THE PERFECT TARGET (27 page)

All that longing, all that emotion, the doubt and the uncertainty and the craving, melded into something more powerful than she'd ever imagined possible. Too powerful to be denied.

They came together on a rush of blinding sensation. There on the blanket beneath the midnight sky, he gave her far, far more than just the moment. Far, far more than the moon and the stars.

He gave her a gift she would never, never give back.

He gave her freedom.

* * *

In the fragile light of early dawn, Sandro found the keys, removed the cuffs. He wanted both his hands on her body. He wanted both hers on his. She smiled drowsily, pulled him down beside her, closed her arms around him. He loved the feel of her beneath him, all warm and soft and naked. Even more, he loved the way she kept her eyes open, watching him watch her.

During the night, they'd had only the hazy glow of the moon. Now, splashes of yellow and pink streaked up from the horizon, casting a soft glow to her skin, her eyes. He ran his hand along the smooth flesh of her stomach, up to the heaviness of her breast. There he cupped, his fingers teasing her puckered nipple.

A low mewl tore from her throat and damn near ripped him in two. There was a rawness inside him, a searing desperation that lingered long after he'd woken from the dream to find Miranda safe and sound. He should have found relief in that. He hadn't. Instead he'd violated a vow he'd made to himself, to make sure she came out of this ordeal unscathed.

She wouldn't. Not now.

She would hurt.

The only way you'll hurt me is by pretending you don't want me as badly as I want you.

The courageous words wound their way around his heart. The proverbial rock and a hard place took on a whole new meaning. He'd hurt her if he shut her out. He'd hurt her if he didn't.

He'd more than crossed the line. He'd shattered it. They could have no future. His life belonged to his fallen friends, to the vow he'd made to bring down the man who'd ended their lives. He couldn't turn his back on that. But nor could he let Miranda fall into enemy hands. The greatest gift he could give her was what she prized above all else.

Freedom.

Even if doing so meant she would hate him forever. Better she hate him, than live with dangling loose ends, always wondering, wondering… Even more, better she hated him, than wind up in enemy hands.

"Now," she whispered, urging him between her legs. He kissed her deeply, his hand going down to find her slick and hot and ready for him. An honorable man would have found some way to resist. But no power on earth could have kept Sandro from slipping inside one more time, telling her goodbye the only way he could.

I'm Alessandro Vellenti,
some place deep inside him burned to say. He refused to let it be his heart.
Heir to the Vellenti Vineyards. A man believed dead by the world. A man who thought he knew what it was to hurt, to sacrifice, until you came into my life. A man who would do anything to keep you safe.

Anything.

"Sandro?" Miranda whispered, lifting a hand to cup his face. "What's wrong?"

Chapter 14

«
^
»

O
nly when Miranda spoke did Sandro realize he'd stopped kissing her, gone completely still. He was poised over her, his legs between hers, his arms holding him up. His
shaking
arms.

"I'm not inside you yet," he ground out, then rectified that and pushed deep. She accepted him readily, hungrily, as though her body already knew the size and feel of his. He loved the way she arched up into him, the way her gypsy eyes glazed over and her swollen mouth tumbled open.

"Better?" she asked with a husky smile.

She had no idea. "It's about to get even better," he promised, then returned his mouth to hers and carried her over the edge once again.

It was as close as he could come to the sun and the moon.

* * *

"Where do we go from here?" Miranda asked as she pulled on the ugly yellow shirt she'd worn the day before. Her whole body continued to tingle, burn. More than anything she wanted to lie down on the blanket with Sandro, to welcome him within her again, but she'd noticed the change in him within minutes of his last climax. He was pulling away from her, even before he pulled out.

"Evora," he said now. He had his tiki-idol shirt on again, though he'd only taken time to fasten the three lower buttons. She could see his chest, see the little marks she'd left throughout the night.

"Evo-what?" she asked.

He gathered up the thin blanket and shoved it into his duffel bag. "Evora. It's an old walled city about an hour from here. I have … contacts there. They can help."

