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She did realize, that was the problem. If he hadn't been there, she could be with the horrible man who'd
killed Hawk or dead. But in not warning her about the threat or telling her about Sandro, her father had
left her equally vulnerable.
"What if you'd been shot somewhere besides your chest or back? What if I'd stabbed you? Then what
would have happened? Both my bodyguards would have been down, and because my father chose an
underhanded method of protecting me, I wouldn't have had a clue what was really going on."
Sandro lifted a hand to her face, his fingers skimming her cheekbone. "None of that happened. I have
you now, and everything's going to be okay."
There was an unmistakable gentleness to his touch, a persuasiveness that sent an unwanted rush through
her. "Why didn't he warn me? Why didn't he tell me about you?"
"Everything happened too fast. There wasn't time for warnings."
"He should have found a way!"
"Bella, bella, bella,"he said, his voice like velvet. "Are you always so tough? Do you always malign those
trying to help you? Protect you?"
The softly spoken questions hit with unerring accuracy. "You don't know what you're talking about," she
said, ripping away from his touch. She needed to think, but couldn't gather her thoughts when he stood
so close she felt his every breath, his every heartbeat.
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"Don't you have something more important to do than psychoanalyze me?" she asked with a sharpness
he didn't deserve. "Like report back to my father?"
His expression darkened. "Actually," he said, glancing at the nasty wound on his shoulder, "I do."
Regret hit hard and fast. This man had been shot because of her, was bleeding. This man had put his
body between her and a bullet. And here she stood, berating him because he willingly followed the
orders she'd grown to despise.
"I'm sorry," she said, appalled at her thoughtlessness. But when she started toward him, he lifted a hand
to stop her.
"Don't,bella. I can take care of this myself."
"But I can help you."
"That's not necessary."
She didn't know what she heard in his voice, bitterness or resolve, maybe regret, but she recognized the
look in his eyes, that hard, cold look of a man who didn't allow others to interfere with his code of
conduct.
"You've been shot," she said.
"It's only a flesh wound." He turned from her then, reached for the body armor. "Bullet barely grazed
me."
"What are you doing?"
He fastened the vest around his upper body and retrieved his black shirt, wincing as he slid the wrinkled
cotton over his injured shoulder. "This is wrong,bella. This isn't how things were supposed to go down."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're not supposed to be with me," he growled, and almost sounded pained. "There are things you
don't understand. Things I need to find out. What went down back there was a mistake. You're right. I
was the backup. I wasn't supposed to end up with you. Hawk was. Now I've got to figure out what went
wrong and what happens next."
She watched him fight with little black buttons far too small for his fingers. "Why can't we just go to the
embassy?"
"Too risky," he answered without hesitation. "Too public."
"What if someone sees us?" she asked, glancing toward the window. Not much light made it through the
grime and the overgrown foliage surrounding the villa, but beyond this secluded world, the sun shone
brightly.
"No one will see us," he said.
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"How can you be so sure?"
"Becausewe won't be anywhere. You'll be here, and I'll be doing what I do best."
Miranda just stared at him. "You're leaving me?"
He strode toward the small window and peered outside. "You'll be safer here than out there with me."
She hugged her arms around her middle, not wanting to be left alone, but unaccustomed to asking one of
her father's men for anything. "What if you don't come back?"
"That's not going to happen."
But whatifitdoes?she wanted to ask, but the words jammed in her throat. He was hiding something, she
realized with cold certainty. Holding something back. It was there in his eyes, an edgy, unsettled look,
like he wasn't quite sure what he'd find when he turned the corner.
"What aren't you telling me?"
He picked up his briefcase. "Nothing you need to worry about."
"Nothing I need to worry about?" She crossed to him and took hold of his forearm. "A man shoots at
me and my bodyguard goes down, then I'm dragged through alleys to some abandoned old house and
led through a secret passageway to a room that looks more like a jail cell and you tell me not to worry
about it?"
His lips twitched. "You do have a way with words,bella." He glanced at the black-banded watch
around his wrist. "Give me an hour, two tops. When I get back, I'll tell you everything you want to know.
Until then, I need you to try and relax."
"Sandro "
He took her hand and led her to the door. "Here," he said, pressing a metal object into her hand. "This
lock works both ways. When you hear me turn it from the other side, I want you to do the same."
She looked at the small silver key in her palm. He was trusting her, she realized. He was giving her a
small measure of freedom, of respect, just like when he'd given her back her grandfather's knife.
Beware of strangers bearing gifts, she'd always heard.
"How do you know I'll let you back in when you return?" she asked softly.
"I don't."
Surprised, she looked up, just in time to be blinded by his smile.
"I'll have food, clean blankets, and flashlights," he said matter-of-factly. "If you'd prefer to spend the
night hungry, cold and in the dark, that's your decision." He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled
out a small black device, which he pressed into her palm, as well. "If anything happens, if you hear
anything, if you get frightened for any reason, push this button, and I'll be back before you can catch your
breath."
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Her throat tightened. God help her, she wanted to believe him. "When I'm scared, I breathe pretty fast,"
she said with a small smile.
His expression gentled. "There's no need to be scared." Reaching down to the bottom of his pant leg, he
came back up with a sleek black semiautomatic. "Do you know how to shoot a gun?"
He had no way of knowing how many memories a simple question could unearth, memories that tumbled
hard and fast, of long afternoons spent at the shooting range, determined to prove to her father that she
could take care of herself.
He'd been furious when a tabloid photographer had found her instead, splashing her photo over the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]