THE PERFECT TARGET (4 page)

Panic crawled up Miranda's throat. The trembling started then, first deep inside, quickly racing to her extremities. She pivoted toward the stranger, only to find he'd recovered from their encounter. He looked taller than before, broader. She couldn't see the alley beyond him, only the width of his shoulders and the solid wall of his chest. He watched her carefully, the mouth that had kissed her so gently now a hard line.

Unable to look away, not trusting her voice, she lifted an appallingly shaky hand to her mouth, only to find her lips moist and swollen.

"I know,
bella,
it surprised the hell out of me, too."

For one of the few times in her life, words failed her. So did movement. Coherent thought. She should do something, she thought wildly. Tell him to go to hell. Slap him. Run from the man whose briefcase turned into a gun. She could, she knew. He'd finally released her. But her legs wouldn't work. Nothing, it seemed, not Emily Post nor boarding school nor Secret Service training had adequately prepared her for the shock of this man's mouth moving against hers, the reality of his body pressed to hers. The unmistakable evidence that he reacted to her as strongly as she reacted to him. The regret and desire warring brutally in his midnight gaze.

The completely misplaced blade of fascination.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"I'm someone who's trying to help you," he answered vaguely, impatiently, and she realized she believed him. Then he reached for her. "Come on. We need to get out of here before anyone else sees us."

She pulled back from his touch, but couldn't stop staring at his hand. He held it outstretched, square palm up and callused fingers extended, exposing dried trickles of blood from where he'd grabbed the hunting knife instead of twisting her wrist. He hadn't winced, hadn't cursed, hadn't given any outward sign of a pain she knew he had to have felt.

And he hadn't made her suffer in return.

Confused, she looked up. She'd been seeking his eyes, but never made it past his jaw. His lips were slightly dry, a hint of her coral lipstick smeared against the olive skin at the corner of his mouth.

"If I didn't know better,
bella,
I'd think you've never been kissed before."

Squaring her shoulders, she met his eyes, those enigmatic pools of midnight, determined not to let this man who wouldn't even disclose his identity see the absurd curiosity that had her wanting to push up and brush her mouth against his once again.

Nonchalance,
she reminded herself. That was the Carrington way. Cool, calm, collected. Unaffected and untouchable. Meet adversity with a smile, and no one ever had to know you bled.

"I haven't," she said with a saccharine smile. "At least, not by somebody holding a briefcase that's really an Uzi."

God help her, he laughed. It was a deep sound, rich and amused. "It's an MP5K submachine gun," he said, stroking the weapon in question like a man would caress a beautiful woman. "Uzis are Israeli. This baby is German."

A shiver ran through her, but she hid the reaction with a perfectly executed shrug. "Yes, well. Thank you for clarifying."

"And you hardly left me a choice. I couldn't let you tell that woman I'm some kind of monster."

"If the shoe fits…"

A sound of pure male frustration broke from his throat. His English may have been accented, but American slang was no stranger to him. "Relax,
bella.
You can add kissing to my list of formidable crimes, if you like, but rest assured, there will be no repeat performances. I'm not here to get you naked."

No emotion underscored his words, or his expression. Not threat or regret, not ferocity or hostility. He sounded matter-of-fact. Almost … indifferent.

And in that moment, Miranda realized a fundamental truth. She'd stopped being afraid. Somewhere along the line she'd forgotten about the fear that had chased her down the streets and alleys, forgotten the cold certainty that this man wanted to hurt her. Or worse.

She'd forgotten to think at all.

But she was thinking now, more clearly by the second. Vividly, she recalled the scene along the promenade, Hawk breaking toward her, the way he'd gone down, the stranger reacting without hesitation, the man in fatigues racing from around the corner, then falling only feet from her. Everything had unfurled almost methodically, carefully orchestrated step by carefully orchestrated step.

Horrified at her own gullibility, she swallowed hard.

"Think about it," the man who'd just
happened
to be in the right place, at the right time, was saying. "How many kidnappers stand around and beg their prey to leave with them?"

