance floor, not the least bit interested in seeingElizabethpressed to another man's body. "I got the call this afternoon," he told her brother. "Search crews found the crash site, but the three men I left behind had been lined up and shot execution style." "That's not how you left them." Vividly, Hawk recalled the men, bound and gagged, secured to trees. "They weren't happy, but they weren't dead." Ethan's eyes went hard. From the moment Jorak Zhukov had been apprehended, he'd been hot to make an example of him, show the world that theUnited Statesdid not play softball. "Z got there first." And eliminated any possible trail back to him. "Dead men don't talk," Hawk pointed out. Failures had to be punished. Ethan swore softly. "Two attacks in twelve hours, both onElizabeth." Glancing beyond Hawk, he frowned. "She shouldn't be here tonight." Lots of things shouldn't happen, Hawk thought grimly, but God help him, they still did. Bracing himself, he turned toward her, found her standing near the display of antique jewelry up for auction with Nicholas at her side, his arm plastered around her waist. The tendrils of hair he'd pried from her twist toyed with her cheekbones, like his fingers, his mouth had done a short time before. Even from a distance he could tell her skin was still flushed from his touch. "Your sister has a mind of her own," he said, watching her put her hand to Nicholas's arm. "Once it's made up, no power on earth will change it." Ethan chuckled. "How well I know that." There was no laughter from Hawk. "She's safe, though. Aaron's the best. No one's going to get to her on his watch." The amusement drained from Ethan's eyes. "I thought you were covering her."


Hawk bit back a few choice wordsElizabeth's brother would not want to hear. "Not tonight." Not when Nicholas would be escorting her home. No way was he going to blend into the shadows, watching while she twined her arms around another man, lifted her face to his, invited him in for more. His blood ran cold at just the thought. "How often do you want me to report in?" Aaron asked forty minutes later, with the clock nearing midnight. "Every hour?" From his vantage point one floor higher on the mezzanine level, Hawk watched Nicholas leadElizabethto the elegant hotel lobby, his arm draped around her shoulders. "Every hour," he agreed, and something deep inside him twisted. Six times between now and sunrise, Aaron would call with a detailed accounting of what was happening atElizabeth's town house. A report included a synopsis of all persons on the property and their whereabouts. Their activities. He could just imagine: "She and the boyfriend went up to bed about thirty minutes ago. The lights just went off." "She and the boyfriend are still upstairs." A chuckle. "Not asleep though. Not yet." "She and the boyfriend are still at it, lucky bastard." Unable to look away from her, he said, "If the wind so much as blows the wrong way, you call me, got it?" "Got it." Hawk watched Aaron join Elizabeth and Nicholas. She twisted toward the main ballroom, hesitated, then Nicholas nudged her toward the hotel's ornate front door. Aaron was a good man. They'd met in Somalia, had fought side by side during a fierce gun battle it was a miracle anyone had survived. But they did survive, both of them, and as a consequence, there was no one in the world he trusted more with his life. Or withElizabeth's. Swearing softly, he pushed from the railing and strode down the sweeping staircase, into the darkness of the night. In combat, a man learned to play smart. In combat, a man learned it only took a slight miscalculation to destroy the best-laid plans, a minuscule mental slip to wind up very, very dead. Tonight he'd forgotten every lesson he'd learned. A soft wind scattered high thin clouds across a full moon, not yet orange for the harvest, but not fully white, either. Soon, the temperatures would be falling. The trees would drop their leaves, and everything would go dormant. Dead.


Scowling, he grabbed the helmet from the back of the vintage Harley he'd allowed himself after leaving the Army, then swung his leg over the seat. He cranked the engine, then roared into the night. Instinct nudged him left, towardElizabeth's tidy town house in the historical district of Church Hill. Self-preservation demanded he go south. A dance, damn it. That's all he'd planned. An impromptu, unconventional demonstration of a point Elizabeth tried desperately to deny. And from that press of body to body, he'd hoped to gain all he wanted from her. An admission. The acknowledgment that what went down between them that night two years before had been the result of a red-hot desire neither could control. A mistake, Wesley. Can't we just leave it at that? The burn spread like a virus out of control, searing everything inside him. A mistake. Yeah, he'd made one, all right, he thought, veering off the highway near theJames River. A dirt road took him to the shore, where he yanked off his helmet and let the bike idle to the rhythm of crickets and cicadas, the occasional toad. He'd made a mistake the second he'd taken her into his arms and allowed himself to feel her so soft and fluid, the moment he'd breathed of her, that subtle scent of vanilla that clung to him even as he breathed in the thick scent of mud and decay along the riverbank. And God, the way she'd looked up at him after he'd kissed her, not with desire, but a raw vulnerability that scorched somewhere deep. And now she was going home with Nicholas. How long before she'd crawled into his bed, he'd always wondered. How long before she let another man touch her? He smacked a mosquito against his neck. Didn't matter. None of it mattered. He wanted an admission fromElizabeth, not a heart forged in duty and responsibility, hardened by a rigid sense of right and wrong. She wouldn't let go, wouldn't let herself live and laugh and take life moment by moment, and by God, despite trying, he couldn't make her. It was after one by the time he reached the run-down neighborhood of row houses established well over a century before, to provide housing for the Tredegar Iron workers. The houses here weren't brick and stately like everything else in Richmond, but wood clapboard, shaded by ancient maples and elm and oak, with welcoming front porches, a few of them screened in to protect from mosquitoes. He turned off the engine and started for the house that had once belonged to his mother, and her mother before that, but then he heard it, the electronic ringing of his mobile phone. And his heart just about stopped. "Monroe," he barked the second he'd answered the call. "You better get over here," came Aaron's grave voice. "There's been an attack." *** Police cars flooded the quiet, tree-lined street. Red lights flashed garishly against a sky as dark as the urges ripping through him. There were no sirens, though. The night hung with an unnatural stillness.


And then he saw the ambulance. Just one, parked on the cobblestone street outside her renovated Greek Revival town home, the back doors thrown open. No medics in sight. Hawk skidded the bike to a stop and turned off the engine. Then he ran through a wrought-iron gate, not toward a blaze of lights through windows and an open front door but toward a house insidiously dark. Someone had touched her. TouchedElizabeth. Someone had violated the security ring he'd meticulously put in place and gotten inside. Gotten toher. Aaron hadn't given him details. Hawk recalled only a few words, words that had his blood running colder than the river during the dead of winter.Attack.Elizabeth. Naked. Screams. "Aaron!" he roared, pushing through the front door. The beams of three flashlights swung toward him; a wall of three uniformed cops blocked his way. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't come in here—" "The hell I can't." He shoved past two of them, felt the third grab his arm. "Sir, this is a crime scene." "I'm well aware of that." Swearing, he twisted free, strained to see through the dance of light gleaming from maglites. Someone had lit candles. An army of them, all flickering eerily like some damn romantic dream, casting off the scent of vanilla. "Aaron!" He wanted to call for her, forElizabeth, but didn't know what shape she was in, if she could even hear. He didn't want to make a bad situation worse by storming around like a mad man. "Hawk." Aaron vaulted down the stairs two at a time. "He's okay," he directed the cops. "This is the man I told you about,Monroe, head of the security for the Carringtons." The officer released him, stepped back, kept his mouth a grim line. "We'll have some questions, then." He reached for his notebook. "It looks like the perp came in through the bedroom window." His blood ran even colder. "That window is wired. I checked it myself." "Magnet's deactivated," the shortest of the three cops told him. "Looks like the perp knew what he was doing." Hawk swung toward Aaron. "How is she?" Aaron frowned. "Shaken, but physically all right." "Where is she?" "In her room." His friend swung his flashlight up the stairs. "Ethan got here a few minutes ago." Hawk didn't hesitate. He bolted up the stairs and destroyed the short hall separating him from the open door to her room. He wanted to charge straight in, see her for himself, make damn sure Zhukov had not left so much as one mark on her body.


And yet he forced himself to stop at the doorway, to suck in an uneven breath, to cage the hot emotions leaping through him. She didn't need to see him on a rampage. He was supposed to be in control here, after all. Cool, calm collected. This was his job, security his expertise. He saw her then, and everything he'd taught himself about control shattered into so many jagged shards, he knew he could never piece them together again. Chapter 11 «^» She sat on the edge of her foolishly romantic four-poster bed, wearing a ratty old Minnie Mouse sweatshirt that made her look more like a vulnerable little girl than the poised, elegant woman he'd danced with in the white marble bathroom. Ethan sat next to her, his arm around her shoulders. He was turned toward her, speaking in a hushed tone Hawk could barely make out. "It's okay, Lizzie," he kept saying. "You're okay." ButElizabethdid not look at her brother. She looked down at the carpet, her shoulders curved toward her chest, long, wet hair forming a curtain that prevented Hawk from seeing her face. He saw her hands though, pale, in her lap and curled into tight fists. The sight slaughtered something deep inside. "Elizabeth." He swallowed against a throat burning with the kind of destructive emotion he knew she hated, the kind he had to keep in check, not just this moment, this night, but from this point forward. Through the flickering light of three pillar candles, he saw her stiffen, slowly lift her head and turn toward him. Damp hair streaked against the sides of her pale face, drawing his attention to eyes not glowing with mystery and confidence, but huge and hollow and dark. Her chest rose with a deep breath, then fell, but she said nothing, just watched him standing in the doorway to her bedroom as if she expected him to dissolve into vapor. But desperately, desperately didn't want him to. His heart didn't just kick, it struck the insides of his chest with a force sure to bruise. "Hawk." Ethan murmured something to his sister, then stood and strode across the room. "I'm glad you're here." He couldn't stop staring at her, couldn't stop the truth from racing through him. She'd called Ethan following the attack. Not Nicholas. "How is she?" he asked quietly. Ethan frowned. "More messed up than she wants to admit." Hawk absorbed the information, knew if anyone would know howElizabethreally felt, what she really thought, it would be her twin.Elizabethhad often talked of their uncanny connection, the way they felt each other's happiness, pain. And Hawk had always wondered what would have happened if his brother


had lived, or if, as one of the hokey books he'd read put it, part of him had died at the moment of his birth. Ethan glanced back at her, then to Hawk. "Can you stay with her? I need to make a few phone calls." To the ambassador, no doubt. And to Washington, the FBI. Zhukov had struck boldly this time. Foolishly. It made no sense that he would strike when his chances of success were just about zero. It was almost as if the bastard was toying with them, teasing in a way. Taunting. "Go," he told her brother, then reminded himself to breathe. Ethan looked at his sister one last time before striding away, leaving them alone in a room aglow with the light of candles. Hawk couldn't look at her without seeing the sheets thrown back and tangled at the foot of the bed. This was a room for making love, he thought grimly, for long, hard kisses and soft, teasing touches, not the twisted foreplay of a demented killer. The thought, the reality of what that man could have done to her, might still try to do to her, torched the cage on his emotion, the body armor of control he'd strapped so rigorously into place. He wanted to cross the soft carpet separating them, scoop her into his arms and crush her against him, hold her to his body, his chest, tangle his hands in her damp hair and promise her,promise her, Zhukov would never touch her again. That he would pay for what he'd already done. Pay hard. But that's not what she needed from him. She didn't need ferocity. She didn't need vehemence. She didn't need to think for even one fraction of one second that he wasn't in control. Control, after all, defined her world. Slowly he started toward her, crossing her room the way he'd crossed a storefront inMogadishu, knowing every step brought him closer to the unknown. He had to go anyway, couldn't linger in the safety of the shadows like a coward. She watched him approach, until he stood so close she had to tilt her face to see him. He went down on one knee, tried like hell to keep his hands from shaking. "If you'd wanted me to spend the night, sweetness, all you had to do was ask." He hadn't thought it possible, but her eyes went even darker. "He was here," she said in a mechanical tone that reminded him sickeningly of the voice on the Lear, the one that had warned him he was going down. He was going down, all right. Hard and fast and for the count. "Waiting for me," she added. "Until I was in the shower." It took all his strength, but Hawk kept himself very still, all business, the consummate professional, even as black spots clouded his vision. "What happened?" She looked beyond his shoulder, toward the bathroom. "The lights went out," she said lifting her arms to hug them around her chest. Hawk braced himself. The sight ofElizabethlike this, shaken and vulnerable, ate at him in ways he hadn't known possible. "Did he hurt you, Elizabeth?" He forced the question out, ignoring the raw edge as he did so. "Did he


touch you?" She shook her head, sending tendrils of damp hair across her face and shoulders. "He grabbed me through the shower curtain." The slow boil turned insidiously cold. Z had touched her, grabbed her while she was naked. "Did he—" Her eyes flared wide. "No." He lost it then, the control he knew she wanted him to exhibit. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't just kneel there in the dark and watch her struggle to hold herself together. Everything inside him was hard, broken, jagged, but he forced himself to go slow, be gentle. She went willingly into his arms, sliding off the bed and onto her knees facing him, her body flush against his. He closed her in his arms and buried his face against her hair, still damp and smelling of vanilla. God help him, she held on just as tightly. "I'm sorry," he murmured against her hair. "So damn sorry I wasn't here." That he'd let emotion blind him to his job. "It wouldn't have mattered," she said, sliding an arm along his back, so that her hand curled over his shoulder. "He locked my bedroom door. You couldn't have gotten in any more than Aaron could have." Hawk pulled back and took her face in his hands, spread his fingers wide, his pinkies going into her hair, his thumbs rubbing her mouth. He tried to bring himself under control but knew everything he felt, everything he couldn't control, glittered in his eyes. "The door hasn't been made," he said very slowly, with every ounce of deliberation he could muster, "that could keep me from you." The truth, he realized grimly. The truth. Her mouth tumbled open. "Wesley—" He felt himself lean toward her, seek out her mouth, open and tilted toward him, forced himself to stand instead. "Come on." He extended his hand, even as his body burned to extend so much more. She placed her palm in his and stood. "Where are we going?" Her flesh was cold, like ice. "I'm taking you to your parents' house." The Windsor Farms estate was impenetrable. Security gates, cameras, dogs, the most sophisticated surveillance equipment money could buy. "You'll be safe there." "No." He stopped and twisted toward her. "What do you mean no?" "I mean no," she said, and then, right before his eyes, the vulnerable girl vanished, and the confident woman returned. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. "I want to be with you." The quietly spoken words slammed into him. "That's not a good idea." In fact, it was downright


