Kitabı oku: «The Perfect Target», sayfa 2

Miranda cringed as the water turned red.

Her heart was beating so crazily she could barely breathe. And when the stranger faced her, she felt her eyes go wide with shock. He hardly resembled the man who’d brought her senses humming to life barely minutes before. Seduction no longer glimmered in his gaze. Those black pools were hard and dark and empty. The planes of his face were severe. Even the whiskers covering his jaw looked forbidding now. Dangerous. “Run!”

She did. Miranda shot to her feet and turned from the violent man who’d just mowed down her bodyguard, ran as fast as she could. The playful skirt tangled around her legs like vines, forcing her to grab a handful of fabric and yank it above her knees. She ran past a local vendor and down an alley, around the side of the building. She ran through muddy puddles and around trash bins. She ran until her sides hurt and her lungs protested.

Then she ran some more.

He was behind her, she knew. Running. And his legs were longer, stronger. She could hear him gaining on her, the pounding of heavy footsteps, the harsh edge to his breathing. She tried not to think about what would happen if he caught her, all the things he could do, but years of security lectures echoed insidiously through her mind. Small dark rooms. No windows, no light. Cold. Darkness. Blindfolds. No contact with the outside world. Favors for food. Bloodlust.

Comparatively, Hawk’s fate was a gift.

The truth spurred her on, the knowledge of what a critical mistake she’d made. She knew better than to trust strangers. She knew better than to let a stranger’s smile, no matter how seductive, lure her into lowering her guard.

But, God help her, here so far away from American soil and the media who hounded her family, she’d thought she could live a little without inviting disaster.

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The man with the enigmatic eyes and seductive words had only been playing her, melting her guard by claiming he wanted a picture of her, then trying to lure her away. That’s when the shots had started. When he’d put a hand on her body, Hawk had broken from hiding and tried to fulfill his duties.

And now he was probably dead. Because of her.

The thought, the reality, chilled as badly as the knowledge the stranger was gaining on her.

“You can stop now, bella.”

The raspy voice tore through her as though he’d used his lethal briefcase and not his vocal chords. “Stay away from me!” she gasped, racing around a corner and into a narrow street. A car horn blared and brakes squealed, but she didn’t slow, not even when the driver shouted at her.

“Bella! It’s okay now.”

God, no. A cramp cut deep into her side, but she refused to let the pain deter her.

“Please,” he roared. Closer. Harder. “It’s not safe to be on the streets.”

Determination pushed her forward, when fatigue had her stumbling. She didn’t know where she was now, just knew she had to make it back to the embassy. The ruthless stranger had already killed.

She doubted he would hesitate to do so again.

“Help!” she shouted as she ran down a narrow alley. Laundry flapped in the breeze from second-story windows and dogs barked rambunctiously, but no one came to investigate the commotion.

Because they didn’t understand English.

Before, she’d liked knowing little of the Portuguese language, had reveled in the sense of anonymity. Now, her inability to communicate sent her heart hammering furiously against her ribs.

“Someone help me!”

“No, bella, no!” the stranger shouted, just as his hand clamped around her arm. She struggled against his grip, but he was too strong, and she couldn’t move.

“There’s a safe house not far from here,” he was saying, but she barely heard. Training kicked in, and in one fluid move she reached down to the strap around her ankle and came back up with her last line of defense. She’d never thought to need the hunting knife which once belonged to her maternal grandfather as anything more than a token to prove to her father she could take care of herself, but now…

She jutted the weapon toward the stranger. “Let go,” she said through clenched teeth.

Surprise registered in his dark eyes. “Bella—”

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” she warned, trying to twist her wrist free of his hand. Shallow breaths tore in and out of her. “Trust me when I say I’m not someone you want to mess with.”

“I know you’re scared,” he coaxed in a surprisingly gentle voice, “but you don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

She swallowed hard, fighting the lure of his words. Deception came in all shapes and sizes, she knew. Seduction made a perfect disguise. She looked at him standing there, the heat radiating from his body fighting with the chill in her blood. His black shirt was damp now, clinging to a powerful chest. In his hand, he still held his briefcase.

