THE PERFECT TARGET (5 page)

The term collateral damage turned his stomach.

Frowning, he glanced at the woman walking beside him. He held her hand securely in his, but instinct warned touching Miranda Carrington required more than flesh to flesh contact. She held her chin high, shoulders back, those fascinating gypsy eyes focused on some point in the distance, as though being shot at and pursued through back alleys was an everyday occurrence.

"Almost there," he said, unnerved by her silence. She hadn't uttered a word in over thirty minutes, but he could tell she was thinking as rapidly as they were walking. He could only imagine the questions racing through her, the uncertainty.

He would get her inside, get her safe, then tell her what he could.

Which wasn't much.

"Almost where?" she asked, but didn't look at him.

He, on the other hand, couldn't stop watching her, all that thick blond hair cascading around her face and over a shoulder bared by her loose-fitting crimson blouse, that lush mouth set in a mutinous line and those defiantly high cheekbones. He knew where he wanted to take her, all right.

He knew where he wanted
her
to take
him.

He also knew he was flat out of his mind.

Javier was right. Sandro had been living in the shadows far too long.

But he felt the light now, the heat, and that was the problem. All because of one stupid kiss. A reckless, desperate measure to keep her from rousing suspicion in the local woman. An insane curiosity to see if her mouth would feel as welcoming as the long-ago tabloid picture had promised.

A smart man would erase the encounter from his memory. A smart man would forget the feel of her lips, the soft little sigh that had escaped. He'd expected her to slam her fists against his chest and shove him away, to stomp down on his feet, to
fight.
But she'd barely resisted. It was as though he'd laid siege to her with a stun gun rather than his mouth. She hadn't been angry as he'd expected, as he
deserved,
but … frozen.

The realization should have brought him great relief.

It didn't.

Stopping adjacent to a crumbling stone wall, he pointed toward an overgrown oleander, dotted by a showy display of bright pink flowers. "Just through here."

She leaned closer. "Through where?"

He pulled a tangled clump of honeysuckle aside, revealing a broken-out section of the wall. The sun beat mercilessly against his back, but in the forgotten world beyond the opening, shadows beckoned. He itched to step through to the other side, to the familiar, secretive world in which he thrived.

"Through there," he said.

Miranda pivoted toward him. In the space of a heartbeat the unflappable facade faded, replaced by a vulnerability he hadn't sensed before. Hadn't expected. Wariness glinted in the near-translucent green of her eyes, as though he'd asked her to go skinny-dipping in the frigid waters of the Atlantic, rather than crawl through a hole to safety.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

There was a threadiness to her voice now, one that unnerved him more than her earlier silence. Whereas she'd been all fire and defiance when she thought herself threatened, when he offered security, she pulled back.

"Somewhere safe," he told her.

"This isn't the way to the U.S. embassy."

"No, it's not."

"Then I'll ask you again. Where are you taking me?"

"Relax," he said, glancing up and down the narrow street to ensure no one watched their movements. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Her gaze remained wary, her stance alert, prompting Sandro to give her hand a gentle squeeze. Her flesh was clammy now, making her hand feel smaller. More fragile.

The temptation to pull her into his arms made absolutely no sense, so he discarded the misplaced notion and urged her toward the opening. "Hurry up. We need to get off the streets before anyone sees us. You can bet the shooter didn't come alone."

The reminder of the danger did the trick. She turned from him and climbed through the jagged opening in the stone wall. He followed, letting the thick vines swing into place behind him.

Only then did he breathe easier.

"My God," she whispered. "It's like stepping back in time."

An old wall separated the overgrown grounds of the abandoned villa from the rest of the world. Exiled aristocrats had constructed the Moorish-influenced home in the waning years of the nineteenth century, the pastel-washed, stuccoed limestone walls providing shelter and security to generations of a family on the decline. Not even two world wars had penetrated the safe haven.

Only death had possessed that right.