Unease gathered, thickened. "Help what?"

"Help get you out of the country."

The words were curt and final and had Miranda taking a staggering step back. "To the general?"

Behind Sandro the sun flirted with a pale blue sky, but a large monolithic stone cast him in shadow. His jaw was set, his mouth hard. The whiskers which had scraped relentlessly over every inch of her body the night before looked thicker. Darker.

"No," he said. "To America."

Her mouth went dry. Numbly, she reached for one of the standing stones, braced herself. His words made no sense, but hope surged anyway. And a chill she didn't understand.

"To America?" she asked, working to keep her voice from shaking. "Are you going with me?" she asked, even though her heart already knew the answer.

"No."

He said it so simply, so … coldly. She wanted to run to him, hold him, never let him go. Instead she stood there by the huge stone and lifted her chin. "What will become of you?"

His gaze grew darker, but not dark enough to hide the secrets and the agony in those chips of midnight ice, the sure knowledge that he wasn't telling her everything.
"A hora para mim de morrer outra vez."

Fury flashed hot and bright. This time she did push away, marched right up to him and shoved her hands against his chest. "Don't do that to me, damn it!"

He didn't stumble back like she'd hoped, just took her shoulders in his hands. "Do what?"

She glared up at him, not giving a damn about the tears she knew sparked in her eyes. "Speak in a language you know I don't understand."

"Then maybe you understand this," he said roughly, and pulled her to him, kissed her hard, kissed her deep.

She understood, all right.

He kissed her goodbye.

* * *

In the shadow of an ancient aqueduct, a surprisingly intact, white-washed stucco wall embraced the centuries-old town of Evora. The city seemed squeezed inside, a veritable maze of white stucco buildings with red-tile roofs. The streets were cobblestone and narrow, most only wide enough to accommodate one car. In the center of the town sprawled a huge plaza, dotted by small round tables, tourists and pigeons.

Miranda and Sandro walked hand in hand, the shadows of twilight lending an element of anonymity. Here in such a public place, the glare of the sun had made Sandro uncomfortable. But now, now he'd agreed to show her a few of the sights before inevitability caught up with them.

Tomorrow they would part. Sandro had made the calls from a safe house, kicked his plan into motion. Two men would meet up with them in the morning, and in the privacy of the museum, the handoff would be made. She would be disguised once again, hustled out of the city, out of the country.

She would finally, at last, be free.

Her throat burned at the certainty of it all, but she bit back the tears, determined not to let Sandro see her cry. She knew he thought he was doing the right thing. They still had the long night ahead of them. There was still time to convince him to turn from this terrible course he seemed determined to follow.

"Here we are," he said as they rounded a corner. "The Temple of Diana."

Miranda fought a sudden chill and looked from Sandro to the plaza beyond, where an array of weathered Corinthian columns stretched toward the hazy twilight sky. She counted fourteen, determined from the size of a gap in the structure that four were missing. The columns stood on a crumbling stone base at least twice Sandro's height. And she easily judged him well over six feet. In the distance, the spired dome roof of a cathedral created a fascinating contrast between pagan and Christianity, early Roman and Gothic.

Instinctively, she lifted her camera and brought the structure into focus, snapped a few shots.

"Come on," she said, taking Sandro's hand and dragging him closer. Excitement bubbled inside her. "Right here," she directed, pausing a few feet from the base of the structure. "Just stand here for a minute and—"

"Miranda, don't."

The hard edge to his voice erased the moment of inspiration. She looked at him standing there in the shadow of the temple, saw that every line of his body had tensed. "Don't what?"

"You know I can't let you take my picture."

Wouldn't
let her was more like it. Frustration battled with sorrow. The juxtapositions were back, the casual brown shirt with the tiki idols scattered about, the briefcase that turned into an assault weapon. The poet's mouth that could be so impossibly soft as it skimmed her body was now a hard line. And his eyes, those hypnotic midnight eyes, the ones that could reach clear down into her soul, were again concealed by rock-star sunglasses.

Even though the sun was just about gone.

