THE PERFECT TARGET (25 page)

But, God, how she wanted…

She bit back the thought, fought the emotion burning her throat, her eyes. She couldn't let herself think too far into the future. She had only the here and the now, and the precious few moments remaining.

"Where are we headed?" she asked for the third time. He didn't look at her, didn't miss a beat. Just kept staring straight into the near-blinding sun. "Somewhere safe."

The vague answer frustrated her, but no longer surprised. They'd changed cars twice since leaving the hotel, making their trail almost impossible to follow. They'd been on a fairly major highway for a while, before taking a fork in the road and bumping down a gravel path through a dusty village that looked as worn down as she felt. Children had played soccer in a field, while a few thin dogs wandered alongside the road.

That was close to an hour ago. They'd been driving through a grove of twisted olive trees ever since. With the sun cutting through the branches and the horizon washed in the white of early twilight, they seemed to be driving into nowhere.

Until he rounded the corner.

And the standing stones came into view.

There were far too many to count, giant, misshapen monoliths towering toward the sky.

And they flat-out stole her breath.

"Oh, my God," she whispered as he stopped the car behind a rusty old trailer. "Where are we?"

Somewhere safe, she waited for him to answer. But he didn't.

"Cromlech of Almendres,"
he answered, the words rolling off his tongue in the accent that still had the power to heat her blood.

"Like Stonehenge?" She'd planned to visit the massive site in England later in the summer.

Sandro took the key from the ignition and opened his door. "Maybe older."

She followed him into the cool breeze of early evening. The sun which had seemed so intrusive only minutes before now seemed softer, bathing the ancient site in an otherworldly combination of shadow and light.

Sandro moved to stand by one of the large monoliths, stepping easily into the puddle of darkness cast by the stone that looked far too similar to a tombstone.

"There's ninety-five of them," he said. "Supposedly they date back to the fourth or fifth millennia B.C.
Probably a temple dedicated to a solar cult."

Miranda moved beside him, her photographer's eye roaming the megalithic structures. They ambled down the side of a slight hill, not in a circle like others she'd read about, but staggered, like a crowd gathered restlessly to hear a poet speak.

"How do you know all these places?" she asked, fascinated.

Sandro looked off toward the western horizon, lifting a hand to shield his eyes, even though he still wore the dark sunglasses. "I had a friend from Portugal. He brought me here many years ago."

The friend whose family had owned the villa she and Sandro had hidden in that first day. The friend who could only be summoned through a séance.

There really seemed to be nothing to say, so she didn't even try. Sometimes, silence said enough. Especially with a man like Sandro.

Instead, she reached for the camera she'd grabbed upon leaving the car and lifted it toward the grouping of monoliths. The early evening light was perfect, creating an apocalyptic feel to the stones modern man had yet to understand.

She was tempted to turn the lens toward Sandro, an equally confounding mystery, but knew he'd only turn away from her.

And that was something she didn't want.

Wandering away from him, she snapped a series of shots, going down on her knee to catch an angle looking skyward. The stones were weathered, all shades of gray. Patches of grass shot up between them, smaller rocks scattered about. A few of the monoliths boasted carvings, a series of primitive circles and lines in varying sizes.

"This isn't a field trip, Miranda."

She stilled, pushed to her feet, pivoted to find him standing mere inches away. She could literally feel the heat from his body, his breath. "I know that."

"Then what are you doing?"

"It's that old lemons-and-lemonade thing," she tried to explain. "Just because life threw a nasty curve ball doesn't mean I have to surrender. I came to Europe for a reason."

It was almost night now, but he'd yet to remove his sunglasses. "To take pictures?"

"To learn, and to record. There's a huge world outside the borders of the United States, a world many Americans never have the chance to experience. I thought…" She paused, frowned as she recalled her parent's horrified reaction to her plan.

"Thought what?"

"Thought I could share that world. Thought I could create a photo essay, maybe get it published." When he said nothing, she added, "I know, it's an absurd idea."

His jaw tightened. "Who told you it's absurd?"