atrocious. "You'll be better off at your parents'." "Zhukov won't look for me at your house," she pointed out. No, but that didn't mean she'd be safe. "Elizabeth—" She tightened her grip on his fingers. "Don't make me beg." The light blazed back into her eyes, the knowing little glint that told him she had an ace to play. "I danced with you tonight, Wesley. In the ladies' room. I took your dare. I proved to us both I'm not the coward you want me to be." She paused, lifted a hand to slide a swath of hair back from his cheekbone. "Are you?" Sweet mercy, he wasn't a coward. He was toast. *** Elizabethsipped from a mug of hot chocolate, but the warm liquid did little to ease the chill deep inside. She saton Hawk's wide ivory sofa, under the soft, crocheted afghan he'd draped around her shoulders, and practiced the breathing exercises her yoga instructor swore by. Two battered yellow cats sprawled all over her, purring like there was no tomorrow. Across the room, an old wooden mantel clock pushed toward three. Not much had changed in the two years since she'd last been to Hawk's small house just south of town. The furniture remained an eclectic combination of contemporary and early American, the most striking feature a charming antique secretary that looked massively out of place in a bachelor's home, but which she suspected had belonged to his mother. Not much art adorned the walls. And, surprisingly, not much clutter lay strewn around. No shoes or socks or fast-food bags, no year-old magazines, no dirty dishes. Only one book sat on the old sea trunk, a well-worn copy of Steven Ambrose'sCusterand Crazy Horse. He didn't want her here. The knowledge chafed as much as it puzzled. For three days he'd been doing his best to stay in her face, but here, now, when she wanted to be with him, he acted as if she'd asked him to walk barefoot over hot coals. He stood at the window on the far side of the room, with his back to her, as he had been doing for close to thirty minutes. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing. It didn't make sense that he wouldn't look at her, talk to her, nor did it make sense that from the moment the lights had gone out in her town house, only one name had screamed through her mind. Wesley. Wesley. The control she'd been trying so diligently to maintain snapped. She eased Mean Joe and Ditka from her lap and stood, stepped toward the window. "What do you see out there?" His shoulders stiffened but he said nothing, just stood there in the tuxedo he'd worn to the auction. He'd tossed the jacket over the back of a chair, but the white shirt remained stretched across his shoulders, open deep at the throat to reveal dog tags dangling from his silver chain. The bow tie was long since gone. "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"Monroewas not a man a woman forgot. No matter how hardElizabethhad 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 alwaysfit." 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, Elizabethbled. "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.Elizabethstretched 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,Elizabethlooked 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." Elizabethsat back and stared. This, she realized, was the secret mission Miranda and Hawk had embarked upon yesterday. Miranda had toldElizabethabout 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. Elizabethcouldn'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, butElizabethhad 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. As a little girl,Elizabethhad loved her mother's rose garden. As a young girl, she'd fantasized about being married among the riot of blooms. As a teenager, she'd brokenheartedly watched Kristina and Nicholas dancing in the white gazebo, watched her sister lift her face for a kiss. As a young woman, after Kris's death, she'd held Nicholas's hand while he sat on the white bench and cried. When the years had gone by and he'd asked her to dinner one night, it was as though they were different people, not Kristina's kid sister and her shattered ex-fiancé, but a man and woman with common interests, shared friends, mutual goals. It had all seemed so right. And then Wesley had walked into her life, and nothing had ever seemed right again.


She'd tried. She'd tried to stick to the plan. She'd tried to stay on the path she'd been traveling. When Nicholas returned from an assignment inLondonand asked her to marry him, it had been the culmination of what she'd always thought she wanted, a girlhood dream come true. She'd known she couldn't let a steamy one-night stand distract her. And that's all she and Hawk had ever shared, one night of hot sex. He'd been her bodyguard, she his assignment, and one night the game of truth or dare had gone too far, and they'd wound up in bed. That was all. Or so she'd thought. Now, though, now she had to wonder. If that had been all, she should have been able to forget him. She should be able to close her eyes at night without seeing those hot, blazing eyes. She should be able to run a bar of soap along her body without feeling his hands, so big and rough and capable, doing the same. And heaven help her, she should be able to see him walk into a room without feeling everything inside her leap to immediate and painful attention. And most of all, if that were true, she should be able to accept that the final act had, once and for all, played itself out. "Elizabeth?" She blinked, ripped her gaze from the soft yellow and pink rose petals. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?" Nicholas frowned. "I asked you a question. Where was Wesley Monroe when you were attacked?" Her chest tightened. He hadn't been with her at the townhouse, that was true. But he'd been there a heartbeat later, charging into her darkened bedroom like an avenging warrior. The look on his face… God, the look on his face. "He didn't expect Zhukov to strike," she said. "The authorities thought Z would lay low, regroup." Nicholas swore softly. "Looks like they were wrong." He reached out to the small of her waist and drew her toward him. "I should have gone inside with you, damn it. None of this would have happened then." She forced a smile. "I appreciate the sentiment, but there's nothing you could have done. The man was in my bedroom." His blue eyes, so hard and crystalline moments before, softened. "That's where I would have been, too." The husky words crawled over her, as though he'd touched her with his hands. She looked at him standing against a backdrop of roses and blue sky, a tall blond man in pressed khakis and a golf shirt the same azure as his eyes, and. felt … nothing. "Nicholas—" He skimmed a hand up to her face. "Come away with me, Elizabeth. Let me take you somewhere far from here,Belizemaybe,Grand Cayman, a place where I can guarantee you'll be safe until Zhukov is back in custody." Now she felt something, but it wasn't love or desire or any of the other emotions she knew he wanted


her to feel, thatshe had once wanted to feel. She felt only sorrow, maybe pity. She couldn't give this man what he wanted, and she could no longer pretend. Only a few days before, before she'd gone to Calgary and before Wesley had scooped her into his arms and run with her through the darkened ballroom and into the rain-soaked night, before he'd again looked at her through those hot blazing eyes and claimed her mouth in a kiss that still had the power to heat her blood, before all that, she'd thought maybe, just maybe, she could have a future with Nicholas. Do you really want to spend your life with a man who doesn't know how to make you feel anything? Who can't reach you? The answer landed hard on the cobblestone path at her feet. Chapter 12 «^» No. She didn't. No matter what went down between her and Hawk, she could not spend her life with a man whose touch left her colder than the sleet falling that night two years before, when she'd stood in the frozen rain, watching two security guards drag Hawk from her parents' property. The night she'd proven herself the coward he claimed her to be. "Nicholas." Gently she twisted from his arms and stepped from his touch, welcomed the warming rays of the early-afternoon sun. "You've been such a good friend to me." He went absolutely still, all but the wind rustling his golden hair. "I love you." Her throat burned. All her life she'd been the family peace-keeper. She hated conflict. She hated to cause pain. Ethan had teased her relentlessly for escorting spiders out of the house, rather than squashing them with her shoe. But now she had no choice. She couldn't continue the charade, not when the truth seared through her. In perpetuating a lie, she'd hurt them both. And Wesley. God help her, she was beginning to suspect she'd hurt him worst of all. "I can't go away with you." Couldn't love him, couldn't marry him. "It's just … not right anymore." He stepped toward her, stopped without touching. "You're confused right now, sweetheart. That's all. You've been through a horrible ordeal. Just give it some time. Give us some time." She slid a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "It's not about time, Nicky. We've had time." He lifted a hand, let it fall. "What are you saying?" The question wavered between them, mingled with the soft scent of rose. She didn't love him, now realized she probably never had. She'd justwanted to love him, thought sheshould love him. But love didn't come on demand or when it was convenient. Nicholas had been little more than a fantasy leftover from her childhood. "I'm sorry."


She saw the hurt wash over his features, saw him work to hide the emotion. "Is there someone else?" he asked with a stoicism that nicked at her heart. She glanced at the sea of roses, with their faces all open and reaching toward the sun, blazing against a backdrop of blue, blue sky. A few blooms had passed their peak, she noted absently. She would find her mother's shears, cut away that which had passed its prime. "This isn't about anyone but you and me," she said gently, returning her gaze to Nicholas. Emotion, the truth, burned the backs of her eyes. Kristina wasn't the only Carrington daughter who died that snowy January day eleven years before. Part ofElizabethhad died with her. Part ofElizabethhad been buried. Until Wesley. "I've been living in a dream that isn't real," she said, realizing how right Wesley had been. It wasn't Zhukov or Wesley that she feared. It was the woman she'd seen in the mirror just that morning, dwarfed by his big gray Army T-shirt, with her hair hanging loose the way he preferred, the woman who'd been buried for so long, who'd lain dormant, who now begged to live again. Softly she smiled. "It's time for me to find out what is." *** "Wes, my man. Long time no see." The voice blasted in from the past and jarred Hawk from the microbrew he'd been nursing. "Logan." With a slow smile he stood from the small table in the far corner ofLogan's Ale House and exchanged backslaps with the compact man he hadn't seen in close to two years. "How the hell are you?" His friend laughed. "A heck of a lot better than you, I'd have to say. You been staring at that beer for the last thirty minutes like you expect it to grow breasts or something." A hard sound broke from Hawk's throat. "Or something." Loganspun a chair around and straddled it. "Thought you were still inEurope." Hawk sat. "Haven't been back that long." "I heard you were shot." "Nothing serious." A knowing smile curved his friend's mouth. "Right. Nothing serious. Kind of like the time Melanie's brother caught the two of you in the stables and tried to skewer you with a pitchfork."Loganshoved long hair out of his face. "Sweet Mary, I thought you were gonna bleed to death right on my front porch." Instinctively, Hawk's hand found his upper leg, and rubbed. The memory came next, spewed from that place he'd shoved the years spent with Steven's family. That night, he'd barely escaped with his life. Later, he'd barely escaped with a future. But he'd learned. He'd learned to keep what he thought, what he felt, what he wanted, close to the


chest. That way no one could ever trample it. Steal it. Destroy. "Flesh wound." He picked up his beer and took a deep swig, found it bitter and warm. "Both times." Logansignaled for a drink. "Yeah, that's what Ellie told me, but it's good to hear it from the horse's mouth." Hawk slammed the mug against the scarred wood table. "You talked toElizabeth?" "She came in a few months back, after you'd been shot." He absorbed the information, tried to process it, to imagine.Elizabeth. Here. AtLogan's. Again. "Here?" Logannodded. "It was just after lunch, I think. She came in wearing one of those fancy pantsuits with her hair all twisted back like you hate." He paused, grinned. "Damn, she smelled good." The server came over and handedLogana tumbler of Scotch. "On in about five?" He glanced at his watch. "About." "I'll let Abe and Mac know." "You're sounding good," Hawk commented. He and Logan had first patched together a band over fifteen years before, when, as sons of single, working mothers, they'd been convinced The Junkyard Dogs would be their ticket to food on the table.Loganhad served as guitarist, Hawk as vocals. Another kid had let loose on the drums. The garage band hadn't changed their fortunes, not in a monetary sense, but it had provided an outlet for the hormone-inspired emotion of puberty. "You should join us for a set,"Logansaid. "Dust off the old pipes." Hawk glanced at the small stage where the Dogs performed. He'd left the band officially when he joined the Army, but after returning, he'd continued to jam with them from time to time. Like that night two years before. He'd thrown down the gauntlet, told her where he was going and what he was doing, let it be very clear that he knew she was too locked in her tidy little world to go slumming with him. She'd proved him wrong. God, how she'd proved him wrong. Until the next morning, when she'd proved him right. "It's been a long time." A lifetime in some regards, just yesterday in others. "Why didElizabethcome here? What did she want?" Loganeyed him long and hard. "To tell me about you." Hawk sat back in his chair. "She came to tell you about the shooting?" "It had made the news, and she wanted me to know you were okay."


The burn stared low, spread fast. She'd not called him, sent him a get well card, nothing. But she'd gone to see his friend, to let him know Hawk was okay. Frustration twisted through him, reinforcing his decision to remove himself from the assignment. He'd made a crucial mistake. He'd been wrong to try to rewrite history. He'd been foolish to think he could play with fire without getting burned. I danced with you tonight, Wesley. I took your dare. I proved to us both I'm not the coward you want me to be. Christ, that wasn't all she'd proved. Frowning, he glanced at his watch, saw thirty minutes remained before Aaron checked in. She was safe, he reminded himself. Intel had picked up Zhukov's scent south of the border, but Hawk had insisted on tightening the security atElizabeth's town house, changing the locks, adding motion detectors and surveillance cameras. He knew better than to relax too soon. The worst damage always, always came to those who didn't suspect. Zhukov was behaving unpredictably. Two and two were not adding to four, and Hawk couldn't shake the feeling they were overlooking something fundamental. Something vital. The break-in atElizabeth's home carried none of Zhukov's MO, prompting the FBI to suspect a copycat could be at work. Deep in his bones, Hawk had to wonder. Jorak Zhukov, son of a war-torn country, Harvard graduate, and suspect in the murders of an elite force ofU.S.operatives, was a planner, a meticulous, diabolical criminal with aspirations far more sinister than playing cat and mouse. His interest inElizabethwas beginning to feel a hell of a lot more personal than strategic. The thought of that man getting his hands on her, of him carrying out some sick fantasy, twisted him up inside. He wanted to go to her, not let her out of his sight, make damn sure Zhukov never had the chance to carry out his little scheme, whatever the hell it was. And yet Hawk knew his presence would only deepen the danger. He didn't trust him self with her right now. She was better off—safer—at her parents' house. With Aaron. His goal had seemed simple enough. Make her remember. Make her admit. But he'd overlooked a fundamental truth. In bringing the past back to life for her, he would bring it to life for himself. In making her remember, he would remember. In making her admit, he had to admit. And in admitting, he lost every shred of objectivity. For two years he'd insisted he felt nothing for her. For two years he'd let the sting of rejection overshadow everything else, not just the blinding intensity of their lovemaking, but the fascination that had lashed through him the moment she'd walked into her father's study, all dressed to the nines with her hair pulled from her face, revealing those provocative green eyes. The chemistry had flared immediately, a teasing, back and forth, in-your-face banter that had fired his blood and his imagination, disabling everything he'd taught himself about survival.


