The Perfect Target. Jenna Mills
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was like fire. She stared at him, but the room started to revolve. The walls pushed closer. The air grew too thick to breathe. Thoughts and possibilities crashed around inside her like bullets in a mausoleum. Horror stabbed deep.
It was real. Everything that had gone down in the crowded marketplace had been authentic, not staged. The shots and the shouting. Hawk going down, then pulling himself back up, only to be mowed down again.
Dear God, Elizabeth. Her sister said she didn’t love Hawk, had never loved him, but Miranda had always believed—
“Miranda?”
She blinked rapidly, working desperately to bring Sandro’s face into focus. He was moving closer, his big body blocking out the meager light seeping through the window, until her world consisted only of him.
“If there was a th-threat, he should have told m-me,” she whispered in a voice she barely recognized as her own. “He should have warned m-me. T-told me about you.”
“Miranda—”
“I wouldn’t have been on the street like that,” she insisted, gazing up at him. She widened her eyes, imploring him to believe her. She’d seen how her sister’s death had shattered her family, would never do anything willingly to put them through that again. She wasn’t foolish. She didn’t have a death wish. She’d taken countless self-defense classes. Had a few tricks up her sleeve. “I would have been more careful.”
“Miranda.” Sandro took her shoulders in his hands and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Your father loves you,” he said softly but firmly. “He wants to keep you safe. Where’s the crime in that? If I hadn’t been there, don’t you realize where you would be right now? What could be happening to you?”
She did realize, that was the problem. If he hadn’t been there, she could be with the horrible man who’d killed Hawk—or dead. But in not warning her about the threat or telling her about Sandro, her father had left her equally vulnerable.
“What if you’d been shot somewhere besides your chest or back? What if I’d stabbed you? Then what would have happened? Both my bodyguards would have been down, and because my father chose an underhanded method of protecting me, I wouldn’t have had a clue what was really going on.”
Sandro lifted a hand to her face, his fingers skimming her cheekbone. “None of that happened. I have you now, and everything’s going to be okay.”
There was an unmistakable gentleness to his touch, a persuasiveness that sent an unwanted rush through her. “Why didn’t he warn me? Why didn’t he tell me about you?”
“Everything happened too fast. There wasn’t time for warnings.”
“He should have found a way!”
“Bella, bella, bella,” he said, his voice like velvet. “Are you always so tough? Do you always malign those trying to help you? Protect you?”
The softly spoken questions hit with unerring accuracy. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, ripping away from his touch. She needed to think, but couldn’t gather her thoughts when he stood so close she felt his every breath, his every heartbeat.
“Don’t you have something more important to do than psychoanalyze me?” she asked with a sharpness he didn’t deserve. “Like report back to my father?”
His expression darkened. “Actually,” he said, glancing at the nasty wound on his shoulder, “I do.”
Regret hit hard and fast. This man had been shot because of her, was bleeding. This man had put his body between her and a bullet. And here she stood, berating him because he willingly followed the orders she’d grown to despise.
“I’m sorry,” she said, appalled at her thoughtlessness. But when she started toward him, he lifted a hand to stop her.
“Don’t, bella. I can take care of this myself.”
“But I can help you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
She didn’t know what she heard in his voice, bitterness or resolve, maybe regret, but she recognized the look in his eyes, that hard, cold look of a man who didn’t allow others to interfere with his code of conduct.
“You’ve been shot,” she said.
“It’s only a flesh wound.” He turned from her then, reached for the body armor. “Bullet barely grazed me.”
“What are you doing?”
He fastened the vest around his upper body and retrieved his black shirt, wincing as he slid the wrinkled cotton over his injured shoulder. “This is wrong, bella. This isn’t how things were supposed to go down.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re not supposed to be with me,” he growled, and almost sounded pained. “There are things you don’t understand. Things I need to find out. What went down back there was a mistake. You’re right. I was the backup. I wasn’t supposed to end up with you. Hawk was. Now I’ve got to figure out what went wrong and what happens next.”
She watched him fight with little black buttons far too small for his fingers. “Why can’t we just go to the embassy?”
“Too risky,” he answered without hesitation. “Too public.”
“What if someone sees us?” she asked, glancing toward the window. Not much light made it through the grime and the overgrown foliage surrounding the villa, but beyond this secluded world, the sun shone brightly.
“No one will see us,” he said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because we won’t be anywhere. You’ll be here, and I’ll be doing what I do best.”
Miranda just stared at him. “You’re leaving me?”
He strode toward the small window and peered outside. “You’ll be safer here than out there with me.”
She hugged her arms around her middle, not wanting to be left alone, but unaccustomed to asking one of her father’s men for anything. “What if you don’t come back?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
But what if it does? she wanted to ask, but the words jammed in her throat. He was hiding something, she realized with cold certainty. Holding something back. It was there in his eyes, an edgy, unsettled look, like he wasn’t quite sure what he’d find when he turned the corner.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He picked up his briefcase. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Nothing I need to worry about?” She crossed to him and took hold of his forearm. “A man shoots at me and my bodyguard goes down, then I’m dragged through alleys to some abandoned old house and led through a secret passageway to a room that looks more like a jail cell and you tell me not to worry about it?”
His lips twitched. “You do have a way with words, bella.” He glanced at the black-banded watch around his wrist. “Give me an hour, two tops. When I get back, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Until then, I need you to try and relax.”
“Sandro—”
He took her hand and led her to the door. “Here,” he said, pressing a metal object into her hand. “This lock works both ways. When you hear me turn it from the other side, I want you to do the same.”
She looked at the small silver key in her palm. He was trusting her, she realized. He was giving her a small measure of freedom, of respect, just like when he’d given her back her grandfather’s knife.
Beware of strangers bearing gifts, she’d always heard.
“How do you know I’ll let you back in when you return?” she asked