That was really a gun.

Cold fingers of certainty clawed at her. No matter how badly she wanted to believe him, the fear pounding through her refused to go away. He’d approached her with a hidden agenda. He’d been trying to coax her away with him, out of the public eye. He’d wanted her alone…like he had her now.

And somewhere by the ocean, Hawk lay bleeding, maybe dead.

The truth reverberated through the narrow alley as explosively as the gunfire in the marketplace. She’d always known life turned in a heartbeat, but nothing had prepared her for the abrupt transformation from seductive Casanova to machine-gun-toting commando. Nothing about him even looked the same here in this shadowy place. Everything was harder now. Darker.

“Lower your weapon,” the stranger warned. His gaze flicked to her fingers curled bloodlessly around the hilt of the knife. “Don’t make me force you.”

Because he would.

She didn’t stop to think any further. Knife in hand, she lunged.

The stranger swore hotly, dropping the briefcase and grabbing the blade before impact. Just as quickly he tossed the family heirloom to the ground and retrieved his briefcase.

Never once did his left hand leave her body.

“Are you out of your mind?” he growled incredulously.

She looked at the fingers closed around her wrist and realized she’d gravely underestimated him.

“What do you want with me?” she asked, not sure she really wanted to know, but determined to meet her fate with at least some modicum of dignity.

“I want to get you to safety.”

“You killed Hawk,” she accused in horror.

“I saved your life,” he corrected. “I almost took a bullet for you, damn it.”

There were worse things, Miranda knew, than death. “You shot at the police.”

His jaw tightened. “I shot at a known criminal, who just happened to be wearing a police uniform. He killed the man you call Hawk. If I wanted you dead, bella, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

There was a cool logic to the claim, but Miranda warned herself not to fall for his verbal skills once again. Her thoughts tumbled back to the scene by the ocean, the way Hawk had fallen that first time, then staggered to his knees. Shots had erupted only moments later. Which way had he fallen? she tried to remember. Toward the man in the police uniform, meaning the stranger had shot him? Or toward her, meaning—

“No,” she muttered. “No.”

For the first time since the shooting, the stranger’s face softened. His eyes didn’t look quite so ominous, and that mouth which had been a grim line returned to the almost sensuous fullness of before. Around her wrist, his fingers loosened.

“Look, bella,” he reasoned. “There’s nothing I can say that you’ll believe right now, but think about this. Someone who wanted to hurt you wouldn’t waste time coaxing. If that’s what I wanted, I’d have you over my shoulder and out of sight before you even realized I’d moved.”

Miranda cringed at the realization of how easy it would be for him to do just that. She could fight him—she would fight him—but kicking and thrashing would not overpower a man of hard muscle and brutal determination, a man who enjoyed a six-inch, hundred-pound advantage. A man who could shoot with a briefcase.

Toward her, she remembered abruptly. Hawk had fallen toward her. The shots that felled him had come from the opposite direction, not the tall man who looked at her through eyes burning like chips of black ice.

If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here.

Her thoughts returned to those frenzied moments, but this time, she saw his actions through a different lens. When shots had sprayed the plaza, he’d shielded her with his body. When he’d told her to run, he’d covered her back. Even now, when she’d pulled a knife, he’d simply disarmed her, not using her weapon to teach her a lesson, as her father had warned an attacker would do.

Hawk had always chided her not to expect a kidnapper to politely ask permission. They would act first, consider damage later. Men who lived on the fringes of civility didn’t show restraint. This man did.

His actions almost seemed…protective.

“Look, I appreciate what you did back there,” she said, “but I’ve really got to go.” The rational side of her brain realized he was right; if he’d wanted to hurt her, he would have by now. But he held a briefcase that turned into a semiautomatic. That made him dangerous, her uneasy. “I need to contact the embassy in Lisbon.”