Miranda looked away from him, toward the western horizon, where only red streaks of the sun remained.

"Who, Miranda? Who said it was absurd?"

She turned back toward him, lifted her chin, forced a smile. "My grandfather was a senator, Sandro, my father is an ambassador. My sister is a corporate attorney. My brother works for the Department of Justice. Carringtons don't put together coffee-table books for a living."

He lifted a hand, and for a thrilling moment, she thought he meant to touch her. He did, but only long enough to ease a strand of brown hair from her face. "That's exactly what a Carrington will do," he said very softly. "Soon, you'll be home, safe and sound and ready to put together a photo essay that will knock the socks off your family." He paused, frowned. "Until then, I'm taking no chances. We'll stay only where I'm sure no one will find us."

He spoke with absolute certainty, but rather than warming her, assuring her, his words chilled. "How will you know we're safe? How will you know for sure?"

He let out a rough breath. "Because one, Petros isn't tracking us anymore. And two, I'll trust no one but myself."

Not even her. He didn't say the words, didn't need to. She felt their sting clear down to her bones. "Not even Javier?"

The stones cast longer shadows now, darker. "Not even Javier."

The pain in his voice was unmistakable. "You think he betrayed you?"

He stiffened, much as he had when she'd pulled her knife on him. "No," he bit out quickly. "No. Just because the message directing us to the safe house came from his phone doesn't mean he sent it."

Realization dawned swift and brutal. "Oh, God, you think—"

"Don't say it,
bella,
okay?" The command was rough, jagged. "He's a good man, an even better friend."

And every rigid line of Sandro's body screamed that he thought his partner was dead. "But why would Petros—"

Sandro turned from her, lifted a hand to trace the circles etched in one of the stones. "Petros used to be Viktor's go-to man, until he botched an important assignment. He resented that I'd been sent … for you. He thought if he could get you away from me, he could somehow regain Viktor's favor."

A wave of cold went through Miranda so sharp, so numbing, she braced a hand to one of the monoliths to keep from sinking to her knees. The slimy man had probably killed Sandro's partner as a way of finding Sandro, finding her. If Sandro hadn't found her— No. She broke off the thought violently, refusing to dwell in could-have-beens. "I'm glad you stopped him."

He turned back toward her, again brushed the hair from her face. "Lesser of two evils?"

She stepped closer. "You're not evil, Sandro."

"How can you say that?"

She hesitated only a moment before answering. "Take off your sunglasses."

"What?"

"Isn't that what you asked of me in Cascais?" she reminded. "To take off my sunglasses? Now I'm asking the same of you."

She couldn't see his eyes but knew that he looked at her, could feel the slow burn of his midnight eyes even through the dark lenses. Slowly, he slid his hand from her face to his, where he lowered the shades from his eyes.

And this time, Miranda felt the slow burn clear down to her soul. "Now give me your hand."

His gaze was hot, piercing, full of an uncertainty she'd rarely seen from him. But he did as she asked. Standing there beside the ancient standing stones, with night casting a blanket of darkness, he put his hand in hers, every movement, every breath, taking on exaggerated proportions. Seconds felt like forever.

"I know that here," she said softly, drawing his palm to her chest, where every beat of her heart hammered with near-painful precision. "You promised you wouldn't let anything happen to me, and I believe you."

He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them a moment later. They were burning now, practically on fire. "God, you're amazing."

I'm in love,
she correctly silently, holding back the words, keeping them close to her heart. More than anything, she longed to return to the magic of the wine cellar, but knew the innocence of before was gone. They had only the truth now, the impossible fact that even though he'd lied to her, she still wanted him.

"Don't prove me wrong, Sandro. That's all I ask."

His smile turned grim, but his hand remained against her heart. "Would you like the sun and the moon, as well?"

She didn't know why that question hurt. "Would you give them to me?"

"If I could," he answered quietly, then turned and walked away, vanishing within the cluster of standing stones.