Now the truth grated at him. What started out physical had transformed itself into something wild and glimmering and completely impossible. At least for him. He wanted Elizabeth Carrington not just in his bed, but his life, not just for an hour or a day or a week, but as far forward as he could see. And that, he knew, could never happen. The truth of who and what they were would always stand between them. "What do you say, Wes? Up for a set?" Hawk glanced at the small stage, saw the microphone standing like a lonely soldier and felt the call of oblivion. Music, with all its hard, untamed edges, had always provided a release. "I'm here, aren't I?" He pushed back his chair and started for the stage but stopped abruptly. The sensation washed over him for the second time that evening, the prickly awareness of being watched. He narrowed his eyes and searched the swelling crowd, but like the first time, found nothing. Even here, he realized, even here, he felt her. Swearing under his breath, he ignored the tightening deep inside, the one that had grabbed him the moment he'd seenElizabethagain, all polished and poised and beautiful, standing on that stage inCalgary. The moment he'd touched her again, tasted her. "Ladies and gentlemen,"Logansaid, "I've got a treat for you tonight. An old friend, one of the original Dogs, Wes Monroe." Cheers and applause rose from the blur of the crowd. Hawk took the mike and looked out into the darkness. At one time the band, gigs like this, had been an important part of his life, the family he'd never had. After his mother joined Steven's household, she'd frequently worked evenings, and Melanie had had a fondness for meeting up with Hawk aftermidnight. The evenings had belonged to her acceptable friends, leaving him with a monster-size chip on his shoulder and too much time on his hands. "Evenin'," he said, and anticipation thrummed deep. He hadn't sung with the Dogs since his first stint with Elizabeth. The last time he'd taken this stage… God, a few hours later he'd taken a hell of a lot more. "A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three." On cue,Loganbrought his guitar to life, strumming a riff from the Stones. Abe let loose on the drums, Mac joined in with the bass and Hawk closed his eyes and let go. The words, not sung in years, returned with a vengeance. To his own ears they sounded torn from somewhere inside him, torn deep, butElizabethhad once admitted she thought of his voice as crushed velvet. He wanted to crush something, all right, but velvet wasn't even close. Glancing atLogan, he signaled anther tune, this one a Clapton. The band responded, moving through each subsequent song effortlessly, as though two days had passed since they last performed together, not years. Hawk held the mike close to his mouth and kept his eyes squeezed shut more often than not, preferring his own images, his own instinct, to seeing the crowd. Six songs raced by, and the anxiety he'd pushed aside nudged a little closer. Thirty minutes, he knew.


Time for Aaron to check in. "One more," he mouthed toLogan, then instructed him which to play. The moody music seared through him. "In the still of the night," he began, shoving the hair from his face, "when the world has gone to sleep, she'll come to me then. She'll come to me still." The words he'd written two years before scratched against a throat already raw, came out like sandpaper. "It's a dangerous impulse," he rasped, wrapping both hands around the mike, "to touch the shadows, to make love to the past, and somehow think it could be the future." Spotlights glared down on the stage, casting the bar in darkness, but still he stared. The past dominated his line of vision, the woman in black leather, moving toward him, slowly, sinuously, never breaking eye contact with the man who no longer trusted what he saw. "In the darkness I can feel her still," he gritted out, "feel her always." She stepped from the darkness, the past, took the stage with a confidence that stripped the breath, the words, from his throat. And then, oh, dear sweet Lord in Heaven, with a smile that stopped his heart, she put her hands to his and took over. "A dangerous impulse," she added in that low, honeyed voice, the one that oozed of hot summer nights and long hours in bed. "The only kind worth indulging." The bar, dark to begin with, faded, leaving not the past, butElizabeth, dominating not his dreams, but standing next to him. In leather. Sweet heaven, leather. Just like before. Her hair was long and loose and more than a little tangled. Her black top dipped low, drawing his eyes to the small diamond teardrop arrowing down between her breasts. Her pants fit snugly, conforming to every curve of her body. Somehow, he kept singing. She kept singing. Their hands still joined, their bodies straining closer. The words came from memory, the past. Just like before. And when the music died and the crowd roared their approval, he grabbed her hand and dragged her from the stage. Fury, with all its cold, jagged edges, bit through him. "What the hell are you doing here?" She lifted her chin, gave him a slow, heated smile. "Looking for you." He was so hosed. "You're supposed to be at your parents' house." Where he knew she would be safe. "Where's Arrow?" She gestured toward the bar. "There," she said. "With Jagger." Hawk twisted to see his two best men sitting on bar stools, watching intently. With his trained eye, he could tell they were packing. "Son of a—" He broke toward them, butElizabethheld him back. "I asked them to bring me here." "They should have said no." "I didn't give them a choice." "We all have choices."


She stepped closer, sliding an arm around his waist. "And I've made mine." Everything inside him went very still. He stared down into her slumberous green eyes, and realized just how cruel temptation could be. "Be very clear here,Elizabeth. What are you saying?" She didn't hesitate. She pushed up on her toes and brushed her mouth over his. "Last night you dared me to do something unexpected, unplanned, maybe even unorthodox." He pushed back from her, bit back a stream of words she would not want to hear. "I'm not interested in playing truth or dare with you, sweetness. Not anymore." Couldn't. Not when so much lay at stake. She lifted a hand to his face, let fingers feather across the whiskers along his jaw. "I'm not playing." He tried to back away, found she had him against a wall. Only a few months before he'd told Miranda lightning never struck in the same place twice. Now he had to wonder. "What's the matter?" she asked slowly, provocatively. "This isn't part ofyour plan?" His own words splashed against him like acid. His plan. God, no. She wasn't supposed to follow him. She was supposed to accept his rejection, just as he'd accepted hers. Following him here, touching him, offering him everything he'd ever wanted, was definitely not part of his plan. All that control he'd tried to piece together betrayed him, crumbling to his feet like harmless little pebbles. "Plans?" he asked, drawing her against his body."You know what they say about plans." She tilted her face toward his, revealing long, dark hair teasing killer cheekbones. "They're made to be broken." Ah, hell. Not just broken, shattered. "Come on." He took her hand, headed for the door. *** Time dwindled. He watched the headlights of the sleek black Toyota Camry cut through the darkness, slide neatly into a spot on the street outside her town home. Moments later came the light, just one, glowing softly, from the front window. In the shadows, he waited for the show to begin. Monroewas a careful man. He wouldn't rely on the security system, not after the breach the night before. Too easily he could picture the man slinking through the town house, his back to the wall and a gun in his hand, checking every room. Laughter mingled with the warm, late-summer breeze. Monroecould try, but in the end he would fail. The trap had already been laid, meticulously, with great cunning. No one could see what was coming. He'd made sure of that. No one suspected his greater plan. The time for waiting was over. The time for action had come. And this time, this time there would be no escape, no inept idiots who didn't know how to carry out a mission. He'd take matters into his own


hands. It was the only way. If you want something done right,his father had taught,you do it yourself. It was a lesson he'd learned well, a lesson, tragically, that had ultimately defeated the very man from whom he'd learned. This time there would be no defeat. Not for him. Only retribution. Those who misbehaved always, always had to be punished. Another light then, illuminating the main room of her home, where a chenille sofa sat opposite an antique armoire. Shadows then, his and hers, moving into the room. But not touching. They circled each other, predators on the prowl. The kill, he knew, would come swift and soon, and the dance of this night would be nothing more than memory. "The last laugh, Father. I promised you I would have the last laugh, and I will." Anticipation tickled like the touch of a skillful woman. His body responded in kind. In his hand, he caressed the silk stocking he'd taken from her room inCalgary. He doubted she'd noticed. She'd been too blinded by the bodyguard. What a shame, too. What a shame for them both. The oldest vulnerability known to man would soon claim another victim. Wesley Monroe would not always be there to stand between him and Elizabeth Carrington. And after he was done, after he'd touched and tasted and punished,Monroewould never stand between them, ever, ever again. *** Elizabethwatched him prowl the length of her town house, moving silently from the kitchen to the living room window. In his hand he still held his gun, drawn before they'd opened the door. In every hard line of his body, she saw a barely concealed restraint she didn't understand. She didn't know what she'd expected, only knew it wasn't this. She'd never invited a man back to her place before, never sat next to a man in the darkness of her own car, knowing that every mile they covered brought them that much closer to her bedroom. Her throat tightened. Going to him had cost her, and yet she'd realized that not going to him, clinging so ridiculously to a flawed plan, could cost her even more. But, God, she'd never anticipated this. She'd never stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, Hawk no longer wanted her. Maybe she'd killed that desire the night she'd accepted Nicholas's marriage proposal, not even bothering to tell Wesley, leaving him to read it in the newspaper. Maybe he'd been telling her the truth, she realized numbly. Maybe she'd already given him all he wanted from her. An admission.


Everything inside of her twisted, but she kept her chin at a fierce angle. Later she would fall apart. Now she had to be strong, not let him see the regret that warred so violently with determination. "You don't have to be here," she forced herself to say. "I'm not a charity case." He spun around and was across the room so swiftly her heart didn't even have a chance to beat. "A charity case? Is that what you think this is about?" She stared up at him, looked at the dark blond hair falling against his wide cheekbones, those hot burning eyes, and felt something inside her reaching, reaching. "Last time—" "—was a mistake. Isn't that what you said?" The hurt came fast, stabbed deep. Memory bled through. The night they'd made love had started at the bar, as well. She'd gone to him that night, on a dare. She'd stood quietly in the shadows, watching him on the stage, her take-no-prisoners bodyguard, singing with the voice of a fallen angel. He'd held the mike close to his mouth, and as she'd watched, she'd been blinded by the desire to take the place of the mike, to feel him hold her so tightly, to feel his lips moving against hers. To this day she didn't know what compulsion prompted her to take the stage, sing with him. Once there, though, the look of raw shock on his face had given her all the confidence she'd needed. He'd dragged her out of the bar then, too, but at the time she'd thought him angry with her. The second they stepped inside his house, though, she'd realized her mistake. He pulled her into his arms before the door even closed and took her mouth with his. They'd never even made it to the bedroom. Not the first time, anyway. "A surprise," she said now. "I … I never knew I could feel like that, want like that." So badly that she thought she might just die from it. The planes of his face tightened. "And now?" She swallowed hard. She had no practice at this, at telling a man she wanted to make love with him. "I looked in the mirror," she said. That morning, at his house, while still wearing his ratty gray Army T-shirt. "Like you asked me to. I looked in the mirror and realized you were right." The rhythm of her heart changed, deepened. A certainty she'd never felt before seduced. "I don't want to be afraid anymore, Wesley. I'm tired of pushing away what I want most." Tired of being a coward, of running from life, rather than living it. The admission cost her, but Wesley gave nothing in return. He just stood there staring at her, wooden, soldier-like. But then the dead calm of his eyes supernovaed, and the glitter returned, the glitter from the night inCalgary, when they'd stood in the cold rain, the glitter from the white marble bathroom, when he'd challenged her to take a little risk, so intense now, it scorched to the bone. "The black dress, Ellie. The one from last night. I want you to put it on." The words were matter-of-fact, but the breath jammed in her throat, anyway. "Why?" His smile was slow, languorous. "So I can take it off."


Chapter 13 «^» Her hands shook. She put the shimmering pearls to her neck, fumbled with the clasp until it locked snugly. In the full-length oval mirror she saw the black iridescent strand drape over her collarbone, highlighting the deep-V cut of the dress, the exposed triangle of flesh beneath her breasts. Anticipation whispered louder. She'd never dressed for a man before, knowing he stood downstairs, waiting to slide the slinky fabric from her body. And that she would let him. More than just let him, she thought, glancing at her nightstand, where inside a drawer, a small blue box waited.Let him sounded too passive. There was nothing passive about the truth burning through her. The thrill, the lure of the forbidden, tickled deep. With a slow smile, she twisted her hair off her face and pinned back the stragglers. Just a few more minutes, she knew. Just a few more minutes, and that tight little box she lived her life in would shatter. She stared at the womaninthe mirror, the glow to the green eyes she'd trained to show no emotion, the flush to the ivory skin she protectedfromthe sun. The sparkle to her shoulders, where she'd dabbed the glitter lotion Miranda had given her for Christmas. The form-fitting black dress that Wesley had dared her to order. The one he would soon peel from her body. For so long she'd lived in denial, but from the moment Wesley had blazed back into her life, all those defenses she'd tacked into place had splintered into a need she didn't understand. The need to reach out to a man who held the world at bay. The need to discover what lurked behind that simmering sexuality. The need to find out, once and for all, if he'd been right, if she'd planned the living out of her life. Need, she'd come to realize, could be the most dangerous foe of all. Not now, though. She was done fighting, wanted only to touch and taste, to discover. To live. To lo— Startled, she turned from the mirror and lit the candles on her nightstand, turned off the overhead light and walked into the hallway. Downstairs the flickering light of an army of candles stopped her cold. They were everywhere, short and tall, thin, thick, plain white and multicolored, winking from her coffee table, her mantel, from a decorative pedestal near the back door, where a massive ivy normally sat, all wavering valiantly, transforming the darkened room into a twinkling realm of shadows. The soft sounds of jazz registered next, drifting from her stereo and straight through her heart. Humming only minutes before, it slammed hard now, bringing not pain, as it had a few days before, but a sense of awe like nothing she'd ever known. And then she saw him, and flat-out forgot to breathe. He stood at the window, much as he had when she'd gone upstairs to change. Only, somehow, he'd


changed as well. He still wore the faded jeans that hugged his long legs in all the right places, still wore the wrinkled ivory button-down from the club. But the way he was standing … no longer was it the soldier, the loner bracing himself against the world. "Wesley." Slowly he turned to her, and even more slowly, smiled. Not just his mouth, though of course it curved in the carnal way that heated her blood. But his eyes, they smiled, too. Not a bright happy smile, but a dark, glittering smile, brimming with masculine approval. And desire. "I'd offer you a rose—" "I don't want a rose," she answered before he could finish. He didn't move, just watched her with the sharply honed intensity of a man who'd come to expect what he wanted most to be snatched away. "Be very, very sure,Elizabeth." His voice was soft, coarse, but somehow it still managed to break her heart. "Once I take off that dress, there's no turning back." The dark promise tingled through her. He didn't move, though, so she stepped toward him. It was her move, she realized instinctively. She was the one who'd not just turned from him before, but had run as far and fast as she could. "I don't want to turn back." The lines of his face went harder. "There are things about me you don't know—" "And there are things you don't know about me." She took another step, another breath. Regret jammed in her throat. She'd done this to him. She'd hurt him in ways she hadn't known possible. That's why he stood there now, looking at her with desire smoldering in his eyes, but refusing to let his body take one step. Somewhere inside, that young boy still lived, the one who'd craved love, who'd found the support of a good man, only to have the promise of a future yanked from beneath his feet, leaving him no choice but to join the Army to pay for his education. He'd seen the worst humanity had to offer, but through sheer force of will, he'd survived. And now he directed that will toward her. He stood there in the flickering light of the candles, staring at her as if she'd become the enemy, as though she was the one with a weapon in hand, ready to betray him like so many had before her. The way she herself had done not that long ago. All but his eyes. The truth glittered there, the unchained desire she'd dreamed about for years. Swallowing against a painfully tight throat, she took another step and forced a teasing smile. "Do you have a terrible disease?" Dark blond hair fell against his cheekbones. "No." "Are you secretly married and have five kids stashed away in another state?" "No." The flash of relief was ridiculous. "Do you not want me?"