Emotion scratched at her throat. He was pulling away from her, moment by moment, heartbeat by heartbeat.

"Tomorrow we say goodbye," she reminded. "What harm can there be in just one picture? What can it hurt?"

He didn't hesitate. Didn't pretend he misunderstood. "You. A picture can hurt you." Gently, he took the camera from her hands and slung the strap over his shoulder. "And no matter what anyone else thinks about me, hurting innocents isn't my style."

She lifted her chin refused to surrender. "Take off your sunglasses."

"My sunglasses?"

"Your eyes," she clarified. "Let me see your eyes, then. It's the least you can give me after everything we've been through."

"Bella—"
he said with a sigh, but then did as she asked. And flat-out stole her breath.

It was all there, the emotion she'd seen the night before, the struggle she didn't understand, the bottomless sorrow that gave her the strength and courage to challenge an animal hell-bent on returning to his cave.

"Hurting innocents may not be your style," she said, refusing to let her voice crack on emotion. "But what about loving innocents?"

He winced, as though her question had been constructed of stones, not words. Then a sad smile twisted his lips. "Love doesn't have a role in this game."

Game.
Inevitability pushed closer, wound deeper, but she refused to let the word hurt her, deter her. "For me it does."

"That's excitement," he corrected without skipping a beat. "Adventure." He paused, met her eyes with his. They were darker now, flatter. "Lust."

Something inside her broke. Restraint, dignity, she wasn't sure. She only knew the animal was loose, and she couldn't cage it in. Didn't want to.

"Don't," she said, stepping closer and angling her head toward his. She felt the fury sparking in her eyes, giving strength to her voice. "Don't you dare!"

"Don't what?" he asked mildly.

"Don't reduce this incredible thing between us to lust!" Don't insult what they'd shared. Don't pretend there wasn't something real and powerful and deep between them.

Don't make saying goodbye harder than it was already going to be.

His expression never cracked, became harder by the second. "Okay," he said without a shred of emotion. "No lust." Slowly, he lifted a hand to her face and smoothed a strand of flyaway brown hair behind her ear. "But no love, either."

All her life she'd struggled against being told what she should or shouldn't say, what to wear, where to go to school. How to think.

Whom to love.

She wasn't about to let Sandro join the parade of those who thought they could point her in a direction and wind her up like some inconsequential toy, set her down a course of action.

Life wasn't that cut-and-dried. Choices weren't that clear. And love … love wasn't that simple.

"You think it's that easy? You think you can just tell me what to do or not to do, and presto," she rolled on, snapping her fingers to emphasize her point, "that's the way it is? Just like magic? Just because you said so?"

"Miranda—"

"Don't!" she spat. "Don't look at me like that and don't you
dare
tell me not to love you. Because I do." She paused, searched his gaze. "I think you love me, too."

"A job,
bella.
I'm doing a job."

"Oh, that's right," she said acidly. "A job." The hurt was a jagged tearing pain now, a sharp inescapable force pushing her down a dangerous path. "I suppose midnight dancing in a wine cellar is part of your job description. And buying plumeria shampoo.
Shooting your own man.
That's right. Silly me. How could I have forgotten that's all part of Traitor Training 101?"

He took her arm, pulled her closer. "Don't you see,
bella?
That's just it! That's why this game
has
to end. Some paths can't be turned away from. Some choices really are etched in stone."

"You're wrong," she started, but stopped abruptly when an older man rounded the base of the temple. He wore a finely pressed white linen suit that practically glowed in the hazy light of the fading day, his long silver hair slicked back in a ponytail, emphasizing his high forehead and receding hairline. He walked slowly and deliberately, with purpose, carrying a single red rosebud in one hand, a pistol in his other.

"At last," the man she recognized from countless news reports said. "My pretty, pretty prize."

Miranda went absolutely, deathly still. Even her heart. She waited for Sandro to surge to life, to throw his body in front of hers like he had so many times before, to lift his briefcase and shower the man, the plaza, with bullets. To tell her to run.