The Perfect Target. Jenna Mills

before I’d let someone follow me back here. Now open up.”

      Nothing. Sandro put his hand to the door, wondering if he’d made a serious mistake by trusting her. But he’d had no choice. Giving trust was the best way to receive it in return.

      More than anything, he needed her trust.

      He waited, silently, patiently, until the lock clicked and the door opened. The ambassador’s gypsy daughter stood there, blond hair smoothed behind her ears, those fascinating green eyes darker than before, her expression somewhere between relief and alarm.

      The sight damn near knocked the breath from his lungs.

      Ignoring the reaction, trying to ignore her, Sandro strode into the small room and secured the door behind him. That morning, when he’d awakened in the old sleeping bag, the cramped quarters had seemed stale and dank, but after only a few hours of Miranda Carrington’s presence, everything seemed brighter, fresher, more welcoming. Like sunshine.