The Perfect Target. Jenna Mills

The second he’d locked onto Miranda, the rest of the busy promenade had dissolved.

      “I overheard them talking. She’s Miranda.” Sincerity and conviction laced the claim. “She has dark brown hair, not blond.”

      Sandro crossed his arms over his chest, wincing when the motion pulled against his shoulder. He knew she had a penchant for giving her bodyguards hell, had played enough games to recognize a pro when he saw one. She clearly thought she could play him.

      He just didn’t understand why she wanted to.

      “Let me see your passport.”

      “By all means.” She dipped a hand into the satchel slung over her shoulder and pulled out a well-worn blue passport bearing the emblem of the United States. Flipping it open, he studied the picture of a gorgeous blonde, the accompanying name and address.

      As far as forgeries went, the ambassador’s daughter had a beaut in her possession.

      “Astrid, huh?” Somehow, he kept the laughter from his voice.

      She nodded. “That’s right.”

      “Astrid Van Dyke of Stockholm,” he mused, “who just happens to have Carrington eyes. And,” he drawled, executing a lightning-quick move to bare the shoulder still covered by the crimson blouse, “her tattoo.”

      She froze, like an exquisite dragonfly captured in amber, wings forever in flight. Just like the one imprinted on her upper arm. Her face drained of all color, all expression.

      And then she started to shake.

      Regret hit hard and fast, but he shoved the useless emotion aside before it muddied the waters any further.

      “Don’t look so confused, bella,” he told her, his voice deliberately husky. He kept his hand on her arm, his fingers tracing the tattoo. “A woman like you doesn’t go unnoticed. A woman like you doesn’t just fade into the shadows or melt into crowds. A woman like you cannot hide, not even from yourself.”

      She backed away. “What do you mean, ‘a woman like me’?”

      The way she spat the words, Sandro would have thought he’d accused her of something hideous. He looked at her standing there, green gypsy eyes too big and dark against her pale face, that lush mouth he wanted to taste again still swollen from his earlier mistake.

      “Beautiful,” he said. “Intelligent. Full of life. Living, breathing sunshine.”

      She lifted a hand to her mouth, but said nothing.

      “Why the games?” he asked, steering the conversation to safe ground. The questions rattling through him didn’t bear answering. “Did you really think I’d just let you waltz out of here?”

      She shoved the hair from her face, managing to look alarmingly provocative as she did so. “Maybe I’m just playing the same kind of game you are. The same kind of game he is.”

      Game? “What are you talking about? Who is he?”

      Resentment flashed in her gaze, bringing color back to her cheeks. “Look, I know who you are, okay? I know what this is all about.”

      “Of course you know who I am. I told you.”

      “Not your name—names don’t matter. I know what’s going on here, why you were on the promenade, why we’re here now. I know who you work for and what you want, and I can tell you right now it’s not going to work.”

      Sandro went very still, all but his heart. It slammed against his ribs. She spoke with fire and conviction, making his blood run cold. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t. Only a handful of people did.

      And only that handful knew he was still alive.