His eyes flared. "God, no." "Then that's all I need to know," she said, and closed the distance between them. She didn't touch, though, no matter how badly she wanted to put her hands on the hard planes of his chest and spread them over his shoulders. She just looked at him, standing there framed by her window, thrill-a-minute Hawk Monroe, her bodyguard, the only man who'd ever reached her, touched her, made her want more. "You were right," she said, and temptation took over. She lifted a hand to his face, let her fingers trail over soft red and gold whiskers. "Two years ago I made the worst mistake of my life." She saw him wince, saw him brace, felt her heart scream in protest. "Not in making love with you," she clarified, allowing her thumb to strum his lower lip. "The mistake was walking away. The mistake was not waiting to see how far the wave would take us." A purely masculine sound broke from his throat. "Ellie—" "I want that now." She let all the emotion bleeding from her heart, all the emotion heating her blood, slide into a slow curve of her lips. Then she indulged. She lifted her free handto his chest, pressed her palm over his heart and absorbed all that heat. "I want you." The admission thrilled her, even as it terrified. She'd never offered herself to a man before. She'd never put everything she wanted right out there on the table between them, where it could be scrutinized. And rejected. She dipped her thumb inside his mouth. "This moment, this night. Can you give me that?" At first he said nothing, did nothing, just stood there and watched her. Then slowly, his mouth closed around her thumb and pulled her deep. His hand came next. He lifted it to her face and slid his fingers along her cheekbone to one of the pins she'd secured a few minutes before. "You know I prefer your hair down." Heat swam through her. "Yes, I know." He plucked the pin free, let a curl fall against the side of her face. "Trying to torture me?" The smile came all by itself, languorous, decadent, wicked, just like his. "Maybe." Another curl fell loose. "You know what they say," he said, and his voice pitched low. "About payback?" Oh, yes. "Why do you think I did it?" Surprise registered in his eyes, for just a heartbeat, quickly replaced by pleasure. His gaze dipped from her face along her neck, lingered on the strand of black pearls, then cruised lower still, to the bodice of the black dress. "I used to imagine what this dress would look like on you. What it would feel like," he added, "to do this." He lifted a hand, traced his index finger along the triangle of flesh beneath her breasts. They puckered at the promise, ached.


"And like this." Leaning closer, he skimmed his mouth along her collarbone, sending moist heat swimming through her. "What else?" she asked, breathless. He looked up at her, and his eyes heated. "To take it off." It shouldn't have been possible. It shouldn't have been possible for words to electrify every nerve ending in her body, to send need humming through her. And yet, when he talked to her in that crushed-velvet voice, when he looked at her with the promise of what lay ahead gleaming in the amber of his eyes, she knew anything was possible. A hook behind her neck and a zipper at her lower back. That's all that kept the dress on her body, all that kept her from standing before him in nothing but the black thong she'd slipped on when she changed clothes. But he reached for neither. "Wesley…" He skimmed a finger along her lips. "We have all night, Ellie." He drew her against his body. "Let's make it last." That's what she wanted. For this moment to last, not just during the dark hours of the night, but into the day and beyond, she wanted to preserve the way her body felt pressed to his, the rightness she felt as his hand slid along the exposed flesh of her middle back. Everywhere he touched, she burned. And everywhere she burned, she knew would never be the same. They started swaying then, moving in slow circles to the jazz drifting from the stereo. At the auction, in the white marble bathroom, surprise and uncertainty had combined to make her stand woodenly in his arms. Not this time. This time she curled her arms around his body and splayed her hands against his back, absorbed the solid warmth of him, the strength he exuded simply by being. She loved the feel of him pressed close, all heat and hard muscle, the barely concealed restraint. When the cage broke open… His mouth played along her neck, nibbled up to her ear, sent shivers racing. "There is something you need to know," he murmured. "SomethingI need you to know." The quietly grave words sliced through the haze of desire. She wanted to stay right where she was, with her face resting against his chest, but instinct warned her to tilt her head toward his, meet his gaze. "What?" Shadows flickered against the valley of his eyes, the fading bruise. "I lied." She stopped moving, stopped breathing. "About what?" He slid a hand up her neck, to cup the side of her face. "About what I wanted." Emotion jammed in her throat. "The admission?" His hold on her tightened. "I thought I knew," he said. "When your father asked me to fly toCalgary, I


thought, ah, finally.Elizabethwon't be able to run from me this time." The call of survival demanded that she pull away, put distance between them, quit drowning in the feel of his body pressed to hers. An equally strong call kept her in place. "But then we were in the plane," he gritted out, "and we started going down…" Memories came whizzing back, of those frantic moments when the plane had gone quiet and they'd sunk through the sky, the unwavering calm and determination with which Wesley had wrestled the Lear. Wrestled destiny. Her heart had hammered violently against her ribs, and yet, calm had blanketed her. "If anyone else had been flying that plane," she whispered, "I wouldn't be standing here right now." He skimmed a finger along her cheekbone. "Sweet God, Elizabeth. They say when you face death, when your time is up, that your whole life will flash before your eyes. That you'll see moments from your past, glimpses of a future you may never have." She lifted a hand to his face, eased the dark blond hair from his cheekbones. "That's only natural." "But that's not what I saw!" He tore away from her, backed away. "I saw you, damn it! Your life, not mine. I saw you that first day in your father's office, in that chic little pantsuit that shouldn't have been sexy, but was. I saw you the first time you flew the Lear by yourself, the thrill on your face when we left the ground and took flight." He paused, swore softly. "At your sister's grave," he added, and his voice broke. "That day you asked me to take you there. You tried to be so brave, damn it. You went down on your knees and laid the daisies against the tombstone, all the while trying not to cry." Shock paralyzed her. "Wesley—" "Do you know what that did to me?" he demanded. "Do you know how hard it was to stand there and be your bodyguard, to watch you struggle not to fall apart, and not step forward and pull you into my arms?" Oh, God. The room started to spin. BlindlyElizabethreached for the pedestal and braced herself, struggled to understand. "And then," he continued, "and then the night that changed everything." His eyes were hot again, burning. His hands curled into tight fists. "I saw you walk toward the stage in black leather. Saw you inside my pathetic little kitchen, fighting to get my clothes off as fast as I took yours off. Saw you beneath me. Saw you over me. Saw you come undone." Deep inside, something broke and gave way. She struggled for breath, but it wouldn't come. Words, but they wouldn't form. "You," he ground out. "You're all I saw." And she couldn't do it. Couldn't just stand there and listen, not when every word he said lashed at her heart with an intensity she'd never known possible. "Wesley," she said, and went to him, didn't hesitate, just pushed up on her toes and took his mouth with hers, poured all the broken edges inside of her, all that desire so long denied, into a kiss that had nothing to do with sex, but everything to do with the


emotion she'd faced in the mirror upstairs. "All I wanted," he said against her open mouth. "You." "I'm here," she said, twining her arms around him. "I'm not going anywhere." The kiss changed then, slowed, deepened. Before, he'd removed the pins from her hair one at a time, but now he fumbled with the twist, threaded his fingers through the long strands until they came tumbling against her shoulders. "So beautiful," he murmured, and pulled back to look at her. Candlelight danced across his wide cheekbones, emphasized the deep set to his eyes. They glowed now, shone like a light from which she could never turn. "So damn beautiful." Everything inside her reached for him, wanted. Ached. "Don't make me wait," she whispered, lifting her face to his. She'd been waiting too long. "Make love to me, Wesley. Make me lose control." Before she simply shattered. For a moment he just looked at her, looked hard. "Be careful what you ask for," he said in that hypnotic voice of his, then moved with a lightning quick stealth. He had her in his arms before she'd realized he moved, then turned and carried her through the flickering light of the candles. *** This was when he woke up. This was when he always, always woke up, body straining, tangled in the sheets, right there on the brink. Alone, though. The bed empty, Mean Joe and Ditka having long since abandoned the war zone for safer terrain. He would lie there in the darkness, breathing hard, as though he'd just been through rigorous physical conditioning rather than about to make love to the only woman who'd ever stolen his breath and stopped his heart. There were never candles. There was never the scent of vanilla. And God help him, she was never still in his arms by the time he reached her bedroom, watching him with those fascinating eyes, filled with a mixture of desire and vulnerability that could tangle a man up for the rest of his life. Her antique four-poster bed waited in the middle of the room, the deep purple comforter already turned back. Moonlight streamed in through a nearby window, mixing with the candlelight. She'd done this for him, he realized. When he'd sent her upstairs to put on the dress, she'd readied more than just herself. She'd readied her room. Her bed. Never in his wildest imaginings had he foreseen this. He wasn't waking up tonight. He wasn't going to sleep. He wasn't dreaming. He was … living. Loving. The word speared deep, but he ignored the flash of pain, focused instead on the amazement. Very slowly he lowered her to the plush cream carpeting, all the while keeping her in the circle of his arms. He had a promise to keep. A dress to remove.


She smiled up at him, slowly, provocatively, blasting the remnants of the control that had started to crumble downstairs. Downstairs? Hell, who was he trying to kid? What little control he possessed had long since shattered, not while the plane was plunging toward the earth, nor when he'd seen her up on the stage in Calgary, not when she'd had him kicked out of her engagement party, not when they'd made love, but farther back still, the moment she'd walked into her father's study. From that day on he'd been toast. Now need ripped through him like a blowtorch. He looked at her standing there in the moonlight, the ambassador's beautiful, untouchable daughter, with her hair falling around her face and that killer black dress hugging her body, and reminded himself to go slow, be gentle. He'd already screwed up once. His passion had been too hot, and he'd sent her running as far and fast as she could. This time he planned to show her in excruciating detail just how good it could be. They could be. Moonlight whispered across her face, played with her shoulders. "I like," he said, teasing his finger over the glittery sparkles. Then the pearls. "You remembered." She pushed up on her toes, brushed a kiss across his lips. "I thought you might want to take them off, too." He almost lost it right there. Instead he lifted the iridescent strand and fingered the pearls. "I think," he said slowly, then lifted his eyes to hers. "I'll leave them on." *** Dark promise glowed in his gaze, makingElizabeth's knees go weak. He would leave them on. Leave the pearls around her neck, while he took everything else off. "What will you leave on?" she asked in return. He skimmed his hand to the back of her neck, where the clasp of her dress waited. "What do you want me to leave on?" That was easy. The answer whispered free, brought with it a sense of freedom she'd never known. "Nothing." "My shirt maybe?" he asked, fingering the clasp. Narrowing her eyes, she went to work on the buttons of the wrinkled button down. "No." "My jeans?" he asked, skimming his other hand to the small of her back, where the zipper waited. "No," she murmured, releasing the last button. She put her palms to the hard planes of his stomach and slid upward, over his chest to his shoulders, where she eased the white cotton from his arms, smiling at the barbwire tattoo circling his right bicep. She'd dreamed of that tattoo, of putting her mouth to it and— The scar jarred her. She'd seen it before, in the hotel room inCalgary, the nasty slash where a bullet had ripped in beneath his shoulder. Only a few inches lower and he would never have rocked her world again. He wouldn't be standing here now, about to slide the dress from her body and make her forget everything but the moment, the man.


"I wanted to do this inCalgary," she admitted, putting her mouth to the scar. There she kissed, gently. "I wanted to do this two years ago." Wesley just stood there. "Elizabeth, don't." "Don't what?" She glanced up at him. "Kiss you? Tell you the truth?" Don't break my heart.The answer gleamed in his eyes, but he gave it no voice. "Don't cross lines you don't want to cross." "I'm not," she said, then returned her mouth to the hot, jagged flesh of his scar. He swore softly, then turned her in his arms, so that he faced her back. She felt his warm breath fan against her flesh, and shivered. His mouth came next, skimming along the exposed flesh of her shoulders. "A sock, maybe?" She absorbed the feel of his rough hands skimming along her body with a gentleness that made her want to cry, not knowing what came next, and loving every second of it. "I thought you wanted nothing between us," she reminded. He slid a hand lower, to the curve of her waist, the small of her back, lower, then finally, at last, with his other hand flicked the clasp at her neck and released the black halter. She almost came unglued right then and there, had never wanted anything more than she wanted this night with this man. And more. With a steadiness she didn't come close to feeling, she turned, let the slinky fabric of her dress slide down her chest, baring breasts she'd not covered with a bra. His eyes went dark. "Elizabeth." It was just her name, the name she'd been called all her life, but the way he said it, the way he looked at her, curled through her like a seductive mist. Everything inside her tingled, melted. Wanted. "Wesley," she whispered, then urged him down for another kiss. Their mouths met, melded. All that hot, untamed emotion inside of her, she poured it into the kiss, wanting him to know, but not knowing how to say. "Please." Against the small of her back she felt his other hand, felt the slide of the zipper. The dress loosened against her body, slipped against her hips. Anticipation licked hotter. Her heart hammered hard. She fumbled with the fly of his jeans, worked his zipper down. "Not yet," he muttered, tearing his mouth from hers and stepping back. The slinky black fabric slid down her body, pooled at her feet, leaving her standing there in strappy black sandals and thong panties, and nothing else. Once,Elizabethwould have rushed to cover herself, she would have caved into herself, grabbed the nearest blanket. But now she lifted her chin, let a slow smile curve her lips. For a moment Wesley did nothing. He just stood there in a puddle of moonlight, shirtless with his jeans unzipped, and looked at her. Never before had a gaze felt so much like an intimate caress. She shivered, itched to step closer and slide the hair from his face, see the depths of his eyes.


