The Perfect Target

“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 Albert 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

For 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.”

“I already have. I’m the man who’s not going to let anyone hurt you.”

The take-no-prisoners words curled though her like an ominous mist rolling in from the ocean. She held his inscrutable gaze a moment, then glanced at the nasty scar slashed across his throat, then over to the briefcase he’d finally set down.

“You’re the backup,” she said.

“Backup?” He spoke slowly. Quietly. “Backup for what?”