CROSSFIRE
Book Two: The Carringtons
Silhouette Intimate Moments #1275
February 2004

“Wesley.” His name came out on a rush, more a breath than a word.

His smile was slow, devastating. “You didn’t think I’d miss the chance to see you in that dress, did you?”

The question did cruel things to her heart. It slammed hard, colliding with ribs already bruised. He remembered the dress, the dare. He’d said it was too risqué for her, bared too much flesh.

She’d ordered it to prove him wrong.

Now she just stared at him, refused to let herself drink too deeply of the sight. She’d seen him dressed up before. She’d even seen him in a tux. But God help her, she’d forgotten. She’d forgotten how good a man so rough around the edges looked in a black coat and tails. She’d forgotten how the jacket stretched across his wide shoulders, how the crisp white of a dress shirt accentuated his deeply tanned skin. She’d forgotten what his hair looked like queued back, how it emphasized wide cheekbones and deep set eyes of butterscotch, the gold and red whiskers of his jaw.

The unease she’d been fighting all evening seared deeper, disturbing her in ways she didn’t understand. Hawk was here. Here. Not just at the auction, but oh, dear Lord in heaven, in the ladies restroom.

She glanced toward the door. “Where’s Lucy?”

He laughed. “Standing guard,” he said in that crushed velvet voice of his. “Sweetheart that she is, she understood when I told her I needed you alone, that it was a matter of life and death.”

The breath lodged in her throat. “Life and death?” she asked, heading toward him. “Has something happened? Is it Zhukov? Is he here?”

He pushed from the wall and met her halfway. “Do you really think I’d be hanging out in the ladies room if Zhukov was within ten miles of you?”

That got her. She stopped, stared, realized the truth. Of course not. The Glock would have been in his hand, the carnal glimmer gone from his eyes. He would have hustled her far, far away. “Then I don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” He lifted a hand to the side of her face, where he used his index finger to loosen a curl from her twist. “Much better.”

Heat trickled through her. She stared at the crisp white shirt, not buttoned high like the other men, but open at the throat, the constricting black bow tie hanging around his neck, untied, and felt the rhythm of her pulse deepen.

“You’ve been here all along, haven’t you?” she asked, finally, finally understanding the edge of awareness that had niggled her all evening. It had always been that way between them. She could be blindfolded, handcuffed, with blaring music drilling at her through earphones, and still, she’d know.

“Did you feel me?” he asked, skimming a finger along her cheekbone. “Is that why you kept glancing over your shoulder?”

Her chest tightened. She had felt him. Deeply. Disturbingly.

“We can’t stay in here,” she said, glancing at the door. Unease skittered through her, like fall leaves in a gale force wind. “Someone could come in any minute.”

His eyes, hot and gleaming a heartbeat before, turned cold. “Would that be so bad? Being found here, alone, with me?”

The question stabbed deep. The undertone, the expectation of repudiation, stung. “This is a bathroom,” she pointed out, and tried to keep her tone light. “For women.” Briskly, she moved to go around him, but he stepped to his right, blocking her path.

“Wesley,” she said, and this time, frustration leaked through. “You can’t hold me hostage here.”

“I don’t want to hold you hostage.”

The control she’d wrapped so tightly around her slipped another notch. “Then what do you want?” she asked, but immediately regretted.

Some truths, some desires, were better, safer, left unspoken.

He streaked his finger over her chin and down her neck, to the dip at the base of her throat. “I thought it was time for a little demonstration.”

“A demonstration?” Disbelief gave way to an excitement she had no business feeling. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe,” he answered, dragging the tip of his finger along her collarbone, “but that’s not the point.” He paused, lifted the string of black pearls into his hands. “These suit you.”

Her mouth went dry. “Black?”

“No,” he murmured, fingering the iridescent strand. “Beautiful. Mysterious.”

Oh, God, she had to get out of here. Something deep inside was screaming, begging. No one ever talked to her like this. No one ever set her on fire with mere words. The way he looked at her, touched her. . . “Wesley—“

“Relax.” He lifted his finger to her mouth. “This won’t hurt at all. Promise.”

Every instinct for self-preservation demanded she rip away from him, but the stream of curiosity wouldn’t let her move. “What, Wesley? What is it you think you need to demonstrate in a ladies room?”

The possibilities sent a wicked little thrill licking through her. Too well, she remembered what he’d demonstrated the last time they’d been alone in a bathroom.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Yes. The demonstration.” He stepped closer, slid a hand to the curve of her waist. “I’m here,” he said slowly, quietly, “to show you how exciting it can be to do something unexpected, unplanned, maybe even unorthodox.”

Her heart kicked, hard. “Hawk—“

“You said you weren’t afraid of taking chances,” he murmured, drawing her against the wall of his body. “So I thought I’d let you prove it.” He slid a hand to the small of her back, the other up to possess her shoulders. “Dance with me.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

His mouth curved into an alarmingly gentle smile. “Then prove it to yourself.”

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