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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.
