The Perfect Target. Jenna Mills
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depends upon what makes you nervous,” he answered in that faint but drugging accent. He glanced toward the showy fountain, then around the open-air market, as though looking for something. Then he stepped closer. “If you’re worried that I’m a serial killer, I assure you I am not. This is Portugal, not America. That kind of thing is rare here.”
Laughter broke from her throat. “I don’t think you’re a serial killer.”
He didn’t grin or smile as she expected. Instead, his gaze turned serious. “Don’t let down your guard quite so easily,” he muttered darkly. “Just let me take your picture. That’s all I ask. Here,” he said, reaching for her camera. “What harm can there be? Just one shot.”
The man could no doubt talk her cousin’s four-year-old into surrendering her favorite teddy bear, Miranda thought absently. Intrigued, she decided to play along.
“Just one,” she agreed, uncurling her fingers from the sleek 35mm she’d purchased before leaving the States.
“Back up a little,” he instructed. The camera hid his eyes, but she knew they would be focused and intense.
Odd, Miranda thought, stepping against the seawall. He held her camera in his left hand, but he’d yet to put down his briefcase.
“Perfect,” he murmured. “Now untie the scarf.”
She blinked. “The scarf?”
“Hair like yours is too pretty to confine. Let the wind play with it.”
Heat streaked through her, completely unrelated to the burgeoning warmth of the day. Something about the word play, she knew. And that raspy voice. “I prefer it off my face.”
“Just for the picture,” he coaxed. “Just for me.”
Caution warned her to call the whole thing off, but her newfound sense of freedom refused to be denied. Having a man flirt with her, with no ulterior motive, felt too good. Charmed, she reached for the turquoise scarf she’d purchased from Rosita and pulled the fabric free. The breeze blowing off the ocean instantly sent long strands of blond hair fluttering around her face and tangling over her shoulders.
“Perfect,” the stranger said. “Perfect.”
Miranda fought an odd jolt of self-consciousness, as though she stood before the man completely naked, rather than in an off-the-shoulder crimson shirt and a long, gypsylike skirt she’d purchased from one of the locals. Every nerve ending felt charged and exposed. Her heart strummed low and expectant. The stranger had her posing for him, and she didn’t even know his name.
For the moment, she didn’t care.
Identity had nothing to do with what was scrawled on your birth certificate, but rather, the ideals you carried deep inside. If she asked the stranger his name, he’d ask hers.
She wasn’t ready to taint the moment with either the truth, or a lie.
“What are you waiting for?” He almost seemed to be stalling.
“The sun,” he answered without hesitation. “You’re not a woman for shadows.”
His voice was hoarse, like a man who lived on cigarettes and whisky. No one had ever talked to her like that. No words had ever drifted through her like a feathery caress. She studied him closer, that full mouth and those dark whiskers sprinkled across a strong jaw, the thick neck leading to the kind of chest women dreamed about—
Miranda jerked her gaze back to his neck, where a nasty scar slashed across his throat, a faded testimony to a brutal attack. This man’s raspy voice did not stem from pleasure or vice, but from pain and violence.
“Hurry up,” she said. Well-honed instincts kicked harder. He may not have asked her name, but he’d skillfully pinned her between his big body and the ocean behind her.
“Don’t be so impatient, bella. Some things aren’t meant to be rushed. There can be tremendous reward in lingering.”
The words were soft, but they robbed her of breath like a punch to the gut. Miranda hungered for freedom and adventure, but she also knew when she’d stepped in over her head. She could fend off attackers and wield a knife like a pro, but when it came to playing cat and mouse with outrageously good-looking, mysterious men, her defenses jammed like traffic in gridlock.
Fortunately, her legs didn’t. Pushing away from the seawall, she strode toward him, hand outstretched. “Give me my camera back.”
“But I haven’t—”
“The camera,” she said, firmer than before.
He refused to hand over her prized possession. “Have lunch with me. Maybe the clouds will clear by the time we’re done.”
“No.” Fascination crumbled into determination. This man was not what he seemed, and she knew better than to teeter on a rocky outcropping with the tide rushing in around her.
“Look, I really need to get going, so just give me my camera,” she said, extending her hand, “and—”
He took her wrist and started to tug. “Relax, bella. I know just the place—”
“Miranda!”
The urgent voice came from behind her and had her spinning toward the shopping district. A large Viking of a man broke from the crowd of older tourists and sprinted toward her. “Miranda!”
Hawk.
Her heart started to race, adrenaline spewing like a geyser out of control. They’d found her.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The second a man touched her, one of her father’s men always, always came running.
“Miranda!” Hawk shouted, gaining ground.
The stranger’s grip on her arm tightened. “Do you know him?” he asked with an urgency that hadn’t been there before. But before she could answer, the sound of gunfire ripped through the late morning and sent the crowd scattering like leaves in the wind. Pigeons took flight. Hawk went down.
Miranda screamed, lunging toward her fallen bodyguard.
But the stranger wouldn’t let her go.
“Get down,” he commanded, shoving her toward the nearest merchant’s stall. He crouched beside her, sandwiching her between a display of rooster tablecloths and his big body. “Stay low.”
A large man dressed in army fatigues bolted around the corner, with what looked to be a semiautomatic in his hand. “Hold your fire!” he was shouting. “We’ve got you surrounded!”
“Too bloody late,” the stranger muttered.
The man in fatigues kept running. He was beside the fountain when another volley of gunfire ripped through the chaos. His arms flew out as though he’d slammed into an invisible wall, and he crumpled to the ground.
“Cristo.” The stranger glanced around sharply. “Where the hell are the shooters?” He held his briefcase in front of him, scanning the crowd. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”
“But Hawk—”
“—is probably dead.”
Horror convulsed through her. Hawk. She’d spent the past year evading the unyielding man at every turn, but she didn’t want him dead. Until now, everything had always seemed more like a game than life or death.
“Look!” she cried, “he’s getting up.”
“Fool,” the stranger hissed, just as the first police officer arrived, running from the perfume boutique to dive behind a nearby stall. Sirens screamed nearby.
“Stay down,” the stranger shouted. “Be ready to run when I tell you.” Then he took aim on the police officer’s hiding place and sprayed the area with bullets.
From his briefcase.
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