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Crossfire
Jenna Mills


Trained to be the best, bodyguard Hawk Monroe lost all objectivity when it came to cool, beautiful Elizabeth Carrington. Once, he would have given his life to keep her safe. But there was no defense against the fury and desire that raged through him now when a deadly new threat swept him back into her world….Hawk. Two years later, memories of their lovemaking still burned inside her. This time, she wouldn't walk away. This time, there was no holding back from the passion that took them to the edge and back. But even if they survived the terrible danger stalking her, both their hearts were now directly in the line of fire….









Awareness hit immediately, stronger than before.


Behind her, the doors slid closed. Swallowing hard, Elizabeth reached a gloved hand into her pocketbook. The corridor stretched long and deserted, vacant save 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 kicked. Hard. 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….


Dear Reader,

Once again, we invite you to experience the romantic excitement that is the hallmark of Silhouette Intimate Moments. And what better way to begin than with Downright Dangerous, the newest of THE PROTECTORS, the must-read miniseries by Beverly Barton? Bad-boy-turned-bodyguard Rafe Devlin is a hero guaranteed to win heroine Elsa Leone’s heart—and yours.

We have more miniseries excitement for you with Marie Ferrarella’s newest CAVANAUGH JUSTICE title, Dangerous Games, about a detective heroine joining forces with the hero to prove his younger brother’s innocence, and The Cradle Will Fall, Maggie Price’s newest LINE OF DUTY title, featuring ex-lovers brought back together to find a missing child. And that’s not all, of course. Reader favorite Jenna Mills returns with Crossfire, about a case of personal protection that’s very personal indeed. Nina Bruhns is back with a taste of Sweet Suspicion. This FBI agent hero doesn’t want to fall for the one witness who can make or break his case, but his heart just isn’t listening to his head. Finally, meet the Undercover Virgin who’s the heroine of Becky Barker’s newest novel. When a mission goes wrong and she’s on the run with the hero, she may stay under cover, but as for the rest…!

Enjoy them all, and be sure to come back next month for six more of the best and most exciting romance novels around, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,






Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor




Crossfire

Jenna Mills





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




JENNA MILLS


grew up in south Louisiana, amidst romantic plantation ruins, haunting swamps and timeless legends. It’s not surprising, then, that she wrote her first romance at the ripe old age of six! Three years later, this librarian’s daughter turned to romantic suspense with Jacquie and the Swamp, a harrowing tale of a young woman on the run in the swamp and the dashing hero who helps her find her way home. Since then her stories have grown in complexity, but her affinity for adventurous women and dangerous men has remained constant. She loves writing about strong characters torn between duty and desire, conscious choice and destiny.

When not writing award-winning stories brimming with deep emotion, steamy passion and page-turning suspense, Jenna spends her time with her husband, two cats, two dogs and a menagerie of plants in their Dallas, Texas, home. Jenna loves to hear from her readers. She can be reached via e-mail at writejennamills@aol.com, or via snail mail at P.O. Box 768, Coppell, Texas 75019.


A heartfelt thanks to my fellow IM authors and the fabulous readers of the Intimate Moments Authors BBS, for all your love and support when I needed you most. You know who you are.

I only hope you know how special you are.

A special thanks to Linda, Cathy, Vickie and Roberta.

I’ll walk through the fire with you anytime.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue




Prologue


“One can never consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar.” —Helen Keller

Lightning didn’t strike twice.

Wesley “Hawk” Monroe knew 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 read 5:43.

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 bring Elizabeth home.”

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 in Calgary,” 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 word protect stopped the protest ricocheting through him. He didn’t want to see 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 in Europe. 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 settle Elizabeth’s nerves. They’d been jangling since the moment she stepped from the hotel and into the cool Calgary breeze.

“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, Elizabeth had 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?”

Elizabeth held 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 Hawk Monroe walked 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 and Elizabeth breathed 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, but Elizabeth couldn’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 remembering him.



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,” Elizabeth told 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. Elizabeth paused, 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, a Calgary native, 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 through Elizabeth. 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.

Elizabeth clutched 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 fleetingly Elizabeth wondered 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 inside Elizabeth twisted, 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, forcing Elizabeth to 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’m fine,” 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 you doing 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. Hawk Monroe was 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.

Elizabeth wanted 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


Hawk Monroe prided 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, untouchable Elizabeth.

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 known Elizabeth was 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, but the relentlessness of their kiss.

“What are you doing?” she asked with a breathlessness he knew she would hate.

“You 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. Soon Elizabeth’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.

“Why you?” she asked, and he heard what she didn’t say. Why not Aaron or Jagger or anyone 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’t want 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, Elizabeth still shook. A compassionate man would have pulled her into his arms, let the heat of his body warm her. But 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 ruined 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.”

Elizabeth stepped 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, Elizabeth followed 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 you 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?”

Elizabeth bit 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 I 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. His best 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 watched Elizabeth walk 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 they could 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 filled Elizabeth’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.”

Elizabeth took 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.”

Elizabeth smiled. 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?” Elizabeth asked, 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 in Richmond.”

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, and Elizabeth knew 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, Elizabeth stood 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.

Elizabeth picked 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—

Elizabeth froze, 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 why Elizabeth looked exactly the way she had that night two years before.

Awkward wasn’t a word in Hawk’s vocabulary. He always had just the right comeback, the right solution. But when he looked into Elizabeth’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. Elizabeth didn’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 old Richmond breeding and hot Southern nights, the one she usually hid behind crisp boarding-school style, “I donated 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. Targeting Elizabeth. 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 to Elizabeth’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?” Elizabeth turned off the bathroom light and breezed into the main room. “We are headed to Richmond tomorrow, 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 of Lake Louise first…”

Elizabeth swung 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 to Richmond when 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 teasing Elizabeth hardened 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 to Elizabeth, 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 of Elizabeth going 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 hot Virginia sun. “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 escorted Elizabeth’s sister to Portugal, Miranda had looked him in the eye and told him Elizabeth and Nicholas weren’t together anymore, that Elizabeth had 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.”

Elizabeth crossed 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.”

Elizabeth stiffened, 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 more comfortable.”

Across the room the baseball announcer signaled a grand slam, but neither of them looked. Elizabeth just 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, Elizabeth nursed 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.

Elizabeth loved 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 to Richmond without 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” Monroe had 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, but Elizabeth had 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.

Elizabeth didn’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 loose with 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 late Elizabeth realized 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.”

Elizabeth said 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 rugged Rockies jutted up like toy mountains. The snowcaps looked little more than dots of vanilla ice cream.

Elizabeth leaned back and drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. She was eager to get back to Richmond 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.

Hawk Monroe was 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 Elizabeth found 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.”

Elizabeth smiled. 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 shot Elizabeth a 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 nowhere Montana with Elizabeth’s life on the line.

“Billings Center,” 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.

Or Elizabeth’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. “I’m 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!” Elizabeth pointed 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!” Elizabeth shouted into the radio. “November Two Three Niner Bravo crash landing—”

He had no choice. None. No option.

Elizabeth grabbed 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. Elizabeth shifted 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 before Elizabeth wanted 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. Hawk Monroe was 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.




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