THE PERFECT TARGET (13 page)

They parked behind the building, in what Miranda could only guess had once been a shed or a garage. The falling-down structure wouldn't provide much shelter from the elements, but she figured it would keep the car out of view.

The lengthening shadows of late afternoon greeted them, the temperature already dropping in anticipation of nightfall. After retrieving several knapsacks from the car, Sandro paused before stepping into the opening, gun in hand, and surveyed the surrounding area. Miranda had pushed up on her toes for an inspection of her own, seeing nothing but a hillside terraced with endless rows of grapes. Somewhere, a dog barked rambunctiously, but other than that, the only sound had been that of their breathing.

"Where is everyone?"

"Eating dinner," he'd answered simply. "This building is only used on the weekends. That gives us two days."

Two days. After the frenetic pace of the past twenty-four hours, two days sounded like an eternity.

Now they stood inside the cavernous room that Sandro had explained doubled as a reception hall. On weekends, the Madeiro family rented the facility for weddings and cocktail parties, reunions, once even to a romantic, who hoped the intimate setting would increase the chances of his girlfriend saying yes to a very important question. But during the week, the wine cellar stood empty, save for the enormous casks of wine.

"All clear."

The rough-hewn words echoed through the cavernous room, kicking Miranda's heart into overdrive. She spun to find Sandro standing in the shadow of one of the oak barrels, his midnight eyes trained on her. He'd lowered the gun, but his body still looked alert, primed, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

"We'll be safe here for the night," he said.

Emotion chose that moment to pour in from all directions. Caught off guard, she lifted a hand to her suddenly tight throat, where her pulse hammered crazily. It was the word, she knew.

Safe.

"Will we?" Her voice was thick, strained. "Is that even possible, Sandro? Is anywhere really safe?"

His gaze darkened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

It was a damn good question. She moved deeper into the maze of wine casks, the chill deepening with each step she took. The barrels were at least double her height, and for a crazy moment, she imagined one of her sisters' Barbie dolls coming to life and roaming through the Carrington country estate. The new world would surely fascinate, but danger would hide in every shadow, around every corner.

"When I was a little girl…" she said, but didn't turn to face Sandro. She didn't want to see him. Didn't want to see those midnight eyes which had been remote ever since leaving the stone turret. Didn't want to feel the stab of longing, the crazy desire to feel him pull her into his arms and hold her tight. He was her father's man, that was all. He was here to protect her body, not her heart, and sure as hell not her soul.

That was her responsibility.

"When I was a little girl," she said again, her voice thicker than before, "I would crawl into my grandfather's lap and he would tell me stories." The memory brought a rush of warmth. If she closed her eyes, she could still smell the aroma of his pipe.

"He had the most wonderful voice, deep and booming, but soothing all the same. And when he told stories, his eyes twinkled. Sometimes my mother would scold him for speaking so openly of war and famine and violence, saying he was going to give me bad dreams." She paused, lifted a hand to one of the casks. "But his stories always had happy endings. The bad guys always got punished, and the hero and the heroine always lived happily ever after." Her throat tightened. "And I never had bad dreams," she said, stroking the soft, cool wood. "I always felt safe, because Grandpa taught me that good could triumph over evil."

"You don't feel safe anymore?"

She shivered. He'd done it again, moved without making a whisper of sound. He stood behind her now, so close the warmth of his words had brushed the back of her neck.

Lifting her chin and forcing a smile, she turned toward him. "The world is different now. I know people who died simply because they were at the wrong place, at the wrong time. I attended a funeral for a friend from boarding school whose only crime was showing up for work one morning." Hot moisture burned the backs of her eyes. She longed for those carefree days of youth, when the greatest danger stemmed from rickety cellar stairs or high-up tree branches forbidden by her parents.

That world was gone now.

"Nowhere is really safe," she whispered, "not if fate is against you."

Kristina's death had driven home that lesson loud and clear.