When the great-grandson of the original owner passed away some ten years before, none of his seven children expressed interest in taking over the villa. They'd scattered to Italy and France, a daughter in Scotland, two sons in America, and the prospect of returning to the less modern culture of old-world Portugal had held little appeal.

"This place looks deserted," Miranda said.

He tossed her a wicked little wink. "That's the point." The villa stood abandoned now, a shadow of its former glory. Red clay roof tiles were cracked and faded; vines had long since taken over pale yellow walls that retained only a hint of their former color. Even the blue and yellow clay tiles framing the broken-out windows were chipped.
Azulejos
they were called, imitating familiar patterns of Moorish rugs.

Miranda walked toward a crumbling statue of the Virgin Mary, who rose from a tangle of thigh-high sage and stood with her arms outstretched toward the old house. "She looks … sad."

Sandro joined her. "She'll keep us safe," he said, reclaiming Miranda's hand and leading her toward the entryway.

Like so many other houses of central Portugal, the neglected villa boasted a wide front porch, framed by a series          of three archways. The second story featured two smaller verandas, with the third story reserved for windows, dark now, almost gaping, like an old woman smiling through missing teeth.

The scent of rosemary grew stronger with every step, escorting them through an overgrown herb garden sprawling over the steps and engulfing the porch. Miranda broke off a stem as they passed.

"Through here," Sandro said, leading her inside.

"It's dark."

"You'll adjust." He kept her hand in his and headed along the familiar path to the back of the house, carefully checking for signs of unwanted visitors. Only a few hours had passed since his last inspection, but a man could never be too careful.

Beneath the stairs at the back of the house, he opened a small closet and pulled Miranda into the darkness.

"Just stay close," he instructed, whispering even though he didn't need to.

She stopped abruptly and tried to pull her hand free. "Where are we?"

Her voice was sharp, frightened. And in the ensuing silence, he could hear the frenetic rhythm of her breathing. The pounding of her heart. "Just a little further."

"But—"

"Shh," he soothed. "Trust me."

She didn't bother pointing out that she had no choice. He hadn't given her one.

Against the back wall, Sandro reached up and knocked twice against a hollow portion. A panel slid open, granting them access to a narrow stairway. He retrieved a flashlight from the ledge where he'd left it that morning and turned it on, drenching the narrow corridor in light.

"Straight up there," he said.

Disbelief flooded her expression. "A secret passageway?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes paranoia is its own reward."

At the top of the stairs he opened another panel, this one leading to the small room where he'd slept the night before and on several other occasions when he'd needed to melt into the shadows for a few days.

Miranda stared at the threadbare sleeping bag crammed against the far wall.

"There's no electricity," he told her, "but thanks to a well outside, we're okay for water."

She followed his gesture toward the small chamber off the side of the room, where a primitive toilet and shower stood in equal abandon.

"We're staying here?" she asked, hugging her arms around her waist.

Compassion tugged at him. Compared to the ritzy resort she'd been staying at back in town, this small dank room rated somewhere between slum and prison. "You'll be safe here, Miranda. I promise. That's what counts."

She stiffened for a moment, then spun toward him, eyes flashing with a fire he hadn't seen since before he'd put his mouth to hers in the alley. "What did you say?"

"This is a safe house," he explained, trying to restore the calm. "No one will find us here."

She shook her head almost violently, sending tangled blond hair over her shoulders. "No. What did you call me?"

"Miranda."

"Miranda?" She stepped back from him, her stance alert. "You think my name is Miranda?"

"I know it is."

Her gaze sharpened, her expression pensive. "Well, that explains that," she muttered. "I don't know how to tell you this, but there's been a mistake. You've got the wrong woman."

Now it was his turn to stare. He studied her standing there, all that blond hair spilling over her shoulders, those unusual eyes imploring. Could he have—

No. He hadn't made a mistake. No way.

Mistakes got men like him killed.

