THE PERFECT TARGET (21 page)

And God help her, she wouldn't be able to stop him.

Last night, she hadn't wanted to.

That one thought both shamed her and gave her strength. She would not let this man win. She would let him think she was playing by his rules, but the game would be all hers.

And she would come out on top.

"Camp?" she asked. It was cold and damp outside, the storm bound to break again. "Where?"

"You'll see." He crossed the muddy ground separating them, took her hand and started toward the thickly wooded area just beyond. "It's not too far."

That was a lie. They walked, and they walked, and they walked some more. Miranda looked around alertly, trying to memorize their every turn, but thorough man that he was, Sandro kept erasing their tracks and creating diversions, making it impossible for anyone to follow.

Or retrace their steps.

The night was darker beneath the canopy of the trees, cooler, occasional raindrops falling from the branches overhead. The smell of mud and decay surrounded them, forcing Miranda to fight the chill sinking into her bones. She didn't want to shiver. Didn't want Sandro to have the satisfaction of knowing her physical discomfort.

He stopped abruptly, swore under his breath.

Miranda's heart and her guard leapt to simultaneous attention. "What? What is it?"

The lightning barely made it through the branches, but enough crept through to reveal the impatience snapping in his eyes. Showing his distrust of her by keeping her hand anchored in his, he slid the knapsack down his shoulder to the blanket of leaves, yanked it open, fished around inside.

Miranda's pulse started to race. She glanced around wildly, saw nothing. Couldn't imagine what had him so on edge.

"Here," he growled, rising to his full height. In his free hand, he held the yellow Hawaiian shirt he'd worn earlier that day. "Put this on."

She gaped at the shirt. "No."

"Damn it, you're shivering, Miranda. Now isn't the time for playing Joan of Arc."

Shivering. He'd realized she was shivering, and he was offering her his shirt.

She stared at the garment, refused to see him that afternoon in Fatima sitting across the small round table and watching her eat an ice-cream cone like it was the most fascinating event he'd ever seen in his life. His eyes had practically glowed. At the time, a thrill had rushed through her. Because she'd thought the glow meant hunger.

Now she knew the only hunger he felt was to turn her over to Viktor Zhukov, the bloodthirsty general who thought nothing of rape and murder.

But he was offering her his shirt, and she was so very chilled. "Fine," she said, refusing to let gratitude soften her voice. She took the garment that was big enough to be a dress for her and stuck her arms defiantly through the sleeves.

The sense of warmth was immediate, shocking. Damning. It washed over her and through her, mingling with the lingering scent of man to send her senses into meltdown.

"Are you just going to stare at me all night," she asked angrily, "or are we going to make camp before the storm hits?"

His expression softened. "Take no prisoners, eh, Miranda?" He laughed then, soft, quiet. "Let's hit it then."

Just like that they were off, him practically dragging her along the uneven, muddy path through the woods. The hand that held hers was warm and moist, strong. His fingers laced through hers in a grip she would never break. Hard to believe just last night she'd found his touch imminently reassuring.

She didn't want to consider how she found the slide of palm to palm, the twining of fingers, now.

Instead, she stalked along beside him, his long legs eating up the muddy path much more quickly than hers. She held herself together, determined not to let emotion, the hurt and the betrayal, the bitter disappointment, bleed through.

She had to be as merciless as he was. Survival left no room for compassion.

But he had shown her compassion, pointed out some quiet little voice deep inside. A voice she'd been working hard to ignore ever since Sandro had helped her escape from Petros.

Why did you just leave him there like that?
she'd asked, a blade of hope burgeoning deep in her bones.

Maybe I want you, the glory, all for myself,
Sandro had answered, squashing that hope with a few muttered words.

She needed to believe him, Miranda told herself. She couldn't let herself imagine that he was really trying to protect her from that vile little man, no matter what he'd sworn about not letting the general hurt her. She couldn't afford to remember the rush that had gone through her.

