Читать книгу Crossfire - Jenna Mills - Страница 9

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.