The last of the fog cleared, leaving the truth shivering in the glare of the sun. The family net had closed around her once again. No wonder there'd been no warnings.

They'd have ruined her father's pop quiz.

"Is that what you're doing?" Incredulity drilled through her. Disappointment whispered along behind. "Begging?"

His gaze turned smoky. "Do I need to?"

Down the alley a door opened and closed, destroying the heated moment. Suddenly he was all warrior again, looking around, ready and alert. His eyes were dark, his mouth hard. Even his grip on the briefcase tightened.

And in that moment, she made her decision. "Give me back my knife."

"What?"

"You want me to believe you're on my side. Fine. Show me I can trust you. Show me I have no reason to be afraid."
Prove to me you're who I think you are.
"If I really have nothing to fear from you, you'll give me back my knife."

The man looked as though she'd just asked him to roll naked over hot coals. "So you can try to skewer me again?"

"I won't try anything, so long as you don't."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're testing me."

"I'm asking you to trust me, no more, no less than you asked of me." She stuck out her hand. "Actions speak louder than words, after all. So do we have a deal, or are you going to make me scream?"

That light glinted in his eyes again. He held her gaze as a slow smile curved his lips and bared startlingly white teeth.

"Trust me,
bella,"
he said, squatting to retrieve the knife, then placing the ivory hilt in her hand. Never once did he take his eyes off hers. "When I make a woman scream, it doesn't have a damn thing to do with a knife."

Miranda curled her fingers around the cherished gift from her grandfather, trying to focus on something, anything, other than the stranger's smoky words and clever mouth, those big battered hands…

She had absolutely no business thinking about just how he might carry out his promise.

"Now come on," he growled. "I doubt our shooter was traveling alone. I've got to get you off the streets before the bullets start flying again."

He was good, she'd hand him that. The take-no-prisoners words destroyed any lingering doubt about his identity. And his employ. She'd heard those words, that tone, before. Many times. They were the hallmark of security personnel.

The words of a bodyguard.

"So what's it going to be?" her father's man asked. "Are you going to take your chances with me or wait for those thugs back there to find you? I doubt they'll be as patient as I am."

For now, she realized, she had few alternatives. This man meant business. She could go along with her father's latest orders willingly, or she could resist and leave the stranger no choice but to exert force. And while the latter carried a rebellious little thrill, Miranda thought it wiser to lull him into the same sense of complacency her father had used with her.

She put her hand in his. "If we're going to trust each other, the least you can do is tell me your name."

"I thought the knife was all you wanted."

Now that she knew what she was dealing with, she lifted a single eyebrow, determined not to give him the upper hand her father's men always wanted.

"Since when has a knife been all a woman wants?" she challenged. Her mother constantly warned her about rattling cages, but she'd never been one to back down.

His smile was quick, blinding, devastating. "A man can dream, can't he?"

"Is that really what you dream about? That a woman wants nothing from you but a blade?"

His gaze dipped from her face to where her blouse had fallen over her shoulder, down lower to her brightly colored skirt, all the way down to her leather sandals. Then he reversed his perusal, just as slowly, just as thoroughly.

"You really want to know what I dream about,
bella?"

Heat washed through her, as though he'd touched her with those big capable hands and not just a look. The image formed before she could stop it, of what a man like him would dream about She could see him too well, his big nude body thrashing about among tangled sheets—

"I'll settle for a name," she said.

"Smart lady." He glanced toward the end of the alley, where two children ran after a scrawny black dog. Only when they turned the corner did he return his attention to her. "My friends call me Sandro."

"And your enemies?" she couldn't help asking.

He didn't hesitate. "They'd like to call me dead."

The brutally frank words made her wince. She couldn't imagine this vital, capable man dead. Didn't want to.

"Sandro what?" she asked instead.

"Just Sandro."

Miranda didn't know whether to laugh or slug him. "Watched a few spy movies growing up, did we?"