"You're the right woman," he insisted, battling an admiration he didn't want to feel. "I'm a very thorough man. You're Miranda Carrington, youngest daughter of Peter Carrington, the U.S. ambassador to Ravakia and youngest granddaughter of the late Albeit Carrington, former U.S. senator and one-time presidential hopeful."

She shook her head. "Didn't you see that man and woman kissing by the boardwalk?"

"Yes." But only for a moment. The second he'd locked onto Miranda, the rest of the busy promenade had dissolved.

"I overheard them talking.
She's
Miranda." Sincerity and conviction laced the claim. "She has dark brown hair, not blond."

Sandro crossed his arms over his chest, wincing when the motion pulled against his shoulder. He knew she had a penchant for giving her bodyguards hell, had played enough games to recognize a pro when he saw one. She clearly thought she could play him.

He just didn't understand why she wanted to.

"Let me see your passport."

"By all means." She dipped a hand into the satchel slung over her shoulder and pulled out a well-worn blue passport bearing the emblem of the United States. Flipping it open, he studied the picture of a gorgeous blonde, the accompanying name and address.

As far as forgeries went, the ambassador's daughter had a beaut in her possession.

"Astrid, huh?" Somehow, he kept the laughter from his voice.

She nodded. "That's right."

"Astrid Van Dyke of Stockholm," he mused, "who just happens to have Carrington eyes. And," he drawled, executing a lightning-quick move to bare the shoulder still covered by the crimson blouse, "her tattoo."

She froze, like an exquisite dragonfly captured in amber, wings forever in flight. Just like the one imprinted on her upper arm. Her face drained of all color, all expression.

And then she started to shake.

Regret hit hard and fast, but he shoved the useless emotion aside before it muddied the waters any further.

"Don't look so confused,
bella,"
he told her, his voice deliberately husky. He kept his hand on her arm, his fingers tracing the tattoo. "A woman like you doesn't go unnoticed. A woman like you doesn't just fade into the shadows or melt into crowds. A woman like you cannot hide, not even from yourself."

She backed away. "What do you mean, 'a woman like me'?"

The way she spat the words, Sandro would have thought he'd accused her of something hideous. He looked at her standing there, green gypsy eyes too big and dark against her pale face, that lush mouth he wanted to taste again still swollen from his earlier mistake.

"Beautiful," he said. "Intelligent. Full of life. Living, breathing sunshine."

She lifted a hand to her mouth, but said nothing.

"Why the games?" he asked, steering the conversation to safe ground. The questions rattling through him didn't bear answering. "Did you really think I'd just let you waltz out of here?"

She shoved the hair from her face, managing to look alarmingly provocative as she did so. "Maybe I'm just playing the same kind of game you are. The same kind of game
he
is."

Game?
"What are you talking about? Who is
he?"

Resentment flashed in her gaze, bringing color back to her cheeks. "Look, I know who you are, okay? I know what this is all about."

"Of course you know who I am. I told you."

"Not your name—names don't matter. I know what's going on here, why you were on the promenade, why we're here now. I know who you work for and what you want, and I can tell you right now it's not going to work."

Sandro went very still, all but his heart. It slammed against his ribs. She spoke with fire and conviction, making his blood run cold. She couldn't know. She couldn't. Only a handful of people did.

And only that handful knew he was still alive.

Chapter 3

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F
or the first time since they'd met alongside the ocean, Mr. Confident didn't look quite so sure of himself. He stood unmoving, his midnight eyes wild, his mouth a hard line. Even the shadow against his jaw seemed darker. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, arms at his side, hands curled into semifists.

He looked like a man ready to pounce.

The breath stalled in Miranda's throat. She'd only been playing him, testing him, gauging his competence. She hadn't expected him to react so strongly. She hadn't expected the air in the small dank room to thicken, her heart to start hammering.

"Who am I?" he asked in a chillingly soft voice. "Who do I work for? What do I want?"

Her mouth went dry. Suddenly, she wasn't quite so sure herself "You tell me."