But he did that then, shoved the hair from his cheekbones and scorched her with his eyes. They were hot and burning, as always, but the light of the candles revealed a tenderness that lashed at her heart. And the moisture. Oh, the moisture. It glinted in his eyes, looked dangerously close to tears. Never in her life had she felt so beautiful. So wanted. So … cherished. "In the still of the night," he murmured in that crushed-velvet voice of his, and everything inside her went still. The song, she knew. He'd written it for her. "When the world has gone to sleep, she'll come to me then. She'll come to me still." Emotion jammed into her throat. "Wesley—" The hair fell back against his cheekbones. "It's a dangerous impulse," he went on, singing softly, achingly softly, "to touch the shadows, to make love to the past, and somehow think it could be the future." Her heart thrummed hard. "A dangerous impulse," she echoed, and closed the distance between them. "The only kind worth indulging." And then it was all over. All the waiting, the anticipation, the longing. He folded her in his arms, took her mouth with his. The kiss was hot and hard and devastating, all that unchained emotion channeled into a melding of their mouths. She kissed him back with everything she had, knowing no matter how hard she tried, she would never be close enough to this man. Never make up for what she'd done to him before. But she could try. They hit the bed in a tangle of arms and legs, hands shoving against the denim of his jeans, the cotton of his underwear, the silk of hers. Dizzy, blind with need, she pushed up and drank in the sight of him sprawled beneath her, gloriously naked except for his dog tags, dark blond hair falling against her pillow, the contrast between the deep tan of his skin and the soft pink of her sheets, the smooth, sculpted planes of his chest. His eyes were on fire, lips moist and slightly parted. But he said nothing, did nothing, just watched her like a big cat tracking its prey. She refused to let herself be afraid. She'd wasted too much of her life contained in that tight restrictive cocoon, and it had cost her terribly. She'd turned her back on this man, not because of him, but because of the out-of-control way she felt with him. She wanted to indulge that freneticism now, go with it, see where the wave took them. An amazing rush of feminine power curled through her. She savored the glow in those eyes of deep decadent butterscotch, the gleam, the gold and red whiskers against his jaw, the way the candlelight cast shadows along his chest. And lower. She wanted to follow that trail. She wanted to explore every hot, hard inch of him with her hands and her mouth. She wanted to feel and to taste, to remember in full living color what survival had tried to make her forget. With a boldness she'd never experienced, she slid down the length of him slowly, tasting as she went, until she took him in her mouth. And felt him tremble. Wesley. Her big, tough, rough-around-the-edges bodyguard, trembled. The thrill of it streaked like lightning. She wanted to give back to him, this man who'd given her so much,


even as she'd tried to push him away, to deny. "You're killing me," he gritted out, twisting against the sheets, and with his hands he reached for her, fisted fingers in hair. "Killing me." Before she could so much as breathe, he had her pulled up and underneath him. She cried out when he found a breast, first with his hand, his fingers, toying, teasing, destroying. Then his mouth, closing around her nipple. Pleasure streaked through her like fire, had her twisting beneath him, needing so much more. "Yes," she murmured, reaching down and finding him hot and hard and completely ready for her. "Please." He pushed up on an arm and held himself propped up over her. Dark blond hair fell against his face but didn't hide the glitter in his eyes. "Please what?" Her throat went unbearably tight. Answers, truths, desires tumbled through her.Please don't stop now. Please keep the promise burning in your eyes. Please love me. "Don't make me wait," she whispered. "Ah, Ellie." His tone was as gentle as his touch. "Sometimes waiting is the best part." "And sometimes it hurts." The truth staggered her. She'dbeen waiting. For so long. Waiting and wanting, but not knowing how to reach for what she wanted. He went very still. He was still poised over her, his hand still at her breast, but his fingers no longer teased. "That was never my intent." He skimmed a finger down the side of her face. "I only wanted this," he added, lowering himself over her body. His mouth came down on hers, and she knew the waiting wouldn't last much longer. Pleasure screamed to every nerve ending in her body, demanded more. This man. This was who she wanted, who she'd wanted since her father first introduced him as her bodyguard. He'd fascinated even as he'd infuriated. She'd never known a man like him, one who walked so boldly through life, who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to admit it. But she'd come to realize all those hard, jagged edges, all that in-your-face sexuality, masked a tenderness that made her heart bleed. "Yes," she murmured, loving the feeling of flesh to flesh. The weight of him, the heat of him, seeped into her blood. All those nights alone in her bed, when she'd tried to blot him from her memory, this is what she'd remembered instead. His touch. His feel. That wildly masculine scent of musk and incense that had fired her blood long after he'd left her life. But he'd never left her life, she realized now. Not fully. Not when he'd lived on so strongly in her heart, a quiet little voice waiting for the day it could sing again. It sang now. Every part of her sang. She twisted beneath him, let her legs fall open. He settled between her thighs, slid a hand to her stomach, all that delicious warmth fanning out, lower still, until he found just how badly she burned for him.


"Ah, sweetness," he whispered, then skimmed his mouth along the trail of his fingers. White light consumed her. She arched back against the bed, her hands balling in the fabric of her comforter. He kissed her intimately, just as he'd kissed her in her dreams. It was almost unbearable. She writhed, felt moisture gather in her eyes. Blindly she fumbled for the nightstand. "Here," she said, thrusting the blue box at him. "Now." He tortured her a moment longer before looking up, seeing the offering in her hand. His hair fell against his eyes, but didn't hide the glimmer burning deep. Slowly he reached for the packet and tore the foil. Her mouth went dry as she watched him ready himself, as need lit through her. And then he was there. Lowering himself over her, pushing her knees back, poised between her legs, sliding home. She barely recognized the sound that broke from her throat, had to fight to keep her eyes open, when they wanted to slide shut in ecstasy. She wanted to drink in, drown in, every moment, every nuance. He went slow, allowed her to adjust to his size before pushing deep. And then he was there, inside her, not moving, not yet, just … filling her. She struggled to breathe, struggled against the emotion leaking from her eyes. The movement was slow at first, a gentle, seductive rhythm. She curved her arms around his neck, lifted her hips in greeting. Through the soft light of the moon she saw him over her, saw the hair falling into his face, the sheen of sweat against his shoulders. He picked up the pace, moving in and out with deep, deliberate thrusts and sending her dangerously close to the edge. And that's when she realized it. His eyes. They were … closed. His eyes were closed, just like the night at the auction. But just like that night, she saw the emotion, the pleasure in the lines of his face, the ecstasy in his parted lips. Wave after wave of sensation washed through her, gathered deep. There was something wholly primal about his lovemaking, completely uninhibited. She arched up when his mouth found her neck, when his hand toyed with the pearls she still wore. Thrashing against the pillow, she turned and saw. And forgot to breathe. Chapter 14 «^» Projected against the taupe wall of her bedroom, shadows moved rhythmically. Man and woman joined. His face buried against her neck. Her knees back, him moving between them. Fascination whispered through her. She'd never watched anyone making love before, certainly not herself. To see the shadows moving together on the wall, sinuous, erotic, and to know she was one of those shadows, the one arching and accepting, and that the other was Hawk, her bodyguard, Wesley, the man who'd slipped into her blood over two years before, electrified some place deep inside. The


shadows moved with a grace that stunned her, an erotic poetry of bodies. All that heat and pent-up desire, the out-of-control, edge-of-oblivion hunger, translated into a fluid beauty that stole her breath. "You like to watch?" he murmured, and from the deep quality of his voice, the wicked gleam she found in his eyes, she realized he'd caught her. The thrill of the forbidden tangled seductively. "And if I do?" A hard sound broke from his throat. "You're going to kill me yet." He took her hand and thrust it over her head, threaded her fingers with his. Then he had his arm under her leg and urged it against her stomach. Elizabethneeded little urging. "No one," she whispered through the raw emotion swamping her. "There's been no one since you." He stilled, looked down at her. "What are you saying?" "Just you." Her voice was raw, drenched. "Only you." Incredulity stamped his face. "Just you," he returned, going deeper. "Always you." Pleasure almost blinded her. For so long she'd struggled to hold herself together, but now she just wanted to let go. She curled her other leg around his and twisted, welcomed him deep. Sensation streamed through her, hot, liquid, seductive, carrying her to the edge of control. With a final thrust, the shadows against the wall jerked, melded, and everything, all that control, all the desire, the denial, the longing, shattered into the sweet gift of oblivion. *** He didn't wake up this time, because he never slept. Couldn't, wasn't about to miss one moment. He lay in the darkness, inElizabeth's bed, savoring the feel of her sprawled over him. Naked. Her head rested on his chest, her arm curled around his ribs, her legs tangled with his. Her breathing was deep and rhythmic, completely relaxed. Memory played through him, the feel ofElizabethbeneath him, over him. He'd teased her awake through strategically placed kisses, and she'd responded in kind, with more strategically placed kisses, seeming to enjoy torturing him. He'd accused her of just that, but she'd merely laughed and climbed atop him, straddled him with a confidence that had stunned him, had taken him deep, brought them both to a climax that still had his heart slamming against his ribs. And then she'd gone to sleep. She'd made love to him like a vixen, then quietly and sweetly fallen asleep against his chest, like an innocent little kitten. Never in a million years, he thought, staring at the wall, where hours before their shadows had magnified their lovemaking. Never in a million years had he dreamed she would come to him, want him. He'd thought her too locked away in her tidy world, too attached to her rigid plans. She shifted against him, sighed, and his heart damn near broke right then and there. For two years he'd convinced himself this woman meant nothing to him. That only heat flared between them. That all he wanted from her was an admission.


Now the truth circled his heart like a vise. He wanted far, far more from Elizabeth Carrington than a stupid admission. But first he had an admission of his own to make. And God help him, it could cost him everything. *** The sound of the shower nudged her from the web of sleep.Elizabethshifted against soft sheets, rolled to find the pillow next to hers empty. But she smiled, anyway. She could feel him still, his hands roughly claiming her, his body moving within her. All she had to do was breathe and she drew him inside her, the scent of musk and incense that still managed to fire her blood, even after a night of bone-melting lovemaking. Stretching, she glanced at the clock and realized why sunlight flooded the bedroom. It was after ten in the morning. The temptation to join him in the bathroom was strong, but she rolled from bed and pulled on her robe, her slippers. Wesley had a voracious appetite. She knew he had to be starving. She would surprise him with breakfast, and then, if they were still hungry, they'd take it from there. Their clothes littered the floor, her dress in a puddle, her thong dangling from the side of the nightstand, his jeans in a heap by the bed. Memory licked through her, but she didn't move the clothes, just slipped from the room and down to the kitchen, where she put on a pot of coffee and started on Belgian waffles. Upstairs, water stopped rumbling through the pipes. She broke an egg and mixed it with the flour, jumped at the pounding on the front door. "Elizabeth!" Startled, she went to the foyer and deactivated the security system, fumbled with the locks and pulled open the door. It beeped, part of the upgrade Hawk had insisted upon, a way of announcing when any door or window was open. "Nicholas." He pushed inside and shoved the door shut, took her upper arms in his hands. Wildness glinted in eyes normally calm. "Are you okay?" He was a khaki-pants-and-knit-shirt man, but today he wore jeans and a T-shirt, wrinkled, as though he'd thrown them on in a hurry. "Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?" "I've been trying to call you all morning." The words cut like an accusation. "I'm fine," she said, twisting from his arms. "Really." "Then why didn't you answer the phone?" She fumbled for the right words. "I didn't hear it—"


"Ellie?" The sleep-roughened voice came from behind her, and her heart flat-out stopped. She whirled to see Wesley coming down the staircase, his wet hair combed back from his face, his chest and feet bare, jeans covering his long legs but not fastened. "You down here?" The breath jammed in her throat. Oh, dear God this was not how she wanted Nicholas to find out. He would have to know at some point, she'd realized that, but not like this. Not so rudely and crudely. Wesley stopped the second he saw the man standing in her foyer. "Ferreday." Nicholas's eyes went colder than ice. "Monroe." Elizabethstood between the two of them, heart racing, throat burning and raw. They'd never come face-to-face that she knew of, but from the way Nicholas stared at Wesley, he knew good and well who he was. "Good God, Elizabeth. Are you out of your mind?" "Nicky—" Regret pierced deep. He'd been good to her over the years, kind. She didn't feel love for him, but she'd never wanted to hurt him. "I'm sorry." Hawk came up beside her. "Ellie, honey, go upstairs." "You sorry son of a bitch!" Nicholas roared. He launched himself against Hawk, driving him into the wall. "You just couldn't keep your hands off her, could you?" Hawk shoved Nicholas away. "That's enough, Ferreday." "That's right," Nicholas taunted. "You'd like it if I shut up, wouldn't you? She doesn't know, does she? You haven't told her. That's why you asked her to go upstairs, so she can't hear what I have to say." Midmorning sunshine poured through the windows, but a blast of cold shot throughElizabeth. She stared at these two men she thought she knew, the one she'd once wanted to marry and the man she'd made love to countless times during the night. Now they both appeared strangers. "Stop it!" she demanded. "Stop it right now." Nicholas squared his shoulders, didn't look away from Hawk. "How long were you going to screw her before you let me know? How long before you rubbed it in my face?" "You don't have a damn clue what you're talking about," Wesley bit out. "Don't I?" Nicholas laughed. "Is this supposed to punish me somehow? Is this your twisted little plan for revenge?" Elizabethwent horribly, brutally still. She stared at the hatred twisting Nicholas's features, the contempt hardening Wesley's, and knew. God help her, she knew. "Revenge?" The word sliced deep. "That's right," Nicholas said, twisting to her. "I always wondered why I never got a chance to meet the