* * *

"You need to get some sleep," she told him long hours later. He wouldn't stop pacing the perimeter of the site, just kept walking, walking, as though he didn't trust himself to stand still for longer than a second.

"There will be plenty of time for sleep later," he said as he passed her for what had to be the hundredth time.

She pushed to her feet and went to him, grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to stop or drag her along behind him. "Why later, Sandro? Why not now? You're exhausted."

The moon was full, casting enough light to show the answer register deep in his eyes, even though he said nothing.

He wouldn't sleep because of her. Because she'd run last night. Because he didn't trust her not to run again.

The realization pierced deep. She turned from him jerkily and hurried toward one of the larger stones, where he'd left the duffel bag containing their supplies. Moments later she caught up with him about twenty feet further along the perimeter and again took hold of his arm.

"Here," she said, lifting her free hand. "Use these."

He stared at her palm, where moonlight glinted off the cuffs. "What?"

She snapped one around her wrist. "You're exhausted. You need to sleep. And I'm not going anywhere." Before he could protest, she closed the other manacle around his wrist and tossed the key into a pile of rocks several feet away.

Chapter 13

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"
M
iranda—"

"I know," she said, cutting him off and trying to inject a lightness into her voice she didn't come close to feeling. "I'm sure when you imagined spending the night with a woman and handcuffs, this isn't exactly what you had in mind, but—"

"Don't."

The warning glittered in his eyes, resonated in his hoarse voice. But she ignored both. "Don't what?" she asked, angling her chin. Prove to him she wouldn't inn? Force him to sleep?

Love him.

"Don't pretend this is some big adventure," he bit out, then started to move away from her. His movements were rough, forcing her to stagger along behind him, bumping up against his side when he stopped abruptly. He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes darker than she'd ever seen them. Then he swore softly. "Christ, I'm sorry."

She tried to hide her surprise. "Sorry for what?"

He lifted a hand to her face, traced the line of her cheek. "That I've reduced you to this, to sleeping in a dirty field, handcuffed to a stranger."

Her throat tightened. "You're not a stranger, Sandro. And you haven't reduced me to anything." She went down to her knees, urging him beside her. "Now go to sleep."

* * *

It was one of those impossibly blue skies that if captured by a photographer, everyone would claim the picture was doctored. But it was real, and it was overhead, and against it, white clouds floated aimlessly. A warm breeze blew through the crowded city streets, the bustling café.

"Where to next, mate? Paris? Madrid?"

Sandro put down the small white cup and grinned at Gus. "What's with the mate crap? You suddenly think you're an Aussie?"

"He thinks he'll get more broads that way," Roger answered, surveying the surrounding tables. "There's a cute little redhead over there just begging to be approached."

"Begging for me," Sandro boasted, "not bonehead, here."

"That's Count Bonehead to you," Gus corrected. "You forget, I come from a long line of Portuguese royalty."

Roger coughed out a laugh. "Royal pains in the ass, that is."

Sandro picked up his cup again, finished the last of the now-cool coffee. Grinning, he glanced toward the redhead, ready to suggest she put them out of their collective misery and join them.

But her hair was no longer red.

It was … brown. And those round eyes of hers were exotic now, laughing, full of life. Almost like a gypsy.

He blinked, confused. His heart started to race. Panic speared deep. This was … wrong. She didn't belong here. Couldn't be here. In a heartbeat he was on his feet,
throwing aside chairs to reach her before—

The bomb exploded.

"Miranda!" he shouted. "Sweet Jesus, no!" He was falling then, thrown to the concrete by the force of the blast. He fought against the debris, choked on the smoke. "Miranda!"

"Sandro."

Her voice, so soft and sweet. So alive. He focused on it, thrashed against the tables and chairs pinning him down. "Hang on!"

"Sandro, I'm here! It's okay!"

He felt her then, somehow, soft hands running along his body, clearing away the rubble. She shouldn't have been strong enough to reach him, save him, but her arms were around him. He crushed her to him, held her tight, tangled his hands in her hair. "Sweet God, Miranda."