Hot Ice (52 page)

"You look worse than I feel," she told him. Oh, Lord. He had come in person. Her hungry gaze took in his lean, far from elegantly dressed body, his disheveled hair, jeans, and too-small T-shirt. He was not his usual sartorially splendid self, but seeing him brought a lump to her throat. The sight of the bandage beneath his obviously borrowed shirt made her frown, and she pushed herself up off the pillow to sit upright. "You're hurt!"

"It's nothing." He came toward the bed. "The doctor gave you a green light." His British accent was back in spades. "The muscle weakness was expected, but they say you insisted on walking a few steps anyway. To stay on the safe side, they want to keep you here a couple of days for observation."

You don't want to be here, do you
? Taylor thought, the pressure in her chest unbearable as she sensed him distancing himself. "I know. The doctor told me. Thanks for stopping by." She thought she was doing a credible job of sounding sophisticated and casual. Unfortunately, she felt the pressure of tears behind her eyelids, and the steel band around her chest hurt like hell. "I guess you're on your way to somewhere exciting—"

"How are you feeling?"

Ridiculously disadvantaged, sitting here in bed with an extremely unattractive, threadbare surgical gown exposing my behind
. "Okay," she told him brightly.

Apparently he was displeased with that response because he scowled down at her.

"Fine," she assured him. "
Better
." A heart was merely a muscle, she assured herself for about the billionth time in the last few hours. Muscles did not break. People left people all the time. Nobody had ever died of a broken heart. She didn't think…

Hunt placed the large brown paper bag in her lap, then stepped back and shoved his hands into his front pockets. A very un-Hunt-like thing to do.
Oh God. Here comes the kiss-off
. She braced herself. It wasn't as though she hadn't expected the "great-knowing-you-but-we-were-just-ships-that-pass-in-the-night" speech. But she had the childish urge to put her fingers in her ears and sing loudly so she couldn't hear it.

"You brought me a present?"
Oh shit. Proof he felt guilty that he was going to give her the brush-off
. That made it worse, and made her appear pathetic. She looked down until her vision cleared and she was positive that when she spoke her voice would be steady. "Thank you." She shot him what she hoped to God was a remote, easy smile. "I do love presents." Ironically, she couldn't remember when last she'd received one.

She reached inside as he lingered near the foot of her bed.
Great. Not exactly subtle
. "A teddy bear?" A huge white bear wearing a pink tutu and the glittering spill of the Blue Star diamonds around its fuzzy neck.

"The necklace, I'm afraid, has to be returned," he told her. "But you have permission to hold on to it until then. And the bear—well, I was limited to the hospital's gift shop. It was either ballerina bear or doctor donkey, and I didn't think your prize belonged on an ass." He smiled. "Hospital patients should have something to hold on to during their incarceration."

I want to hold on to you
. She tucked the bear wearing a $75 million necklace beneath the covers next to her and spent a few moments arranging its arms to her satisfaction. All the while feeling Hunt's X-ray eyes boring into her brain.
I'm fine that you're leaving
, she tried hard to project. But she didn't feel fine at all. She felt as though Godzilla was ripping a hole in her chest while eating her brain.

Far from feeling joyous and happy as portrayed on sappy Valentine cards, she felt like crap. One-sided love was the pits. She decided from now on she'd enjoy a nice long stretch of celibacy. For, oh, ten or twenty years. Because, damn him, he'd ruined her for any other man.

She stuck her hand back in the bag, pulled out a can of 7-Up, and gave him an inquiring glance. "From a czar's diamonds to 7-Up? You're a very eclectic guy."

"The diamonds weren't mine to give," he pointed out. "The soda is, in case you're still nauseous."

Having him holding her head while she threw up was a once-in-a-lifetime experience she didn't care to repeat. "I'm not." She noticed that he was gripping the footboard with both hands. His knuckles were white.
It did not bode well
. "But just in case I am later," she assured him cheerfully, "I'll put it right here." She set the can on the bedside table and stuck her hand back inside the bag.