mighty Hawk Monroe, savior of the Carrington family, why someone so bold and protective was never around when I was." He shot Wesley a look of scorching contempt, then stepped towardElizabethand lifted his hand to her face. "Didn't you ever think that was odd?" His touch crawled through her, vile somehow, poisonous. Chin high, she pulled his wrist away and stepped back."No." He laughed, not softly like the Nicholas of her youth, but disgusted, guttural. "Because you knew you were slumming," he snarled. "But I bet even you didn't know how low you'd sunk, that you'd crawled into bed with a man who only wanted to take what was mine." Whatever control Wesley had been exerting shattered. He was across the foyer in a heartbeat, slamming Nicholas against a framed magnolia print hanging on the wall. "That's a bald-faced lie, and you know it." Nicholas stared beyond him, never looking away fromElizabeth. "Did he tell you about his mother? That she was my father's whore? Did he tell you that?" Wesley's body gathered force. "Shut the f—" "That he used to stand outside the windows of my house," Nicholas rolled right on, "and stare inside, watch his mother serving my father, watch his mother taking care of me and my sister? Did he tell you that?" Elizabethstaggered back, reached for a small table. "Wesley?" His back went rigid but he said nothing, just stood there with the front of Nicholas's shirt bunched in his hands, looking like a soldier who'd been caught behind enemy lines. "He had my father and sister fooled, but not me. I kicked him out like the trash he was, before he spoiled my family any further." Nicholas's mouth curled into a snarl. "He promised he'd pay me back one day, make me pay." Disbelief surged. Horror stabbed deep, cutting through the layers of hope and promise, through the dreams, the fantasies she'd allowed herself to believe. She tried to breathe, to think, but her heart just kept screaming, screaming. "You were nothing but a pawn," Nicholas said. "Part of his twisted little plan to pay me back." The pieces slammed into place, the fragments of his past he'd revealed in the mountains, how easily they fit the bits Nicholas added, forming a picture she didn't want to see. "I can see this is a surprise," Nicholas said. "I'll leave the two of you to work it out." Smiling now, looking pleased with himself, he shoved past an obscenely still Wesley and whistled his way out the door, leaving the two of them alone. "Wesley," she said, and her voice, her heart, broke on his name. She wanted him to spin to her and tell her Nicholas was lying, better, to shake her awake and tell her this was all a nightmare, that she hadn't been nothing to him but a pawn, part of a sick plan to pay Nicholas back for ruining his life. Slowly, he turned toward her, and she knew. He didn't have to say a word, didn't have to move a


muscle, because it was all there on his face, the anger, the shame, the disgust, all glittering in eyes suddenly cold. For a moment they just stared at each other, the truth, the lies splattered on the floors and the walls, seeping between them like the aftermath of a grisly crime. Just the night before, she'd taken this man into her body. He'd penetrated her heart long before. She wanted to believe that Nicholas was wrong, but the way Hawk just looked at her, the way he uttered not one word in his own defense, drove home the shattering reality that all along, all the heat between them, the challenge, the sweet surrender, had been nothing but a means to an end, a way of fulfilling an ulterior motive that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with revenge. Everything inside her went insidiously cold. He'd never made her a promise. Never talked of tomorrow. Never told her he loved her. She swallowed hard, commanded herself to be strong. "Say something." "What do you want me to say?" "Tell me he's lying," she said with a desperateness she hated. It snaked through her chest, curling around her heart like a vise. Squeezing. Hard. "Tell me he doesn't have a clue what he's talking about." Something flashed in Wesley's eyes, something hot and hard and violent. He looked as if he wanted to tear someone apart with his bare hands. He muttered something under his breath and pushed away from the wall, not toward her, but toward the coffee table, where his mobile phone waited. Furiously he jabbed a series of numbers. "Aaron," he bit out. "Get over here now." He dropped the phone and turned to her, and with that rough-hewn voice of his, the one that had haunted her dreams for two long years, he crushed far more than velvet. "I can't tell you anything you don't already know." *** Plan.The word echoed insidiously. Reality sliced deep.Elizabethstared out her bedroom window but barely saw the blue sky and white puffy clouds, the softly shimmying leaves of the maple which had shaded her town home for over half a century. All this time Hawk had teased her about her plans, challenged her to break free, take a chance, walk outside the lines. All this time he'd insisted plans were for cowards. That the brave took life as it came. All this time he'd lied. There's no such thing as a perfect plan, Ellie. There's always a weak spot, a vulnerability. His words, uttered two years before, stung. He'd been wrong, she thought bitterly. There was such a thing as a perfect plan, but it wasn't hers. It had been his. The truth decimated a place deep inside, the place where dreams had dwelled, the place that had convinced her to trust the draw she felt for Wesley. For the first time in her life romantic notions had overshadowed all she believed about survival. She couldn't believe how blind she'd been.


She'd believed him, damn it. More than believed him, she'd trusted the promise she'd imagined glowing in his eyes, felt in his touch. She'd trusted, and she'd wanted. "Liz'beth?" She spun toward her bedroom door, where Miranda stood like a breath of funky, fresh air. She wore a simple rose-colored T-shirt, her low-rise jeans hugging her hips. Embroidered dragonflies adorned the denim around her ankles. "Hey, Mira," she said, swiping furiously beneath her eyes. "I didn't know you were here." "Aaron let me in, said you were up here." "Ah." From downstairs she heard the accented rumble of Sandro's voice. "What's up?" Miranda strolled into the room. "That's a darn good question," she said, surveying the elegant bed, normally tidy with a few scatter pillows tossed about, now nothing but a tangle of sheets and shredded memories. Eyes dancing, Miranda shot her sister a knowing smile. "Got a little rambunctious, did we?" The question, teasing, light, pure Miranda, punctured the thin veil of control she'd been holding in place. "This isn't a good time—" Miranda never let her finish. She zoomed across the room and tookElizabeth's hands, enveloped them with warmth. "Elizabeth? My God, honey, what's wrong? Your hands are like ice." Elizabethhesitated only a second before going into her sister's arms. After Kristina had died, she'd tried to take on the role of older sister, tried to be a role model for Miranda, a source of strength and guidance. But deep inside, the second daughter still lived, the middle child, the girl who'd thought her older sister perfect, who'd secretly envied her younger sister the freedom she'd always had, who'd tried to bring peace to the family. But she had no peace now, only a gaping, festering wound, and for the first time in eleven years, the charade, the facade, crumbled. "A mistake," she managed through the emotion swamping her. "I made a mistake." Miranda pulled back and looked at her through eyes drenched in the kind of love only a sister could give. "Hawk?" she whispered. "Is that why he's not here?" Elizabethswallowed hard. "He won't be back, either." At least she hoped not. She didn't know how she could look at him again, at those hot burning eyes, without remembering what it had been like between them, the dreams she'd just started to believe. He'd stayed until Aaron arrived, a soldier down to the last, doing his job but not looking at her, not explaining, not acting as though he so much as gave a damn that the jig was up. I don't do hearts, sweet thing. I'm more of a body man. But she'd given him both, God help her. She'd given him both.


*** "I love you, too, Mom. Hope you're feeling better soon."Elizabethhung up the phone and fought back a wave of emotion. She was a grown woman, but she still missed her mother, the woman who could enforce her will with the simple arch of an eyebrow, mend a broken heart with a hug. Well, maybe not mend, but certainly soothe. From downstairs, the double beep of the security system told her Aaron had returned from a quick perimeter check. She reached for her favorite running shoes and pulled them on, wondered what it would take to convince him a quick run in the park wouldn't hurt anything. She needed to get away from memories that lurked everywhere she turned. Twice she'd gone to make her bed but recoiled the second her hands touched the sheets. I sawyou,damn it! Your life, not mine. The memory knifed deep. Confusion lacerated. Nothing made sense. The images wouldn't leave her alone, the man who'd stood with her in the cold Calgary rain, beside himself because he thought she'd been hurt; the man who'd gently and patiently extracted the truth about Kristina's death from her, like poison from a snakebite; the man who'd charged into her bedroom following the attack, with deadly intention burning in his eyes; the man who'd drawn her into his arms just the night before, who'd admitted that he'd seen her life flash before his eyes, not his own. The man who'd refused to defend himself, who'd just turned and walked away. "I can't tell you anything you don't already know." Her throat tightened. More images, farther back. The boy who'd grown up without a father, whose mother had worked as a domestic servant in the Ferreday household, who'd earned Steven's love, only to lose his mentor to an accident. The eighteen-year-old who'd joined the Army to put himself through school. The bodyguard who'd forced her to see truths that violated everything she'd taught herself to think, believe, want. The lover who rocked her world. The man she'd cowardly turned her back on. The rhythm of her breath changed, grew more shallow. The truth pierced with the precision of a needle to the heart. "Elizabeth." She blinked, turned toward the hallway. First she saw the man, his smile, then she saw the gun. Then it was too late. *** The sun blasted down from an obscenely blue sky. A few lazy clouds drifted as if they hadn't a worry in the world. Thick, sticky air warned of rain. Hawk didn't care. He strode across the hillside, trampling neatly trimmed grass so sickeningly green it


looked more suited to a golf course than a cemetery. The tombstone sat beneath an ancient magnolia at the end of the row, a weathered monument to a life ended too soon. "Hi, Mom," he greeted as he always did, and went down to his knees. Opening his hand, he let the zinnias fall to the grave, a scatter of ridiculously vibrant pink and yellow and orange. Her favorites, from her garden, a patch of earth she'd tilled years before, that continued to spit out flowers year after year, thicker and more abundant, never knowing their audience had long since gone. After all this time it shouldn't still hurt. He'd grown up thinking his mother invincible, even during the lean years when she could barely put food on the table. No matter how bad things seemed, she always had a smile for him, a laugh. She'd tried to hide her loneliness, her pain, from him, right up to the end, when cancer had eaten away at her small body. Memory flooded his eyes with a moisture he didn't bother wiping away. There's no shame in tears,his mother had always said.Tears only mean you're alive. He was alive, all right, even though something inside of him had shriveled up and died the second Elizabethturned and looked at him with those horrified green eyes and asked him to deny Nicholas's allegations. Only a few hours before, she'd crawled on top of him and sheathed him with her body, curled her fingers with his and told him she never wanted the night to end. The truth twisted through him. He'd told her it had been her life that flashed before his eyes, not his own, and yet when it came down to it, that hadn't been enough for her. She'd automatically chosen to accept Nicholas's version of the truth. Part of him wanted to go toElizabethand tell her, yes, he'd accepted employment with her father because he knew being in charge of security for the family Nicholas coveted would grate on his former nemesis. But that was only at first. Over time he'd come to know and respectElizabethin her own right. To want her for the woman she was, not because of her relationship with Nicholas. He knew he should have told her the truth back in the mountains, but he'd been unable to spit out the words. He who espoused fearlessness had been a coward. But today he'd stood in her pristine little town home, gripped by incredulity. She'd spent the night making love with him, only to ask if he'd been using her? She might as well have stabbed him in the heart. If she bothered to look at the soul he'd laid bare for her, she would have known the answer to that. She would have known. Life had taught him not to beg; no good came from it, only humiliation. Good came from taking action, from never letting anyone get too close, never letting them near creases in body armor, never giving them an angle to play. Now he had to wonder. Quietly he looked at his mother's tombstone, the scatter of zinnias, and knew what he had to do. "I love you, Mom." He wasn't ready to surrender like a whipped dog. ***


"Elizabeth!" The sound of her name jolted through her like a shot of live electricity. She looked through the peephole and saw him dominating her small front porch, tall and rough around the edges, poised like a fighter ready to attack. Dark blond hair fell against his face, but didn't hide those hot burning eyes, the ones that warned this time he was not going to turn and walk away. "Open the door,Elizabeth. You know you want to." Her heart pounded hard. He was wrong. She did not want to open that door. She didn't want to see him, hear what he had to say, feel what he wanted her to feel, what hecould make her feel, knowing all the while that it would be the last time. "One word, one warning, andMonroewill have to watch what I have in store for you." She also knew she had no choice. On a deep breath she turned the locks he'd installed, unfastened the chain, and pulled open the door. "Hawk," she said through her dry throat. No way could she utter his given name, the one she'd cried out over and over the night before. "You shouldn't be here." "Where's Aaron?" he demanded, and tried to push past her. She kept the door between them, said a silent prayer. "He ran over to Ukrop's for me. I thought we could grill steaks." The stream of curse words made her blink. "His orders were clear. He's not to leave you—" "It's broad daylight." Seeing him hurt her. Seeing him made her think of all those impossible dreams she'd never been able to kill. "You yourself installed the security system. I've got the phone in my hand." She lifted it to prove her point. "See? A few minutes won't hurt anything." His face hardened. "Zhukov needs only a second." The words, uttered in that dead-quiet voice he almost never used, chilled her. Because he was right. A second was all it took. One second, to change everything. Deep inside, something started to tear. Just last night she'd given herself to this man, accepted him, loved him. Now, though. God, now she had to make him leave. Very carefully, very deliberately, she closed the door to all those sharp, jagged emotions and nailed it shut. "Hawk," she said, "please. Just go."Stay, her heart screamed.Stay. "Aaron will be back any minute." His eyes, hard and furious moments before, softened. And his voice, God, it softened too, pitching low and drifting deep. "I'm not going anywhere, Ellie, not until Aaron's back, not until you hear me out."