He frowned, but before he could speak, a nearby door flung open and a middle-aged woman with a baby on her hip stepped into the shadowy alley.

“Paulo?” she called, then continued speaking in Portuguese.

Miranda took advantage of the momentary distraction to break away and bolt down the alley. “I need your phone—”

She only made it two steps. “Bella, bella, bella,” the stranger murmured, taking her arm and drawing her against the hard planes of his body. His voice was drugging, his eyes liquid. “Mi dispiace,” he muttered, pressing the hand with the briefcase against her lower back.

“Stop it,” Miranda said, struggling against him. She had no idea what he said, but the Portuguese woman’s sappy smile seemed to approve.

“Anima mia,” he continued, leaning closer.

Anima mia she recognized. My love. She tried to push him away, but he simply released her wrist and slipped his hand up through her hair. He held her tightly now, securely against his hard body.

“Tu hai le labbra le piu morbide del mondo,” he whispered, gazing into her eyes. “Baciami.”

Her heart changed rhythms, from a frantic pounding to a frantic thrumming. Her limbs seemed to thicken. The world around her dimmed, blurred. She didn’t understand the words he spoke, but his glazed gaze gave away his intent. Miranda opened her mouth to protest, to somehow convince the smiling Portuguese woman that the man was playing her for a fool, but the words never had a chance to form.

The moment her lips parted, the stranger lowered his head and settled his mouth against hers.

Chapter 2

“Stop it,” Miranda struggled to say, but realized her mistake too late. In trying to speak, she moved her mouth against his, a sensuous rhythm that felt more like invitation than protest. Her body reacted instinctively, betraying her clear down to the tips of her toes. Her blood heated. Her bones went liquid. She tried to yank away, but her hand settled against his shoulder instead.

Shock, she told herself. That was all. Nothing more.

But then his hold on her shifted, tightened. She struggled against the arms that held her like steel bands, but instead of releasing her, he groaned, a sound that rasped from deep in his throat, one that sounded more of pain than pleasure.

“Dio,” he muttered against her parted lips. He tasted of desperation and brute strength, iron will and…coffee. His hands moved possessively against her back as he changed the angle of his kiss, all the while his mouth moving with relentless slowness, coaxing and promising, persuading.

Dizzy, off-balance, reeling, Miranda held herself completely still against the onslaught, resisting the temptation to play his dangerous game. She knew she should pull away. She told herself to pull away. Wipe the taste of him from her mouth. This man was a stranger. And he had a gun. But she was desperately afraid that if she moved, she’d be grabbing the damp cotton of his shirt and pulling him closer. Maybe it was leftover adrenaline or the stark realization that she could have been killed, but there was something blatantly masculine about the way he kissed her, and it sent her defenses into complete meltdown.

Swaying, she lifted a hand to steady herself, but found her fingertips skimming the stubble along his jaw instead.

And this time, the ragged cry came from her throat, not his.

He ripped his mouth from hers, staggered back almost violently.

Miranda groped for a nearby trash can and braced her hand against the cool metal lid. She struggled to breathe, to think, but could do little more than stare at the man who’d just kissed her with a gentle urgency that muddled her senses. His eyes were dark, but somehow managed to glitter. He stood alert, ready, as though face-to-face with one of Portugal’s famous apparitions. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn he didn’t know who she was or where she’d come from.

At the moment, she wasn’t sure she did, either.

“Dio,” he whispered again, shoving dark hair from his face.

The thrill streaking through her made absolutely no sense. She sucked in a jerky breath, tried to calm the surge of craziness, but her lungs had other ideas. Her pulse tripped along at an alarming rate. She felt like she’d just run a dead sprint, rather than shared a kiss with a stranger.

Who held a gun on her.

That thought jarred her out of the sensual haze and forced her to swing toward the woman with the baby. But she no longer stood in the alley, and her door was firmly closed.

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 be 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.

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.