Honest to God. The man was going to present her to death
. And she wasn't sure how much longer she could sit here with him so close and not want to grab him and hold him tight, or ask him coolly to please be humane and leave while she still had a shred of dignity left.

She wished to hell he'd just kiss her good-bye and
go
! He must realize just how damn cruel, not to mention rude, it was to drag this out for so damn long. Fine. Good. Great. The man didn't owe her anything. They'd been lovers for a while. Great lovers. Stupendous lovers. But there'd been no promises made. She hadn't
expected
any promises to
be
made. Then again, she hadn't expected to fall in love with him either. So much for expectations.

She frowned down at the weird feel of something inside the paper sack, and pulled out a blue freezer bag. Interesting. Confusing, but interesting. Inside were half a dozen not-quite-frozen orange Popsicles.

What on earth… Holy crap! These were some of the things he'd given his mother before she—"Oh. My. God." She shot Hunt a look of horror. "I'm
dying
?"

"Jesus, no! Of course not."

Good to know, but somehow dying seemed easier than watching him awkwardly lead up to the kiss-off moment. "Well, that's certainly a relief. Did you guys figure out what Morales had in all those crates?" she asked a little desperately, inserting the one Popsicle she'd taken out back in the freezer bag, then setting it on the bedside table.

"It'll take months of painstaking work to process the contents," Hunt told her, stroking his palm along the curved edge of the footboard. "Just because a crate is stamped 'Crayons' doesn't mean it came from Crayola."

He'd stroked her body like that. The memory made her nipples tighten beneath the thin cotton of the hospital gown. "What about everything in his secret room?"

"Loaded and en route to Consolidated Underwriters. They can figure out who gets what. They said your commission check would be suitably impressive."

She wasn't particularly interested in what was sure to be a seven-figure check. She was now taking very shallow breaths just to participate in this sham of a casual conversation. Perhaps he'd leave when he noticed she was turning blue? "Vegas still standing?"

"Missile defused and out of commission, thanks to you." Hunt started to pace. Another very un-Hunt-like thing for him to do. If she had an ounce of compassion to spare, she thought, she'd put him out of his misery and spare him the awkward good-bye.

Unfortunately—for him—she needed these last few minutes to look her fill. She had to store up memories for when she lay on her stupid, four-hundred-thread-count sheets beneath the cashmere blankets. Alone.

She felt the cool air of the room caress her bare back. And wanted his hands there to keep her warm. She wanted to put her hands on him. All over him. "Were you shot?"

"Knife wound," Hunt said dismissively. "I'm not nearly as interested in my condition as I am in yours, love."

Was that the British condescending "love"? The casual love, or a term of endearment love? Or—God this was brutal. It was like going bald, one plucked hair at a time. Why couldn't the damned man just shoot her?

Okay, be a big girl, she told herself. A big girl clinging to a teddy bear.
Damn! I can do this. Stay casual, stay aloof
.

"Thanks for stopping by," she said with forced cheer through the clog in her throat. "My days as a spy were an eye-opener, and I—"

"Shut up."

He came around the end of the bed, sat down beside her on the narrow mattress, gathered her in his arms, and a moment later had pressed his lips to hers. The gentle pressure of his thumb on her chin caused her to open her mouth to him. But she kept her tongue to herself. Really. This was incredibly unfair.

Hunt lifted his head, his eyes hot as hammered silver. "Stubborn. Kiss me back," he murmured fiercely.

So he wanted to play with fire, did he? She wound her arms about his neck and felt a thrill of triumph as he groaned deep in his throat as she kissed him back. Slowly, delicately, she slid her tongue into his mouth, gently exploring. Loving the taste and texture of him. Memorizing each texture, each subtle flavor. Her fingers threaded through his hair, holding his head exactly where she wanted him as her tongue played with his in choreographed perfection.

A sigh left his body, as if he'd been holding his breath, and he kissed her back, pressing her onto her back against the thin hospital pillow. "I missed you," he murmured against her mouth. "Missed you abominably."

Her lips curved. "Like the snowman?"

"I certainly felt that cold without you."

