the heat of his body soaked into hers. She still had a hand at the base of his neck, could feel his pulse thumping more strongly every second. "You were out cold—"
"I'm fine." The flash of his eyes was the only warning she got. He came to life almost violently, pushing from the trashed instrument panel and discarding the safety belt that hemmed him in. And then, just like the night before, he had his hands on her body. They were big and warm, his callused palms surprisingly gentle, and everywhere he skimmed, she burned. He ran them along her sides and her arms, up her neck to her face.
The abrupt transition from out cold to in command jump-started her heart.
"I'm okay, Wesley," she said, wanting —needing— his hands off her body. "Really."
He skimmed a finger along her cheekbone, drawing her attention to moisture she'd not noticed. "The hell you are you."
Wincing, she lifted a hand to her face, feeling the warmth of his fingers and the stickiness of blood. "Just a cut." So much less than what could have happened. "There's glass—"
He didn't let her finish. He had her against his body before her heart could beat, his mouth on hers before she could pull away. The kiss was hot and hard and demanding, completely without finesse. He had one hand against the small of her back, the other tangled in her hair. Whiskers scraped her jaw.
Shock staggered deep. Pull away, she told herself. Now. But the intensity of his kiss kindled a like intensity in her. The need to affirm life blazed as strongly as the pulse humming through her blood. She opened to him, lifting a hand to his chest, where beneath the damp fabric of his shirt, his heart thudded a frenetic rhythm.
And then he was gone. He ripped away without warning and narrowed his eyes. His breathing was ragged. "Don't start something you're not willing to finish, sweetheart."
She just stared at him. Incredulity slashed at the haze surrounding her, letting shards of clarity bleed through. "I didn't start anything," she said quietly. But dear God, she'd responded.
"That's right," he muttered, adjusting the holster that still carried his Glock. "Your specialty is endings."
The words stung, but before she could say anything, he turned from her and shoved open the cockpit door, letting in a blast of sunshine. "Sweet mercy."
Elizabeth crawled to his side and stared at where the fuselage should have been. The belly of her father's prized possession lay a good twenty feet away, as though giant hands had savagely ripped the Lear into two pieces.
Hawk stepped through the doorway and stood to his full height. His feet automatically went shoulder width apart, his hand to his gun. "Son of a bitch."
Elizabeth scrambled after him, wincing when her weight came down on the ankle she'd twisted the night before. Crisp mountain air whipped at her, but rather than shivering, she said a silent prayer of thanks, starkly aware how different the outcome could have been. She wouldn't be standing on an injured ankle to feel the dull throbbing at the base of her neck or the whisper of wind against her cheek.
"This is wrong." Hawk broke toward the wreckage, stopped by the left wing. Eyes narrow, he inhaled deeply, roughly expelled the breath. "Smell that?"
Elizabeth moved closer, drawing in a breath as he'd done. It was strange seeing him outdoors without his mirrored sunglasses. "Pine," she said, glancing toward the spruce that surrounded them. "Like Christmas."
His scowl deepened. "But no jet fuel."
And no burning wreckage. Elizabeth stared at the fuselage and felt a cold chill snake through her. Jet fuel was highly flammable. When a plane slammed down, explosions and fire usually claimed the lives the impact spared. They should have had a full tank, plenty to burst into flames and incinerate them both.
The truth staggered her. "This was no accident, was it?"
"He must have paid someone off," Hawk said, moving toward the passenger section. He kicked a broken seat and sifted through a pile
"I'm fine." The flash of his eyes was the only warning she got. He came to life almost violently, pushing from the trashed instrument panel and discarding the safety belt that hemmed him in. And then, just like the night before, he had his hands on her body. They were big and warm, his callused palms surprisingly gentle, and everywhere he skimmed, she burned. He ran them along her sides and her arms, up her neck to her face.
The abrupt transition from out cold to in command jump-started her heart.
"I'm okay, Wesley," she said, wanting —needing— his hands off her body. "Really."
He skimmed a finger along her cheekbone, drawing her attention to moisture she'd not noticed. "The hell you are you."
Wincing, she lifted a hand to her face, feeling the warmth of his fingers and the stickiness of blood. "Just a cut." So much less than what could have happened. "There's glass—"
He didn't let her finish. He had her against his body before her heart could beat, his mouth on hers before she could pull away. The kiss was hot and hard and demanding, completely without finesse. He had one hand against the small of her back, the other tangled in her hair. Whiskers scraped her jaw.
Shock staggered deep. Pull away, she told herself. Now. But the intensity of his kiss kindled a like intensity in her. The need to affirm life blazed as strongly as the pulse humming through her blood. She opened to him, lifting a hand to his chest, where beneath the damp fabric of his shirt, his heart thudded a frenetic rhythm.
And then he was gone. He ripped away without warning and narrowed his eyes. His breathing was ragged. "Don't start something you're not willing to finish, sweetheart."
She just stared at him. Incredulity slashed at the haze surrounding her, letting shards of clarity bleed through. "I didn't start anything," she said quietly. But dear God, she'd responded.
"That's right," he muttered, adjusting the holster that still carried his Glock. "Your specialty is endings."
The words stung, but before she could say anything, he turned from her and shoved open the cockpit door, letting in a blast of sunshine. "Sweet mercy."
Elizabeth crawled to his side and stared at where the fuselage should have been. The belly of her father's prized possession lay a good twenty feet away, as though giant hands had savagely ripped the Lear into two pieces.
Hawk stepped through the doorway and stood to his full height. His feet automatically went shoulder width apart, his hand to his gun. "Son of a bitch."
Elizabeth scrambled after him, wincing when her weight came down on the ankle she'd twisted the night before. Crisp mountain air whipped at her, but rather than shivering, she said a silent prayer of thanks, starkly aware how different the outcome could have been. She wouldn't be standing on an injured ankle to feel the dull throbbing at the base of her neck or the whisper of wind against her cheek.
"This is wrong." Hawk broke toward the wreckage, stopped by the left wing. Eyes narrow, he inhaled deeply, roughly expelled the breath. "Smell that?"
Elizabeth moved closer, drawing in a breath as he'd done. It was strange seeing him outdoors without his mirrored sunglasses. "Pine," she said, glancing toward the spruce that surrounded them. "Like Christmas."
His scowl deepened. "But no jet fuel."
And no burning wreckage. Elizabeth stared at the fuselage and felt a cold chill snake through her. Jet fuel was highly flammable. When a plane slammed down, explosions and fire usually claimed the lives the impact spared. They should have had a full tank, plenty to burst into flames and incinerate them both.
The truth staggered her. "This was no accident, was it?"
"He must have paid someone off," Hawk said, moving toward the passenger section. He kicked a broken seat and sifted through a pile
Similar Books
