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More than anything, he needed her trust.
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He waited, silently, patiently, until the lock clicked and the door opened. The ambassador's gypsy
daughter stood there, blond hair smoothed behind her ears, those fascinating green eyes darker than
before, her expression somewhere between relief and alarm.
The sight damn near knocked the breath from his lungs. Ignoring the reaction, trying to ignoreher,
Sandro strode into the small room and secured the door behind him. That morning, when he'd awakened
in the old sleeping bag, the cramped quarters had seemed stale and dank, but after only a few hours of
Miranda Carrington's presence, everything seemed brighter, fresher, more welcoming. Like sunshine.
"Everything okay?" he asked brusquely.
"Just dandy," she answered, making him realize the absurdity of his question.
He set down his briefcase, then several sacks of supplies he'd picked up at the Jumbo superstore. He
didn't know how long he'd have to await instructions from Javier, but knew it was smarter to be prepared
than sorry. They couldn't stay holed up in the villa forever. Soon, they'd have to venture into town. And
when they did, he couldn't risk anyone recognizing them.
Grimly, he wondered how she would react to the steps they needed to take to conceal their identities.
"How's your shoulder?" she asked, watching him warily.
"I rinsed the wound in a public rest room there's some bandage and ointment in one of those bags."
She rummaged through his purchases, pulling out the cheese and bread he'd bought for dinner, then the
medical supplies. "Takeoff your shirt."
She issued the command matter-of-factly, but too long had passed since Sandro had found himself alone
with a woman at all, much less the kind of woman who made a man forget about what needed to be
done, evoking instead fantasies of all the wicked ways they could kill their time together.
"Bella,"he said slowly, "A man could go his whole life and not hear words like that from a woman like
you."
She pulled the knife from its sheath around her ankle and cut five even strips of medical tape. Eyeing the
blade, she mused, "Do you think I'll need to lance your wound?"
He coughed out a laugh. "Not with that."
Never missing a beat, she reached for the ointment. "Maybe while I'm fixing you up you'll tell me what's
really going on."
He owed her that much. "I said I would," he reminded, slipping out of his shirt. She watched him, making
him too aware of the fact he was shucking off his clothes in front of her, like it was the most natural thing
in the world. Not that he had a problem with nudity, because he didn't. He rather enjoyed it, actually.
Especially in the company of a beautiful woman. But the room was small and her eyes were big, and
other parts of his body wanted to feel her soft hands, as well. Not a good idea.
"Let's get this over with," he muttered.
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She picked up his T-shirt from the day before, dampened it with bottled water, and gently smoothed the
cloth over his shoulder. "Does that hurt?" she asked, leaning so close her hair teased his arms, the swell
of her breasts his back.
He winced. "I can handle it," he bit out.
"Let me know if it gets too bad."
"Why?" he asked. "Will you put me out of my misery then?"
If she picked up his innuendo, she gave no indication. "I'll be gentle." Putting her left hand at his waist,
she ran the cloth down his back. "Who was shooting at us?" she asked. "And why?"
Sandro closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Her cool hands played over his body like silk, and even
though his shoulder still stung, her touch came damn close to making him forget what had to be done.
"Have you heard of Viktor Zhukov?"
Her fingers skimmed the tender spot in the center of his back, where a bullet had slammed against body
armor, penetrating several layers. "He's a former general in the Soviet Red Army, right? Linked to the
senseless slaughter of innocents and executions of several U.S. counterintelligence agents?"
ISA agents. Fathers with families, men with whom Sandro had broken bread and laughed, for whom
he'd sworn vengeance. "Right."
Against his back, her hands stilled. "What does he have to do with me?"
Sandro opened his eyes, noting the lengthening shadows creeping across the room. "His son was
arrested by the U.S. government," he started to explain, then broke off abruptly.
"What?" Miranda asked.
"Shh." He listened carefully, focusing beyond the sound of their ragged breathing for the noise he'd heard
moments before.
"Sandro?"
He stood, reached for his briefcase. "Get in the bathroom."
Her eyes went dark. "What?"
"The bathroom," he mouthed, gesturing toward the small dark closet. "Now."
He saw the reluctance in her gaze, the return of the hated fear, but she didn't question him again, just
quietly moved to the small room.
Sandro crept toward the locked door. His heart hammered viciously in his chest. Adrenaline rushed.
He'd been careful, damn it. So damn careful. No one had followed him. He'd made sure of it.
But then he heard it again, the sound of a door opening. Only this time, he heard voices, as well. Muffled
and in Portuguese, but deadly and dangerous all the same.
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"You check upstairs," a man instructed. "I'll take the back. And remember, if you find them, Vellenti's
had his chance. Only the girl leaves here alive."
Chapter 4
«^»
Very few times in Miranda's life had she been afraid. Uneasy, yes. Exposed and trapped, definitely. Her
family's wealth and political prestige rendered simple luxuries most people took for granted, like privacy,
impossible. The media's fascination with the Carringtons ensured someone was always watching her
every move, breath, mistake. Her first kiss had been splashed on the front page of a tabloid. Her first
drink. Her first heartbreak.
A book had been written about her sister's brief, tragic life.
But none of those intrusions had frightened her. There'd been only frustration and a blade of
determination that nicked harder, deeper, with every invasion of her privacy. Her heart had bled, but
rarely had it hammered in fear.
Like it did now.
Adrenaline surged like the tide rushing in all at once. Her pulse raced. Her blood ran cold. Curling her
clammy fingers around the doorframe, she peered into the small room, her gaze riveted on Sandro.
Shirtless, he stood in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, completely still, completely at attention. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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