Read Online THE PERFECT TARGET by Jenna Mills - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jenna Mills
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alone had allowed her imagination to kick into high gear.
"Sweetheart, I appreciate your caution, but you need to know something about me. I'm a trained professional. I'd die before I'd let someone follow me back here. Now open up."
Nothing. Sandro put his hand to the door, wondering if he'd made a serious mistake by trusting her. But he'd had no choice. Giving trust was the best way to receive it in return.
More than anything, he needed her trust.
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 ignore her, 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. "Take offyour 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.
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
"Sweetheart, I appreciate your caution, but you need to know something about me. I'm a trained professional. I'd die before I'd let someone follow me back here. Now open up."
Nothing. Sandro put his hand to the door, wondering if he'd made a serious mistake by trusting her. But he'd had no choice. Giving trust was the best way to receive it in return.
More than anything, he needed her trust.
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 ignore her, 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. "Take offyour 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.
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
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