But his smile was gone now, replaced by that same grim expression she was already growing to despise. "Just Sandro, okay? It's safer for us all."

Safer from what, she wanted to ask, but knew she'd only he wasting her breath. Her father's men never shot straight. They were always engaged in their little intrigues. If this man's orders were to conceal his last name, not even cruel and unusual torture would pry the information free.

For now, it was better to indulge him.

Later, she would outsmart him.

Sandro picked up the pace, practically dragging her around a corner and down an even narrower alley.

"What did you say when that woman came out?" she asked.
Before he put his mouth to hers and knocked the foundation from beneath her feet.

He kept walking, his long legs gobbling up the cracked cobblestone. "It doesn't matter."

She refused to break into a run to keep up with him. "It does to me."

"Sweet nothings don't translate well."

"Sweet nothings?" She didn't understand the little jolt of disappointment. "Sure sounded like something to me."

He stopped abruptly, landing her in a lingering puddle from the storm the night before. Muddy water splashed up over her sandals and against her calves.

"If you must know," he said, lifting a hand to her face and easing back the tangled blond hair, "I told her we'd had a lovers' quarrel and I was trying to earn your forgiveness."

The words, his touch, seared through her, the image they created as dangerous as the lingering feel of his mouth on hers. A quarrel. Lovers. A man and a woman, intimately involved. Big battered hands skimming along smooth—

Surprise flashed through her. Not only was this man a stranger, but he was one of her father's chosen few. Men like him thrived in a world of intrigue and betrayal, a world where nothing was as it seemed and the truth often hid secrets more dangerous than lies.

A world she wanted desperately to leave behind.

"Does that usually work?" she wanted to know.

He quirked a dark brow. "What? Kissing a woman senseless?"

The smile broke before she could stop it. "No, lying through your teeth."

He streaked a finger down the side of her face. "If I'm lucky."

"And if you're not?"

He took her hand and started down the street, his strides long and purposeful, determined. "There's always Plan B."

* * *

Plan B lay in ruins, much like the abandoned villa hiding behind an overgrown wall of olive trees and cork oaks, oleander and hibiscus.

Sandro bit back a virulent stream of frustration. He was a careful man. He did his job efficiently, and he did it well. He left no room for error.

But this time, with the stakes so dangerously high, error had found him anyway.

Plan B featured Miranda Carrington safe and sound with a bodyguard, not dragged through the dirty alleys of Cascais. He'd arranged the scenario carefully. He'd approached Miranda just as the general had ordered, making it appear he was luring her away. But he'd also arranged for his kidnapping attempt to be thwarted. He'd even planned to go down in the process.

But the agents he'd had breakfast with only an hour before had not arrived.

Straddling a thin dark line was a hell of a way to live. He'd been forced to stall, to keep Miranda in the open, in front of witnesses who would see the ambassador's daughter forcibly wrested from him. Whether with Hawk Monroe or Plan A's fatigue-clad security agent Pedro Vasquez, she should have been nearing Lisbon by now, hustled onto a plane out of the country. But an unknown assailant had mowed down both plans and both men, leaving Sandro with an angry woman and one hell of a problem.

Possession of Miranda Carrington didn't figure into any of his plans, not C, not D, not even Z. Possession of Miranda Carrington went against every strategy, every rule, in the International Security Alliance operations manual. And unless Sandro played his cards right, the ominously silent ambassador's daughter could not only ruin years worth of work, but get them both killed in the process. Again.

This time for good.

Staying alive demanded he find a way to unload his unwanted charge before anyone realized he had her. Her disappearance would be viewed as kidnapping, and the fallout would create an international fiasco. The United States government couldn't sanction his actions, nor could the ISA claim him, not when doing so would forfeit years of undercover operations.

The low burn in his shoulder intensified, forcing Sandro to bite back a muttered curse. He had to maneuver out of this jam all by himself, just like he'd fallen into it. He'd long since learned the risk of putting his life into the hands of others. No way would he jeopardize the fate of an innocent woman.