Free THE PERFECT TARGET by Jenna Mills Page A

His heart beat slowly, calmly. Strongly. If she closed her eyes—
    No. She wouldn't close her eyes, not to this man. He operated too efficiently in the shadows. In the darkness, he'd be lethal.
    "Then how do you know?" she asked, struggling against his arms.
    Surprisingly, he let her go. At least his arms did. With his gaze, he continued to hold her just as fiercely. "I went to school with the grandson of the last man to live here, die here. He told me."
    She swallowed hard, tried to think. "He could have told someone else, then. He could have told those men."
    He released her fully, the shadows of the room filling his eyes, as well. "Not unless they summoned him through a séance."
    Miranda staggered back. The room was too small to put distance between her and Sandro, but as she looked at him standing there, inches might as well have been miles. Years. His dark eyes were bleak, lost, for the first time since she'd met him, not full of command or confidence, but sorrow and pain.
    "I'm sorry," she whispered, and was.
    "Me, too." Like a macabre slide show, he closed his eyes, opening them a moment later to reveal the agony completely gone, replaced by a ferocity that jolted through her like lightning.
    Questions surfaced—what had happened to his friend? Had Sandro been there? Had he been hurt as well? Is that how he got the nasty scar across his throat? But instinct warned not to veer too deeply into his personal life. Instinct warned he'd retreat further, and for some crazy reason, she didn't want him pulling back from her, not now. Because of the threat, she told herself. Because as much as she craved freedom, she wasn't foolish or naive. She knew she couldn't hold her own against criminals armed with hatred and submachine guns. Whether she liked it or not, for the time being, she needed this man sent to protect her, whether he was one of her father's yes-men, or not.
    She also needed answers.
    "Why do they want me?" she asked, returning to the conversation they'd begun before the noise downstairs had sent her into the bathroom and transformed Sandro back into a commando. "What do I have to do with anything?"
    "You, bella," he said without hesitation, "are the bargaining chip."
    "The bargaining chip?"
    He moved from the window, deeper into the shadows. Very little of the sun remained, only a few meager rays seeping through years of neglect and decline.
    "Jorak Zhukov was arrested in the United States a few days ago," he told her, returning his semiautomatic to the attaché case. "His father, General Viktor Zhukov, wants him back, but knows there's no way in hell that's going to happen. Not unless he has something the United States wants more than they want him."
    A chill cut through Miranda. She heard what he didn't say, understood what he'd left unsaid.
    "I'm not that important," she protested.
    Sandro looked up abruptly. "To your father, you are."
    The words wove dangerously close to her heart, but rather than comforting like an embrace, they stung like the yellow jacket she'd kneeled on when she was eight years old. The insect had stung and stung, and she'd cried. And cried.
    Her father had told her she needed to be more careful. If she didn't respect boundaries, she'd always end up hurt.
    "There are those who believe nothing is stronger than a parent's love for their children," Sandro went on, having no way of knowing how badly his words scraped, or how bitterly her throat burned. "This is personal for Viktor," he said. "By making it personal to the ambassador to Ravakia, as well, he hopes to put himself in a stronger position. Your father is an influential man. Your grandfather was legendary. Your family is much loved." He stood, moved toward her. "All in all, it's a pretty smart move. You're the perfect target. A child for a child."
    The thought chilled her. The Carringtons had already lost a child. She didn't think her father could survive burying another.
    Sandro closed the distance between them with three long