Читать книгу Crossfire - Jenna Mills, Jenna Mills - Страница 11

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.