Chapter 15 «^» He'd rehearsed it on the way over, every word, every breath, but then he'd noticed Aaron's car gone, and his heart had flat-out stopped. Aaron had assured him they weren't going out this afternoon. He'd reported in just forty-five minutes before. He was scheduled to check in again in fifteen measly minutes. Hawk had practically broken down the door to get to her, make sure she was okay, but instead she'd slowly pulled it open and greeted him with a cool, indifferent smile. Then she'd all but slammed the door in his face. His bed, he reminded himself. He'd made it. He'd destroyed it. It was up to him to repair it. He looked at her now, standing with the door between them like he was some kind of unwanted salesman. Her hair was loose and flowing softly around her face, her clothes not tidy the way they usually were, but a pair of cutoff shorts and an old T-shirt. Her eyes didn't gleam as they had when she'd arched beneath him, when she'd twisted to watch the shadows of their joined bodies making love on the wall. They were flat now, as though someone had smeared all the life and vitality into a dull haze. Not someone. Him. He had to make her understand. Had to tell her his truth, the real truth, not the twisted spin Nicholas had manufactured. "You and me," he said, "we were never about Nicholas." Never. "Your father and me, that's where Nicholas came into play, a fact he's known for a while now." Her eyes widened. "He knows?" "In the hospital inPortugal, when he came to check on me." The memory washed over him, the searing pain, the drug-induced grogginess. At first he'd thought the ambassador's voice a product of his imagination, a father figure conjured straight out of childhood fantasies, but then he'd forced his eyes open and found the man seated beside the narrow hospital bed. "He called me son." God, how that had burned. "And I couldn't let him do it. Couldn't let him paint me to be some hero, when the reason I'd approached him for a job was some stupid little game of one-upmanship Nicholas and I had been playing since we were seven years old." The color drained fromElizabeth's face. "You told him?" Hawk shoved the hair from his face. "He laughed,Elizabeth, said he already knew. That he'd had a background check run on me from the beginning." Elizabethjust stared at him. Very slowly she lifted a hand to her throat, where the black pearls dipped beneath the ribbed collar of her T-shirt. She fingered them, one by one, the way he'd done the night before, when she'd arched beneath him.


The image blindsided him. He shoved it aside, focused on what needed to be said, what should have been said all along. "The first time," he said, "the first time we were together I didn't even know you and Nick were more than friends." As long as he lived, he'd never forget that cold rainy morning, when he'd picked up the morning paper and foundElizabeth's picture smiling up at him from the society section, next to Nicholas's. "Until you left my bed and agreed to marry him." She winced. "Wesley—" "This time…"He swore softly. "I wanted you to know me…" Love me. "…for the man I am, and I knew that wouldn't happen if you knew where I came from." Her eyes went dark. "You thought that would matter to me?" She almost sounded stricken. "The truth, Ellie. That's all I wanted." A sad smile twisted her mouth, that beautiful mouth he'd loved the night before. "Then you should have given me the same." "Why do you think I backed off?" The question tore out of him. "Why do you think I tried to stop the train wreck before it happened? Because I could see it coming, but God help me, when you stood there in moonlight and told me nothing mattered but the moment, the fact that I'd grown up with Nick was the last thing on my mind." She kept fiddling with the pearls. "Wesley, don't. None of that matters now. It's too late." He didn't stop to think. He reached for her hand, drew it to his chest, pressed her palm to his heart. "Feel that?" All that emotion he'd tried to control, that he'd begged himself to control, simmered over the edges. "That's real, Ellie. As real as it gets." She whipped her hand from his body, as though the touch had hurt her somehow. "Don't make this harder than it already is." Her jaw tightened. "Just go." He should. He knew that. But couldn't, not when he hadn't said what he'd come to say. When he hadn't given her the most important truth of all. The only one that mattered. "Once, I accused you of being a coward, of walking away because you were too scared to see where the wave would carry us." She winced. "The wave broke, Wesley. It's over." "Thehell it is," he ground out. He couldn't do it. He couldn't just stand there and let her look at him through those cool, remote eyes, not when he knew he owed her an apology. "I walked away," he said. Hadn't bothered to defend himself, had been too angry, too certain history was repeating itself all over again. "I pushed you away, before you could do the same." Her eyes flared, but before she could speak, he rolled right on. "I never meant to hurt you. I should have told you the truth in the mountains. I should have told you how I feel about you, not hidden it behind a shield of bravado. I lo—"


"Don't." She bit the word out with a horrified finality that burned to the bone. "Don't say it. Don't say anything we'll both regret. I've had all the true confessions I can stomach." At one time that would have been enough to send him away. He would have turned and walked down her geranium-lined walkway, gotten on his bike and ridden away. At one time he reminded himself, he'd thought defenses made a man strong. He'd been a fool. Slowly he lifted a hand to her face, found her flesh alarmingly cool. "I thought you knew," he said, and his voice became low. "Last night, when I told you it was your life that flashed before my eyes, your life I wanted to save, I thought you knew what I was really saying." "Wesley—" "I love you." She recoiled from his touch, shoved the door farther between them. "It's too late," she whispered, and her eyes were huge, dark, devastated. Almost mechanically she lifted her hand to her neck, clasped the pearls. "Go," she said. "Please." Her frostiness lashed at him. Galvanized. Sickened. He'd been so sure, damn it. So sure he knew how to fix this, how to erase the lies. Now the truth lit through him. "You're right," he muttered. And he was a goddamn idiot, to think for one stupid second, the writing on the wall, the writing that had always, always been on the wall, could suddenly and miraculously vanish. "You can think I used you, but I suggest you look in the mirror and ask yourself who used whom." He started to turn away, but spun back and pulled her close, put his mouth to hers one last time. He slid his hands into the hair at the side of her face and cradled her head, moved his lips against hers, waited for her to respond. She didn't. "I used to think you were just scared," he said, ripping away from her. Reality churned like acid in his gut. "I used to think if I could just ease you from the shadow of your sister's death, you'd see there was a whole world waiting to be explored, a life waiting to be lived." He swore softly. He'd been wrong. He couldn't change what was inside of her. He couldn't make her give him something she didn't have to give. He couldn't make her love. He never should have come back. "I won't make that mistake again," he said, then turned and walked away. He'd survived growing up the son of a woman who'd had to compromise her dreams just to put food on the table. He'd survived betrayal and loss. He'd survivedMogadishu. He would survive Elizabeth Carrington. *** SlowlyElizabethclosed the door. She leaned against the dark maple and tried to breathe, couldn't. Her heart bled in ways she'd never known possible. Tears slipped over her lashes and fell unabashedly down her face.


I love you. Three little words, but they devastated. Her doing, she knew. Her doing for thinking for even one fractured second that Wesley had used her. Her fault. For hesitating, for doubting the fledgling feeling that scraped at her heart, even after the way he'd made love to her. Through the beveled-glass window that bordered her door, she saw him standing at the end of her walkway, tall, rigid, dark blond hair blowing softly in the late-afternoon breeze. His bike sat waiting, but she knew he wouldn't leave, not so long as Aaron was absent. But he wouldn't be back, either. She'd seen to that. All she had to do was turn the knob— "Well done," came the silky voice from the other side of the door. "You were magnificent, a very convincing liar. Too bad you weren't as good a judge of character." Her stomach pitched. With a calm she didn't come close to feeling, she turned from the window and lifted her chin. "You'll never get away with this." With a sleek little semiautomatic trained on her heart, Nicholas smiled. "I already have." She'd been more annoyed than alarmed when she'd first found him standing in her doorway. Then she'd seen the gun. You've been a very bad girl,he'd said in an oddly mechanical voice.And those who misbehave must always, always be punished. Shock and horror had collided, for a moment paralyzing her. Then she'd realized he was serious. And that they were alone. Opening the door to Wesley had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. To see him standing there, to hear that voice of his give her the words she'd longed for, to feel his roughened hands on her body, had shredded beyond imagine. She'd wanted to step into his arms, to tell him somehow, warn him, but Nicholas had made it very clear what would happen if she had. Kneecaps make good targets. And then he'll have no choice but to watch all the ways I can punish you. And him. "I really am sorry," he said now. "I had such plans for you and me, if only Wesley hadn't dragged you into the crossfire." Revulsion churned. "Don't blame this on him." He made a soft clucking noise. "I can't let him win. Surely you see that. I can't let him have what belongs to me." "I belong to no one, especially if I'm dead."


"Don't bore me with technicalities." Nicholas hesitated, his eyes going from flat to full glitter. "He won't have you, but he will have guilt, the kind that will eat at him the rest of his miserable life. And so long as he doesn't have you, I don't care if I don't, either." She'd once idolized Nicholas. As a teenage girl, she'd thought him Prince Charming in the flesh. But after Kristina's death he'd seemed different, changed somehow, twisted by grief. She'd tried to console him, help him, but someplace deep inside had always known something wasn't right. And then Wesley had blazed into her life. She'd run from the out-of-control feelings he inspired in her to the predictability of Nicholas's arms. But the second Nicholas had tried to touch her in the ways that Wesley had, she'd known she couldn't marry him. Now she knew why. Instinctively she looked through the beveled glass, to where Wesley stood at the iron fence that separated her yard from the sidewalk. True to her prediction, he'd not looked back at the house. She didn't know whether to be thankful or to cry. "He was warned," Nicholas said, backing her away from the door. "He was warned to stay away from what was mine. But what did he do? He crawled into bed with you." At the kitchen table he picked up the butcher knife he'd set down earlier. "That won't do. You're going to die,Elizabeth, while lover boy stands guard outside the door." Light reflected off the edge of the blade. "Nicholas—" "All he's ever wanted is what's mine." He turned the knife over in his hands, pricked it against his thumb. "My father, my sister, my future." She stared at the blood welling, tried to understand the incomprehensible. "Your father?" "He wanted to adopt him—can you believe that? He wanted to marry his mother, call her kid son." His features, once the picture of Southern refinement, twisted. "I couldn't let that happen." There was no emotion in his voice, not hatred, not passion, just a cold, almost robotic indifference that chilled her to the core. "What do you mean you couldn't let that happen?" A bitter, broken sound tore from his throat. "No one makes a fool of me,Ellie—that's what he calls you, right? No one betrays me. Not my father. Not dear sweet Kristina, not you, and certainly not a nobody like Wesley Monroe." The room started to spin. "Kristina?" "I tried to warn her," he said, turning the knife over in his hands. "I tried to tell her. But she wouldn't listen. She gave me no choice but to follow her that night, like I'd done so many other nights when she'd lied to me, sneaked off to meet the mechanic who fixed her Mercedes." He stepped closer, streaked the dull edge of the blade down the side of her face. "What is it about the Carrington women that makes you hot for trash?" Elizabethwasn't sure how she stayed standing. Her heart staggered. "Oh, my God," she whispered. All


these years. All these years they'd believed Kristina's death an accident. And Nicholas's father. A hunting accident, the police had determined. Now, though. Now the string of accidents littering his past glared like a light turned on too late. Not coincidence, the way they'd thought. But pattern. Premeditated. Sickly she backed from him. Sociopaths walk among us, she remembered a college professor saying. They look like us and dress like us, but they don't think like us. They have no moral compass. No conscience. No regret. You killed my sister!she wanted to rage, but instinct warned her not to rattle his cage any further. He was clearly unstable. There was no predicting when he could come completely unhinged. "Ah,Elizabeth," he said, tracking her into the main room. "I can see what you think of me in your eyes. You think, I'm a monster." "No, I don't. I think you need help, that—" He lunged for her, dropped the knife and grabbed her wrists, rammed her against the wall. "You don't have a damn clue what I need." She tried to breathe. "Nicholas—" "But you will," he promised. "Soon." He lifted the gun to her face, traced the barrel along her mouth. It took every ounce of strength she had not to gag. "We could have been happy, like Krissy and I were. I would have treated you like a queen. But then you wouldn't let me touch you, and I knew, I knew you'd let someone else into your bed." He pulled her joined hands above her head and pinned them against the wall, forced her chest to thrust outward. "Imagine my disgust when I realized who you'd been with." Another wave of revulsion, this one sharper, deeper. "You had to be punished, sweetheart. Both of you." He slid the gun lower, used the barrel to circle one of her breasts. "You were never supposed to make it back fromCalgary. Either of you." One word jumped through the haze of horror. "Calgary?" Nicholas's mouth curved into a cutting little smile. "Zhukov made a convenient smokescreen, wouldn't you say?" And finally, at last, it all made sense. No coincidence, she thought again. But cunning and deliberation. The pieces clicked together, fit perfectly. "It was you." Now he laughed. "I could do anything to you right now, to your family, and no one would ever look beyond Zhukov." It was true. Oh, dear God in heaven, it was true. "But how—" "Money, my love, can buy anything."


And he had loads of it, had inherited a bundle after his father died in an accident that was no accident at all, before he could carry out his promise to Wesley. "Mimicking a known terrorist is barely more than child's play," he said now, "and the sweetest part of all, no one even suspected. Not even big badMonroe. Looks like you chose the wrong side, darling." But he had, she remembered sickly. Wesley had said repeatedly something wasn't adding up. He hadn't understood why Zhukov had honed in so fully onElizabeth. Now she knew. Zhukov had never been involved at all. He'd merely provided the perfect smokescreen for Nicholas. "They'll figure it out," she insisted. "No," he said in a sing-song voice. "They won't. Not when the obvious answer is right in front of their noses. They—" The ringing of the phone killed his words. They swung toward the receiver sitting on a small table. "Ethan," she whispered. He narrowed his eyes. "Are you expecting him?" No. But she knew. Deep in her heart the twin connection flared and flowed, and, God help her, she knew. He knew, too. Somehow he always, always knew when something was wrong. "He'll get worried if I don't answer." Nicholas jammed the gun to her temple and steered her toward the phone. "Make it fast, and so help me God," he said, sliding his finger against the trigger. "Don't do anything stupid." She swallowed, but her mouth remained sandpaper dry. "Hey, Eth," she said by way of greeting. "Liz?" her brother asked, and her heart jumped. "You okay? You sound … odd." "Just tired." He swore softly. "I know, buttrynot to worry. This nightmare will be over soon. Hawk would give his life before he let anything happen to you." Emotion broke from her heart, flooded her eyes. "That's not going to happen." She wouldn't let it. "Look, Eth, I haveto go." "Liz'beth—" "I love you," she said, then clicked off the phone. Her family. God, her family. They'd already lost one daughter to this monster who'd disguised himself as a gentleman. "Good girl," he said. Her composure slipped another notch. "You're disgusting."


