THE PERFECT TARGET (2 page)

Posh,
she scolded herself.
Get a grip.
She flat-out wasn't that important, even if her family was.

Her heart, however, refused to slow. The uncooperative organ kept pounding, spewing adrenaline with every hurried beat. Dismayed, Miranda forced herself to round the corner and head for the ocean. No way would she let paranoia spoil the perfect, storm-washed morning.

Beyond the battered seawall, the glistening blue of the Atlantic stole her breath. The day before, she'd stood in just this spot, staring over the water and imagining what it must have been like for those long-ago Portuguese sailors, who left their familiar worlds behind, in search of something new.

Freedom.

Odd, she thought. Her own quest for freedom had carried her across the very same ocean, but in the opposite direction.

Silently, she thanked God for airplanes.

Through the camera's lens, she scanned the swelling waves and bobbing fishing boats, over to the palm-lined promenade along the shore, where pigeons flocked and a young couple kissed with what could only be described as desperation. They were wrapped around each other so tightly, not even the breeze could squeeze between them. The man had one hand buried in the woman's dark brown hair, the other hand securely around her waist. Their mouths moved like a ballet, not overtly sexual, but erotically intimate, as though they were making love right there—

Miranda caught herself. She of all people knew better than to aim a camera at intimate moments. Returning her attention to the harbor, she tried to focus on the weathered fishing boats practically begging to be photographed, and not the unwanted longing yawning through her.

"No, no, no. That's not right at all."

The rough-hewn voice rumbled through Miranda, causing her pulse to surge like one of the waves against the seawall. She abandoned the perfect close-up on a battered blue boat and turned. Felt her body tense.

A tall, dark-haired man stood less than a foot away, closer than American manners dictated, invading her personal space in a style common to European men. She'd grown accustomed to the practice, but this man's nearness kicked her nerves into high gear. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes, the frames and lenses the color of the whiskers shadowing his jaw. They were the kind worn by rock stars to create that edgy, mysterious persona that drove women wild. In hiding his eyes, he concealed his intent and sent a current streaking through Miranda, as indefinable as it was unsettling.

"I beg your pardon?" she said with a refinement that would have done her perfect older sister proud.

He nodded toward the camera in her hands. "The picture you were about to take. It's all wrong."

"Wrong?" She felt her spine stiffen. She may have been a novice when it came to political intrigue, but she knew photography inside out. "How so?"

He slid the sunglasses from his face, revealing eyes as dark and impenetrable as the lenses that had shielded them. A slow smile touched lips too full for a face of sharp angles and hard planes. "Because you're not in it."

The breath stalled in her throat. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Not just because of the unexpectedly provocative words, but because of the way he looked at her, like she was the coveted trophy at the end of a long, hard fought battle. She'd never seen a gaze so full of secrets and promises, never seen eyes that dark, like the color of midnight.

Walk away,
countless hours of security training commanded. This man wasn't what he seemed. He watched her way too expectantly; his stance held the same deceptive casualness as the bodyguards who'd followed her around at Wellesley. But instead of finding his nearness threatening, Miranda found herself curious. No one knew her here, she reminded herself. No one lurked in the shadows, ready to hurt her or shame her family.

"I'm not in it?" she repeated with a smile of her own. He was tall, she noted, well over her brother's six feet. And his hair matched the color of his eyes. "I see myself in the mirror every morning. I hardly need a picture of myself."

His voice dropped an octave. "Then give it to me."

This time she did step back. "Now why would I do that?"

His eyes met hers. "So I can remember the way you look standing here, with the sun in your hair and the smile on your face."

Something inside Miranda turned hot and liquid. Fascination whispered louder. The man's dark hair and unshaven face lent him an aura of danger, but he spoke like a poet. He was dressed like a tourist, but held a professional-looking briefcase. His swarthy skin hinted at Mediterranean ancestry, but he wore his loose-fitting black shirt and olive slacks like only an American could. He spoke accented English, but used perfect grammar.

"I should be going," she said, pulling away before she stepped in too deep.

He reached toward her. "Let me take your picture first." Miranda went very still. She looked down at her arm, where his warm fingers curled around her wrist. The sight jarred her, of a blatantly masculine hand on her body. For the past few years, if a stranger so much as brushed against her in a crowd, agents or bodyguards emerged from the shadows, alert and ready.

And Miranda had hated it. She'd hated being watched, monitored, hated being denied a normal life because of her family's notoriety. She hadn't asked to be born a Carrington. She didn't care about politics. She had no interest in carrying on the family legacy.

She'd just wanted to live her life, to laugh and dance and even fall down sometimes, without the whole world watching.

Butterfly,
her maternal grandfather had called her. The only butterfly in a family of eagles.

Instinct had her covertly scanning the surrounding area, half expecting to see Hawk Monroe running toward her. But just like before, she found only a dazzling fountain spraying toward the pale blue sky, pigeons, street merchants and tourists.

Slowly, the stranger released her.
"Bella?
Did I say something wrong?"

Bella.
There it was. The first clue to the puzzle. Italian. "No," she said. "You didn't say anything wrong."

"Then why do you look so … nervous?"

That got her. She didn't want to be nervous. She didn't want to react with paranoia to the very situations she'd come to Europe to experience. "What makes you think I'm nervous?"

"The way you're standing, like you're about to take off running. The fact you've yet to let me see your eyes."

She lifted her chin, smiled. Very slowly, very deliberately, she slid the Euro-chic tortoiseshell sunglasses from her face.

"Should I be nervous?" she challenged.

"That 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 he 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 he 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 sea-wall, 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.

More screams. And Hawk went back down.

The sirens wailed louder.

But there was no movement from behind the stall.

The stranger didn't stop firing. He pointed his briefcase toward a tree, unleashed another volley and brought a slender man with a ponytail crashing into the fountain.