The Perfect Target. Jenna Mills

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?”

      “Not what, but who. My father. He’s a very careful man. He knew I’d try to give Hawk the slip the second I saw him, so he sent a backup.” The mere thought caused her chest to tighten. Betrayal slashed brutally. She’d believed her father this time. She’d believed that for the first time in eleven years, he was willing to let her live her own life.

      Now she knew everything had been staged, just like so many times before. Hawk was probably throwing back a cold one somewhere, congratulating himself on a job well done, indifferent to the trauma he’d caused.

      Just like he’d done with Elizabeth.

      “You casually come on to me, then I see Hawk, run, shots are fired, and voila, there you are, ready for me to run gratefully into your arms.”

      Like a perfect little puppet.

      Over the years, she’d become adept at sniffing out her father’s security drills, but she hadn’t seen this one coming. She’d been too intrigued by the man with the penetrating eyes and flattering words.

      Humiliation left a bitter taste in her mouth.

      But Sandro didn’t seem to notice. He wasn’t frowning anymore, wasn’t glowering, didn’t look like a warrior primed for battle. A purely male smile curved the mouth Miranda found entirely too erotic for a face of such hard lines and sharp planes.

      “You were already in my arms,” he reminded.

      Miranda narrowed her eyes, wondering where the commando had gone and half wishing he would return. At least she knew how to defend herself against him.

      “Your hands, not your arms,” she corrected tartly. “There’s a difference.”

      “Not always,” he said, “but we’ll save that nuance for another time. Right now I’m more interested in knowing why your father would expect you to run from someone assigned to protect you.”

      Miranda stiffened. With skillful precision Sandro was steering the conversation down a path she had no desire to travel.

      “It’s not like that,” she defended, but knew he wouldn’t understand.

      “Then tell me how it is.”

      An emotion she didn’t understand tangled through her. She couldn’t summon one single memory of any of her father’s men asking her opinion on anything. Ever.

      “I’m just…tired,” she admitted, and with the words, the fight drained out of her. Weariness took over, a bone-deep fatigue sharpened by the chase through back alleys and the unexpected kiss, the battle of wills, the long walk to the abandoned villa.