Freedom. That was all she could think about, escaping this man who was willing to sacrifice her in the name of a struggle that had nothing to do with her.

She almost wept when she saw the clearing. Hope surged. Through the darkness she couldn't see much, just the densely wooded area opening to a gently sloping patch of land. Then she rounded the bend, and through the flickering lightning, the castle stole her breath.

Tall, dark and stark, the ruins jutted up against the night sky like a picture straight out of a coffee-table book. Multiple turrets and parapets, big, dark, gaping holes that had to be windows, an imposing outer wall.

"Oh, my God," she murmured, then saw the river. The water was dark, angry, and it raced along on all sides of the castle.

And she knew. God help her, she knew. "Where are we?" she asked anyway.

Sandro led her to the muddy riverbank, where a rowboat sat tied to a wooden post. "Hotel California."

Once, the misplaced humor would have made her laugh. Now it came damn close to making her cry. Because she knew what he had in mind. She'd read about this castle on an island in the middle of the river, read about the tourist outfit that ferried visitors to the unbearably romantic ruins by day. It was a small operation, only one boat.

A boat Sandro was commandeering.

A boat she would have to commandeer in turn.

"We should be able to catch a few hours sleep here," Sandro said. "If we're gone by sunrise, no one will be the wiser."

And with only the one boat, no one would be able to cross the swollen river to reach them. The man thought of everything.

She eyed the dark, swirling water, the flimsy-looking paddles lying across the floor of the pitiful excuse for a boat, and fought the rapid-fire pounding of her heart. No way could she let him take her to that island.

"This can't be a good idea, Sandro. You hardly slept last night. Maybe we can just … break into the shack," she said in a moment of pure inspiration. Not twenty feet away a small metal building stood dark and apparently empty, probably where tour company employees sheltered themselves from rain.

"The river's not that bad," he said, efficiently untying the rope that held the rowboat in place. "And anyway, I don't need much sleep."

"What do you need?" The question broke free before she could stop it, and Sandro looked up sharply, the lightning casting his face in a fascinating play of shadows.

You. She would have sworn she saw the one word pass through his smoky gaze.

"Right now," he practically growled, "I need you to cooperate, Miranda."

Not
bella
.

Had that been a lie, too?

She swallowed hard, fought the stab of hurt. She had to get away from this man; it was as simple as that. And, she added silently, dipping her hand into her pocket, she'd have to do it tonight. Her icy cold fingers closed around the object she'd found in Sandro's duffel bag while looking for granola and water.

Yes. Tonight.

She refused to acknowledge the sharp pang freezing through her chest.

In minutes he had the boat that reminded her of a Boy Scout project dragged toward the river. She sat when he instructed her to, quietly, silently biding her time. He put one foot in and pushed off with the other, propelling them into the current.

The small vessel rocked and swayed violently, and for a horrible moment, she thought they would capsize. But Sandro quickly had the oars in hand and steadied them. She watched him silently row, tried not to notice his arms. They were big and powerful and they flexed with each stroke of the oars. The T-shirt he'd pulled on at the so-called safe house was olive and a little too tight, outlining the contours of his back. The muscles there, too, rippled. If she'd seen him on the street like this, or in a movie, in that T-shirt and the camouflage pants he'd dragged up his long legs—
after running naked from the shower, dear God
—she would have thought him an American commando. Not an Eastern European criminal.

It had never occurred to her that men of such diametrically opposed ideals would dress the same.

Miranda squeezed her eyes shut, tried to think of anything but the way he'd looked tearing into the kitchen, stark naked and dripping wet. At the time, she'd thought him her bodyguard. At the time, she'd still ached for his kisses. And more. She'd been nearly blind with fear, but even through that dark place she'd all but gasped at what a magnificent sight Sandro made wet and nude.

With a gun in his hand.

The little boat stopped moving, and Miranda abruptly opened her eyes. Sandro had turned to her, was looking at her peculiarly. "Miranda? You okay?"

