Crossfire. Jenna Mills
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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,