The Perfect Target. Jenna Mills
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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