"No, sweetheart," be corrected glibly, "I'm patient. Two years,Elizabeth. Two years I waited. Two years I planned. Do you know what that was like for me? Pretending I didn't know you'd gotten naked with that man? Listening to you lie to me. Seeing you smile. While all the while I knew you'd crawled into Monroe's bed?" She glanced toward the front door, no longer close enough to see through the beveled glass. "What are you going to do to him?" He laughed. "What he did to me, of course. I'm going to hurt him the only way I can. I'm going to take from him, forever and always, what he took from me." She lifted her chin, narrowed her eyes. "He didn't take me from you." She'd given herself to Wesley freely, wholly. Nicholas reacted so swiftly she never saw the blow coming. He backhanded her, knocking her to the hardwood floor. She landed hard, tasted blood. He towered over her. "We can do this the easy way, or it can be difficult. The choice is yours." She scrambled back from him, looked frantically toward her fireplace. The toolset… "What choice is that?" He tracked her across the floor. "A kiss before dying, isn't that what they say? Make love to me, and maybe the end will come a little faster, a little less painfully." Instinctively she pressed her knees together. "You owe me,Elizabeth. You owe me for all those promises you made but never kept." He had the butcher knife again, though she'd not seen him pick it up. And he moved closer, stood straddling her. "Don't you think I knew, all those years when you would watch me and Kristina with those lovesick eyes? Don't you think I knew what you wanted, what you were offering?" She pushed back, closer to the poker. "So tell me, Lizzy. How do you like it? Gentle?" he asked, lowering himself to his knees. "Or rough?" He put the knife to her breast. "I betMonroegives it rough, doesn't he?" She couldn't do it. She couldn't just lie there and let this sick man play with her body. She bucked beneath him, stretched for the set of iron tools. He caught her hand and pulled it above her head. "Good try," he chided, "but not good enough." Dropping the knife, he reached for the hem of her shirt. "Now the final act begins." She braced herself, but the low roar stopped her breath. She barely had a chance to turn her head before a blur of movement streaked in from the kitchen and crashed against Nicholas, knocking him from her body. She rolled from him, saw the two men wrestling on the floor, both their hands curled around the gun. Wesley. Dear God, Wesley. Her heart kicked, hard. She acted on pure animal instinct, grabbing the fire poker and lifting it above her


head. Wesley caught her eye and rolled, giving her a clear shot. She slammed the instrument of forged iron down with a sickening thud. The front door flew open and in swarmed a SWAT team in full gear. "Police!" they shouted. "Hold it right there." The fire poker fell from her hands. She just stood there, trying to breathe, staring at Nicholas's unmoving body, the pool of blood spreading from beneath him. Then her knees buckled, and she went down hard. Wesley crawled toward her. "Ellie—" Through a curtain of tangled hair she looked up at him and felt something deep inside break. "I'm sorry … so sorry." He took her in his arms and pulled her into his lap, against his chest, and started to rock. "I'm here now. I'm here." Emotion jammed in her throat. She held on tight, didn't think she could ever let go. "He made me," she managed. "Made me say those things." "Shh." He had one hand on her back, big, strong, soothing, while the other stabbed into her hair. "Don't talk now." But she had to. Couldn't hold the words in, not when her heart hammered their release. "Love you," she murmured against the hot skin of his throat. "Love you." "Cristo,"came a low voice from the doorway, and then Sandro was striding through the swarm of the SWAT team, toward Nicholas's unmoving body. "Liz'beth!" Ethan charged in next, all tall and disheveled, followed by a wide-eyed Miranda. "Bella,I told you to stay outside!" She shot her fiancé a heated look then joined her brother at Elizabeth's side. "It was him," she sobbed, looking up to face them both. "Nicholas. He killed Kristina." Ethan swore softly, dropped to his knees and took his sister's hands. Miranda did the same. And Wesley, Wesley quietly eased Elizabeth from his lap to her brother's, and left the Carringtons there on the floor, mourning for a sister who'd been taken from them not by icy roads and fate, but by a man they'd once called friend. *** Dark swirls of crimson streaked across the early-evening sky, barely visible through the thickly leaved branches of a huge Chinese maple. Hawk stared anyway, watched a pair of pudgy doves gorging themselves at one of the many bird feeders in Elizabeth's backyard. Only a few feet away Aaron had been found, gut shot and bleeding, left to die in a cluster of boxwood. He was still in surgery, but the prognosis, thank God, was good.


Nicholas would survive, as well, heal to stand trial, finally be punished for the lives he had destroyed. "He was going to kill her," he said, turning toward her brother. Dark urges ripped through him, but he worked hard to tame the edges. But for as long as he lived, he knew he'd never forget the sight of Nicholas straddlingElizabeth, rubbing a knife against her breasts. His vision had gone black.And for the second time in less than a week, her life had flashed before his eyes. "Just like he killed his father." "And Kristina." Ethan's eyes were rimmed with red, but glittered with the thirst for justice that made him a cutthroat prosecutor. "And he'll pay … for all of it." Hawk sucked in a jagged breath. God, if they'd been a few minutes later… He'd called the police and her brother the second he caught on to what was happening, had instructed Ethan to call Elizabeth, to drown out the double beep of the security system while he let himself inside. "Wesley." He turned to see Peter Carrington striding down the narrow staircase. "She's asking for you." His heart kicked, hard. He'd not seen her since the frenzied moments when he'd come close to killing Ferreday with his bare hands. He'd surrendered her first to her brother and sister, then to paramedics and the police, then, finally, her father. He crossed to the ambassador. "How is she?" "Shaken but okay." His eyes, those unusual green eyes he'd shared with his children, darkened. And then he started to cry. Hawk couldn't believe it. Polished, poised, elegant, unflappable Ambassador Peter Carrington started to cry, not just silent tears, but sobs. He pulled his daughter's bodyguard into his arms and held on tight. Hawk shot a desperate look at Ethan, who stared at his father like he'd never seen the man before. "It's okay," Hawk tried to soothe, not having a damn clue what to do. Awkwardly, he thumped his back. "It's all over now." The ambassador pulled back gruffly and met his gaze. "Because of you, son. Because you followed your heart." Everything inside Hawk went very still. "I did my job—" Peter Carrington shook off his explanation. "Liz'beth told me everything, son. She told me everything." He tried to pull back, because if she'd really told him everything, there was no way he could ever look her father in the eye again. "Listen, sir—" "That's why I brought you back into her life," the ambassador stunned him by saying. "Because no one else has been able to reach her like you can, touch her." Hawk felt his mouth drop open, saw Ethan lift a hand to hide laughter. "I—" "She smiles with you, son, a smile from the heart. And that's why she's still alive right now." He paused,


smiled. "Go to her, Wesley. She's waiting." For a moment he just stood there, reeling. He thought back to that morning only a few days before, when the ambassador had jarred him from a fitful sleep, ordering him to go to Elizabeth. Bring her home. Keep her safe. It almost sounded as though her father had harbored a secret agenda— No way. No freaking way. He swallowed hard anyway, looked at the narrow staircase leading up to her bedroom. Her father and brother were watching, but God help him, he took the stairs two at a time. He reached the landing and pushed through her door, forgot to breathe. She stood beyond the elegant four-poster bed, still trashed from their lovemaking, at the window overlooking her backyard, much like he'd been doing one story below. Very little of the crimson sunset remained. Her hair was damp and combed straight, falling against her shoulders and back. She no longer wore the blood-smeared T-shirt and ratty cutoffs, but a dusty-rose terry cloth bathrobe. "Elizabeth." She didn't stiffen the way she usually did when he said her name, just turned slowly to him and slayed him with her eyes. They were huge and dark, not devastated as they'd been earlier, but brimming with hope and promise and, God help him, something dangerously close to love. "Wesley," she said, and her voice, normally so smooth and honeyed and confident, broke. And he couldn't do it. He couldn't just stand there and look at her, not when his heart hammered in his chest and every instinct he possessed demanded that he go to her, pull her into his arms, bury his face in her hair, hold her, just hold her. So he did. She met him halfway, taking him in her arms as he did the same. She pushed up on her toes and pressed her face to his neck, twined her arms around him and held on tight. Emotion clobbered him. "Ellie," he breathed, loving the feel of her, soft and warm, the sweet scent, that unique combination of vanilla and something soft. Pear, she'd told him. Pear. Her mouth moved against his neck, little kisses that electrified his blood. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for coming back." That got him. He pulled back, took her face in his hands. "Do you have any idea," he managed, reminding himself that now was not the time to fall to his knees like an idiot, "any idea at all, how much I love you?" Moisture flooded her eyes. "I love you, too, Wesley. More than I thought possible." The words wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He'd never expected them. Not from her, Elizabeth, the woman who could send him to his knees with a simple smile. "I'm the one who should be thanking you," he said.


The light of a single lamp played across her face, even more beautiful without makeup than with. "Me? Why?" His gut twisted at the thought of what she'd gone through, how much courage she'd shown. "For telling me, Ellie. For finding a way to tell me … without words." A soft little sound tore from her throat. "You heard?" "I heard." He slid a hand down her neck, to the black pearls tucked inside her robe and draped against her collar-bone. The ones she'd worn the night before when he'd made love to her, the ones she'd fingered when she told him to leave, that it was too late. The ones she still wore. "I didn't realize at first," he told her. "I was too blinded by what Nicholas wanted me to see, to hear. But then I stood there at that stupid little iron gate and even though I didn't want to, kept playing the scene over and over in my mind." Something hadn't been right. He'd replayed every word, every move, every breath, and that's when the truth had almost slaughtered him. "You were crying," he said, and felt moisture rush to his own eyes. The memory gutted him. Tough, strong, braveElizabethmay have told him it was too late, but she'd been crying when she did so. And he'd never, not once, seenElizabethcry. "And playing with your pearls." "Praying you would notice." "I noticed." God, had he noticed. It had all clicked with hideous clarity, and he'd run to the side of the house, peered in the window and felt his heart stop. "I should never have walked out that door this morning. I should have told you how I felt—" "He would have found another way." "And I would have stopped him. But he wouldn't have been able to use us against each other. I was an idiot. I let pride take over, walked away before you could do the same." The light in her eyes dimmed. "Like I did two years ago." "Elizabeth—" She lifted a hand to his face. "I wouldn't have cared." He blinked. "What?" "At the door you said you kept your upbringing, your past with Nicholas, from me, because you thought it would have changed things between us, led me to push you away." "I couldn't take that chance." Because, God help him, for all that he'd hassled her about her need for control, he had the same need. For the first time he realized he used bravado, he kept everyone around him off balance, in the same way she used plans. To stay in control. "You were right," she said quietly. "I was scared. I've never wanted anything as badly as I wanted you, never felt so out of control, so … vulnerable."


"Elizabeth—" "And that's why I walked away two years ago, because I didn't think I could live like that, with my heart in my throat every minute of every day, never in control." He couldn't help it. He laughed. "Control is highly overrated." The smile started out slow, tentative, then curved into sheer radiance. "Tell me about it." Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers. "I'd rather show you." Epilogue «^ "You sure about this?" "Absolutely." "It's not too late to change your mind." "I'm not changing my mind." "You don't have to do this, you know. You don't have to prove anything—" "I'm not trying to prove anything." "Once we cross the point of no return—" Elizabethtwisted around and pushed up on her toes, lifted her mouth to his. "I know what I'm doing." The point of no return had long since come and gone, had been crossed the moment Wesley had run across the darkened hotel ballroom inCalgaryand scooped her into his arms, carried her out into the cold rain. The moment she'd seen his eyes, all hot and burning, the wicked gleam that had haunted her for two long years. The moment their mouths had met and she'd rejoiced rather than rejected him. She hadn't realized it at the time, but the writing had already been on the wall, big, bold, with no regard for lines or propriety. Thank God. He slid his arms around her waist, held her close. "Are you scared?" She pulled back as much as their joined harnesses would allow and drank in the sight of him, all tall and broad and drop-deadgorgeous in an orangeflight suit. From the windows of the small Cessna, late-morning sunlight glinted off the gold of his whiskers. "Maybe just a little," she admitted above the rumble of the engines. The plane had stopped climbing five minutes before, was now cruising steadily at close to3,500feet. White clouds streaked against a vivid blue backdrop. "But even more, I'm excited."


The butterscotch of his eyes gleamed. "Promise I won't let go." "Stand by!" the jumpmaster instructed. Her heart kicked. Adrenaline surged. "I know." "Just relax," Wesley murmured with another brush of his mouth to hers. Only a few weeks before the instruction would have been ludicrous. Relax. She was about to jump out the back of an airplane almost a mile above the ground and into an eighty-mile-per-hour wind. For about thirty seconds they would free-fall, just the two of them plummeting toward the earth, much like the day Nicholas had paid to have the fuel line of her father's Lear tampered with and the plane had gone down in western Montana. Wesley had been amazing that day, just as he'd been every day since then. Of course, they had a parachute this time, which would guide them to the field below. Less than a month had passed since Nicholas had tried to exact his revenge. Following Kristina's death she'd sensed something off about him, but she'd attributed it to grief, nothing more. She'd never imagined that behind that polished veneer of oldVirginiamoney lurked the heart of a sociopath. The authorities had investigated his past, found two other suspicious accidents which they were investigating, both involving women he had dated. Shaking off the grim thoughts, she reached up and slid Wesley's goggles from his knit hat down over his eyes, then did the same with hers. With one last brush of her lips to his, she resumed facing forward and waited. Excitement vaulted through her. She'd read every book and article on skydiving she could find, watched demonstration tapes, attended classes. Twice her first jump had been postponed due to bad weather, but this morning had dawned clear and bright and perfect. Ethan had wanted to come. He'd planned to come, but had been called away toWashingtontwo days before. Zhukov was still out there, lying low. There'd been no trace since the alleged sightings west of Cancun. Ethan was obsessed with finding the man, bringing him to justice. It had almost become a personal crusade. Suddenly the rear door opened, and the brilliant blue of the sky blasted her. Exhilaration swirled hard and fast, like a tumbleweed in a sharp fall wind. "This is it!" Wesley shouted above the wind noise. "I'm ready." And she was. For so long she'd lived in denial, using her tight grip on control to protect herself from being hurt. But Wesley had helped her realize that sometimes being strong meant being vulnerable. Plans didn't make a life. Defenses didn't make you strong. The irony staggered her. If Jorak Zhukov had never broken out of prison, never threatened her family, her father would not have ordered Wesley back into her life. She'd never have realized that true strength came from laying it all, even her heart, on the line, having the courage totake chances,to live and love and laugh. And that's what she had with Wesley. What she'd always, always had with him.


"Stand by!" Together, they duck walked to the rear of the plane andpositioned themselves on the step. Her heart hammered hard, but with the feel of Wesley's body surrounding hers, his heat soaking into her, she knew no fear, only a calm certainty. "Go!" the instructor commanded. There was no time to think, no time to turn back. They arched their bodies and let go, stepping from the plane and into the rush of clouds. The free fall began.

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