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
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
Similar Books
Man of Wax
Robert Swartwood
Wicked: The Original Broadway Script
Devin Carter
Wolf Line
Vivian Arend
Hold The Dark: A Markhat story
Frank Tuttle
Trail of Lies
Margaret Daley
Powder Keg
Ed Gorman
Surviving Scotland
Kristin Vayden
The Night Mayor
Kim Newman
Wild and Wonderful
Janet Dailey
Judgement Call
Nick Oldham