Sandro frowned. His eyes weren't cold anymore, weren't remote. They were as warm as the hand he laid against the side of her face. "You're safe with me."

She swallowed hard. "Safe is a relative term."

"Not in my book."

Not in her father's, either. That was the problem. Men like Sandro tackled problems by finding solutions, never realizing their fabulously well-thought-out, fabulously executed plans could wreak an equally dangerous havoc.

"A bird in a cage is safe, too, isn't it?" she challenged. "Fed everyday, given water and light. The cat can't get in. The temperature is always just right."

A faint smile played at the corners of Sandro's mouth. "Sounds pretty cushy to me."

"But what happens when the house catches fire and the bird can't get out of its cage? Can't fly away?"

Against her cheek, his fingers tensed. "Is that why you were so intent to roam Europe without your father's men around to protect you? Because you felt like a bird in a cage?"

She stepped from his touch, knowing she'd revealed more than she should have. "You're a complete stranger," she pointed out, lifting a hand to her shoulder. "But you know about my tattoo.
That's
why I came to Europe."

"To hide," he muttered darkly.

"To live," she corrected. There was a big difference. "To get away from people who pose as friends or lovers, when all they really want is the next big story."

He swore softly. "Ouch."

"When a man kisses me, Sandro, I want to know that he's kissing
me,
not just an assignment. When he tells me he wants me, I want to know that he wants
me,
not just a story, that his words reflect desire, not ambition." She paused, met Sandro's eyes. "When I give myself to a man, I want to know that lies aren't crawling into bed with us. Is that so very wrong?"

A moment passed before he answered. "No," he said quietly. "It's not so very wrong at all."

She stepped closer. "Sandro—"

"We'll set up toward the back," he said, turning from her. "There's a rest room along the wall. You can freshen up there." Then he was gone, melting into the shadows while something deep inside Miranda silently shattered.

* * *

Midnight pushed closer, but sleep remained elusive. Miranda slipped from the pallet Sandro had made for her, tired of pretending she could just close her eyes and nod off. Too much adrenaline streamed through her. Too much … uncertainty. She'd never been one to run or hide from her problems, even though Sandro thought that's why she'd come to Europe.

Even now, hours later, his words, his abrupt departure, stung. She'd foolishly opened to him, shared a little piece of herself, only to have him walk away. He'd barely spoken over their dinner of cheese and bread, muttered only a few curt words as he'd made a pallet for her and told her to get some sleep.

Apparently he'd forgotten their little showdown earlier that day at the reflecting pond.

She wished she could. She wished she could forget the way he'd looked standing there, so very still, as out of place and forsaken as the stone turret. She wished she could forget the way his fingers had felt against her face, his mouth against hers. The way her heart revved and stalled whenever he stood too close. Whenever she heard his voice. Whenever she looked into those eyes like chips of midnight ice and saw the shadows of a struggle she didn't understand.

But she couldn't do any of those things.

There was a stillness to the musty room, a quiet so deep and pure she figured Sandro must have allowed himself to sleep. Restless, she stood and stretched, lifted a hand to an oak barrel. The wood was smooth and cool, almost magical. The wine resting inside would be red, she knew, and her mouth watered. It wouldn't take much to tap into one of the barrels and let the
vhino
trickle down her throat. The thought made her smile.

Danger lurked, in the darkness beyond the cellar, but the huge casks lent the room an intimate feel, especially now that night had fallen and the only light stemmed from candles.

Running her hand along the big barrel, Miranda wandered toward the center aisle.

Then froze. She just barely managed not to gasp.

Sandro didn't sleep. He sat with his back against one of the giant casks, the flickering play of candlelight emphasizing the unforgiving line of his jaw and the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the brutal intensity of his eyes. His knees were slightly bent, his head bowed. In his hand, he held a viciously sharp knife.

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She'd grown used to seeing him with the semiautomatic in hand, but the knife caught her by surprise. So did the knowledge of how skillfully he could wield it.

