Читать книгу Crossfire - Jenna Mills - Страница 10

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?”