Crossfire. Jenna Mills
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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