Jenna Mills - The Perfect Target

The reminder of the danger did the trick. She turned from him and climbed through the jagged opening in the stone wall. He followed, letting the thick vines swing into place behind him.

Only then did he breathe easier.

“My God,” she whispered. “It’s like stepping back in time.”

An old wall separated the overgrown grounds of the abandoned villa from the rest of the world. Exiled aristocrats had constructed the Moorish-influenced home in the waning years of the nineteenth century, the pastel-washed, stuccoed limestone walls providing shelter and security to generations of a family on the decline. Not even two world wars had penetrated the safe haven.

Only death had possessed that right.

When the great-grandson of the original owner passed away some ten years before, none of his seven children expressed interest in taking over the villa. They’d scattered to Italy and France, a daughter in Scotland, two sons in America, and the prospect of returning to the less modern culture of old-world Portugal had held little appeal.

“This place looks deserted,” Miranda said.

He tossed her a wicked little wink. “That’s the point.”

The villa stood abandoned now, a shadow of its former glory. Red clay roof tiles were cracked and faded; vines had long since taken over pale yellow walls that retained only a hint of their former color. Even the blue and yellow clay tiles framing the broken-out windows were chipped. Azulejos they were called, imitating familiar patterns of Moorish rugs.

Miranda walked toward a crumbling statue of the Virgin Mary, who rose from a tangle of thigh-high sage and stood with her arms outstretched toward the old house. “She looks…sad.”

Sandro joined her. “She’ll keep us safe,” he said, reclaiming Miranda’s hand and leading her toward the entry-way.

Like so many other houses of central Portugal, the neglected villa boasted a wide front porch, framed by a series of three archways. The second story featured two smaller verandas, with the third story reserved for windows, dark now, almost gaping, like an old woman smiling through missing teeth.

The scent of rosemary grew stronger with every step, escorting them through an overgrown herb garden sprawling over the steps and engulfing the porch. Miranda broke off a stem as they passed.

“Through here,” Sandro said, leading her inside.

“It’s dark.”

“You’ll adjust.” He kept her hand in his and headed along the familiar path to the back of the house, carefully checking for signs of unwanted visitors. Only a few hours had passed since his last inspection, but a man could never be too careful.

Beneath the stairs at the back of the house, he opened a small closet and pulled Miranda into the darkness.

“Just stay close,” he instructed, whispering even though he didn’t need to.

She stopped abruptly and tried to pull her hand free. “Where are we?”

Her voice was sharp, frightened. And in the ensuing silence, he could hear the frenetic rhythm of her breathing. The pounding of her heart. “Just a little further.”

“But—”

“Shh,” he soothed. “Trust me.”

She didn’t bother pointing out that she had no choice. He hadn’t given her one.

Against the back wall, Sandro reached up and knocked twice against a hollow portion. A panel slid open, granting them access to a narrow stairway. He retrieved a flashlight from the ledge where he’d left it that morning and turned it on, drenching the narrow corridor in light.

“Straight up there,” he said.

Disbelief flooded her expression. “A secret passageway?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes paranoia is its own reward.”

At the top of the stairs he opened another panel, this one leading to the small room where he’d slept the night before and on several other occasions when he’d needed to melt into the shadows for a few days.

Miranda stared at the threadbare sleeping bag crammed against the far wall.

“There’s no electricity,” he told her, “but thanks to a well outside, we’re okay for water.”

She followed his gesture toward the small chamber off the side of the room, where a primitive toilet and shower stood in equal abandon.

“We’re staying here?” she asked, hugging her arms around her waist.

Compassion tugged at him. Compared to the ritzy resort she’d been staying at back in town, this small dank room rated somewhere between slum and prison. “You’ll be safe here, Miranda. I promise. That’s what counts.”

She stiffened for a moment, then spun toward him, eyes flashing with a fire he hadn’t seen since before he’d put his mouth to hers in the alley. “What did you say?”

“This is a safe house,” he explained, trying to restore the calm. “No one will find us here.”

She shook her head almost violently, sending tangled blond hair over her shoulders. “No. What did you call me?”

“Miranda.”

“Miranda?” She stepped back from him, her stance alert. “You think my name is Miranda?”

“I know it is.”

Her gaze sharpened, her expression pensive. “Well, that explains that,” she muttered. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but there’s been a mistake. You’ve got the wrong woman.”

Now it was his turn to stare. He studied her standing there, all that blond hair spilling over her shoulders, those unusual eyes imploring. Could he have—

No. He hadn’t made a mistake. No way.

Mistakes got men like him killed.

“You’re the right woman,” he insisted, battling an admiration he didn’t want to feel. “I’m a very thorough man. You’re Miranda Carrington, youngest daughter of Peter Carrington, the U.S. ambassador to Ravakia and youngest granddaughter of the late Albert Carrington, former U.S. senator and one-time presidential hopeful.”

She shook her head. “Didn’t you see that man and woman kissing by the boardwalk?”

“Yes.” But only for a moment. 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.”