Turn around
the voice of caution whispered, but curiosity nudged closer. Questions scurried through her like the mice she hoped did not reside in the wine cellar. Sandro, this man who turned into a commando if the breeze so much as blew the wrong way, seemed oblivious to her presence. His concentration belonged to the knife he jabbed against the palm of his other hand.

His expression bordered on reverent.

A sense of the forbidden shimmied through Miranda, as though she was eight years old again, sneaking downstairs on Christmas Eve, eager to learn the secrets of Santa Claus. But she wasn't a little girl anymore, and the man she watched from the shadows had nothing to do with childhood mischief.

She eased closer anyway, stilled the second she caught sight of his left hand. Or, more precisely, the object in his palm.

He looked up abruptly. "Miranda."

Her breath caught. Whittling. The dangerous man with the briefcase that turned into a gun was sitting quietly on the cold stone floor, diligently, deliberately, painstakingly, turning something plain into something beautiful.

"Don't stop," she said, moving to stand beside him.

"You should be sleeping."

"So should you."

The shadow crossed his gaze so briefly, she wondered if she'd seen it at all. "Couldn't."

"Me, neither." Most people grew more comfortable with each other as time passed, but Sandro seemed increasingly uncomfortable around her. Determined to bridge the widening chasm, she slid down alongside him. "What are you making?"

"Nothing special," he said with a quick flick of the blade. "Just experimenting."

She leaned closer, noting the pile of wood shavings against the stone floor. "Seems like more than an experiment to me."

"Maybe."

Fascination whispered louder. Just when she thought she had a handle on the man, he went and proved she didn't. "You hardly strike me as a whittling kind of man."

He nicked the knife against the wood, carving out a little indentation. "Why not? Patience and precision is about all it takes. That, and a little imagination."

Miranda didn't want to think about his imagination. Hers was dangerous enough. "It's just a man in your line of work—"

"Spends a lot of nights alone," he finished for her. "Even girlie magazines get old after a while."

The image formed before she could stop it, prompting her to say a silent prayer of thanks she'd found Sandro with a knife, and not a centerfold.

"How does a man get into your line of work?" she asked. Dark humor had underscored his words, but she'd heard something else, as well. Something she desperately wanted to understand.

He shrugged. "Fate, maybe. Destiny. Who knows."

In other words, he wasn't going to tell her. She sat quietly for a moment, biting the inside of her mouth, watching him work. The block of wood gave away none of his secrets, though, no hint of what lay ahead. "Did you teach yourself?"

"I didn't go to bodyguard school, if that's what you're asking."

"No," she clarified. "To whittle."

Against the wood, his knife stilled. "No."

Miranda bit back a sound of frustration deep in her throat. She wanted to bang her hands against the barrier he'd erected between them, but knew she would find only air.

His walls weren't of stone or flesh, but something deeper, far less tangible.

Silence rushed in from all directions, but rather than breaking it with another question, she let it hang between them. Let it thicken. Let it deepen.

Slowly, Sandro began working again, using the blade to round the edge of the wood. He executed a series of quick, precise strokes, followed by one long glide. Miranda wouldn't have thought such big hands could perform such delicate maneuvers, but his fingers were sure and nimble, and he wielded the knife like an extension of himself.

"When I was a kid," he finally said, "I always wanted a dog."

Miranda wrapped her arms around her knees, tried not to shiver. There was a chill to the cavernous room, a cold that bled from the walls and seeped from the stone. She fought it, didn't want Sandro to see her tremble, didn't want to shatter the moment. He wasn't a man to talk of himself. She wanted every second he would give her.

"All my friends had dogs," he was saying in a voice so remote, she wondered if he realized he spoke aloud, or if the cover of darkness hid what she sensed he would consider an unpardonable sin.

"Gus had one he'd trained to play Frisbee, and the three of us would go at it for hours." He flipped the wooden block in his hands and began carving the underside. "Molly never got tired, she just ran and ran, always wanted to play. To please."

A smile slipped from Miranda's heart. "Sounds like my dog Huntress."