She felt the cry rise in her throat, felt the wild desire to propel herself at him and pound her fists against his chest, to knock him into the cold, angry water.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" she asked more thickly than she intended.

His lips twisted in a cruel parody of a smile. "You think I'm an amoral piece of scum who lied to you and now I'm dragging you off to some forgotten castle as my prisoner to finish what we started last night. You're trying to figure out if you grab an oar fast enough, if you can crack my skull open before I have you over my shoulder and inside the master bedchamber."

She felt her eyes flare, her heart stagger, didn't understand the hurt. "Close enough," she muttered.

He stood, reached for her hand. "I know you're scared," he said, helping her to the little wooden dock. "But whether you believe me or not, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Miranda glanced skyward, where the occasional splatter of rain was giving way to a steady drizzle. "What I think doesn't really matter, Sandro, does it?"

A hard sound broke from his throat. "You'd be surprised."

She let the comment go, let him lead her inside the stone walls of the surprisingly intact castle. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and used the flame to guide them through cool dark passageways, until they reached a large room. Miranda stopped when he did, squinted to discern detail from shadow.

There was nothing to discern, just a packed dirt floor and stone walls. And the enormous opening against the far wall. "A fireplace?"

He tugged her toward it. "I'll build a small fire. It's the next best thing to—"

Body heat. He didn't say it. But she heard it. Thought it. Felt it.

"To an electric blanket," he finished, then glanced down at his wrist. "I'd say we've got five hours before sunrise. We'll need to be on the move before then."

Miranda nodded. "And what of Petros?"

Sandro gathered several sticks from around the large room, then knelt before the fireplace so tall he could have stood inside.

"Petros won't find us," he told her. "And if he does, which he won't, it's a mistake he'll never make again."

Chapter 11

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T
ouch her again, you son of a bitch, and you're a dead man.

Once, the vow would have thrilled her. Now it terrified. Because she knew the words weren't empty or overly dramatic. They were cold and simple fact.

She shivered, reminded how violently her world had shifted in only a matter of hours. No, not shifted. Shifted was too soft a word. Too subtle and gentle. Her world hadn't shifted, it had … shattered.

Miranda swallowed hard and surveyed the room, reinforced her resolve. "Are you going to sleep, too?" she asked as casually as she could.
Please, God, say yes.

He twisted toward her, gave her a grim smile. "I won't be much good for you if I don't."

She kept her expression wiped clean, but inside, felt a burst of hope. With Sandro sleeping—

"I'm sorry, Miranda, but I can't let you do that," he said, standing and striding across the room in seemingly one move, grabbing his knapsack and tearing open the front pocket. Her expression must not have been as blank as she thought, she realized as Sandro pulled two shiny bracelets from the bag.

Alarm exploded through her in a dizzying rush of light. "What are those for?" she asked, but of course she knew.

He cut her a look. "What do you think they're for?"

Miranda couldn't stop staring at the handcuffs. Her mind raced wildly, images conjuring all by themselves. Sandro and handcuffs. Alone in a castle. No one to hear her scream.

In pain or in pleasure.

"Jesus, Miranda," Sandro swore softly. He started toward her, bringing the cold stone walls of the room with him and freezing the oxygen in her chest, but then stopped abruptly, almost violently. His hands clenched into tight fists. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm not going to hurt you?"

Her heart staggered, hard. God, she wanted to believe him. When he looked at her like he did now, with his eyes so hot, so desperate they seemed lit from the inside out, the lies and the betrayal fell away, leaving only the intense draw she'd felt from the beginning, the longing that tightened her chest like a vise, the aching that stabbed into her throat and overrode defenses.

Everything had changed, she knew,
she knew,
but her body didn't care. She wanted him to run his hands over her like he had before, until no trace of Petros's filth remained. She wanted him to put his mouth to hers and give her back her illusions. She wanted him to crush her in his arms and hold her, just hold her so the nightmare couldn't push any closer.