Taylor wanted him so badly, she ached with it. She allowed herself a few seconds of prolonged contact that her heart and soul cried out for before she managed to pull away and said with commendable steadiness, "I don't think you should kiss me anymore."

His eyes narrowed. How could gray look so hot? "Really? And why is that?" Because it had taken just one look at him, one touch of his hands on her bare skin, and she knew that she'd never forget him. That she'd stay in love with Huntington St. John for the rest of her natural life.

That was a very long time to miss someone. The thought depressed her. He waited with an uncanny stillness as she fumbled for an answer. She had a million and none. "Because…just because."

"God, you're a stubborn woman."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

With a small shake of his head, he pulled her into his arms again, his mouth coming down on hers this time with hungry possession that brooked no argument. She whimpered softly as his tongue came out aggressively to meet hers, demanding a response that was there for his taking. Was his heart pounding as fast as hers? She couldn't tell where she stopped and he started.

After several heavy heartbeats, she wrapped her arms about his waist, not too tightly, not as tightly as she would have liked, pressing her face to his shoulder.

"Please don't," she whispered, her voice a raw, broken thread. "You have to—"
Go. Please
, she begged silently,
make it quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Go. Leave
. Instead she whispered, "Stop."

"Open your eyes, Taylor," he said, pulling back, his voice soft but inexorable. "Open your eyes and look at me."

She could deny him nothing, and blinked away the tears clinging to her lashes, knowing he'd see that her eyes were awash in pathetic tears.

"What is it, darling?" he whispered, his beautiful, elegant hands framing her face, pushing her hair away from her tear-dampened cheeks with a tenderness that made her heart ache unbearably. "What brought this on?"

"I just want to get out of here," she said desperately. "And don't you have to get back to—wherever?"

"I have to get back to
whomever
," he murmured, his mouth close to hers.

"Look," she told him. "Much as I'd love to have sex with you once more before you move on to greener pastures, this is neither the time nor the place." She couldn't take much more of this. She really couldn't.

"You're right, it isn't the time, or the place. But don't mistake sex for making love."

The sharp blade of his words was so finely honed that it took several seconds for Taylor to feel them pierce directly into her heart.
Well, that was plain enough
. She tried to summon a smile to send him on his way with no regrets, but it was a dismal failure.

She met his gaze, making no move to break free of his hands, still cradling her face. "Let go of me," she begged. Having this last taste was almost more than she could bear.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, "I can't do that." He eased her into a sitting position, pulled the thin cotton gown back over her shoulder where it had slipped, then used his thumb to wipe away the moisture on her cheek. "Is this the same woman who bashed me over the head and handcuffed me to a bed?" he asked ruefully, his gray eyes hot and filled with… Taylor had no idea what.

She was more confused than she'd ever been in her life. She'd been so braced for the thanks-but-no-thanks speech that she wasn't prepared for this different script.

He continued to brush her cheek with his thumb. "The same woman who tried to knee me in the balls the first time I touched her breast?"

"You deserved it at the time. What's your point?"

He chuckled as he pulled her into his arms. "The point is," he said against her hair, "stop fighting it. Stop fighting me." His warm hands slid possessively up the cool skin of her bare back beneath the skimpy hospital gown before he slanted his mouth down on hers. His tongue teased her lips open in an almost desperate, searching kiss.

Still confused, she held herself stiffly, willing herself to think of other things.

He lifted his head a fraction, his eyes blazing with banked passion and a hint of laughter. "You're supposed to kiss me back, love."

Without giving her time to answer, his mouth caught hers again. She lost what little reasoning abilities she thought she still possessed as his kiss melted both her brain and her resolve. She tightened her arms about his waist and met the thrusts of his tongue with moves of her own. She couldn't think, and she couldn't fight it anymore.

This last kiss would have to sustain her for a long, long time. With a low moan she sought his tongue with hers, losing herself in the heady thrusts and parries. Her fingers fisted in the back of his shirt, feeling the play of his muscles beneath the fabric. They kissed until she was giddy and breathless.

Too soon, he lifted his head. It took every scrap of Taylor's willpower not to whimper and drag his mouth back to hers.