This man who had not shown one ounce of fear or worry during gunfight, or flight, or the impending discovery of their hiding spot, had shown true panic at the prospect of taking scissors to her hair.
Her chest tightened at the memory.
She didn't want to consider why.
Nor did she want to consider why she'd felt so … antsy while she showered. Maybe because she knew Sandro was just a heartbeat away and the door didn't lock. Maybe because the shampoo and soap she smoothed over her body had been purchased by him. For her. Or maybe, just maybe, because when she closed her eyes, she could see him as vividly as though he'd joined her in the shower, could imagine the hands running over her body were not her own, but rather those strong, capable hands that had been unable to cut her hair.
Danger, she thought again. Dangerous.
He still hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. He just watched her, the light from across the street slashing in, momentarily rescuing him from the shadows, then returning him with brutal speed and precision. As the day had worn on, the whiskers covering his jaw had thickened, darkened, to the point now where they looked soft, rather than hard. Tempting, rather than menacing.
Something deep inside her started to tremble. "Sandro?" she said, looking from his eyes to the gun. Her heart started to pound. "Has something happened?"
He followed the direction of her gaze, abruptly lowered his weapon. "Just a precaution."
"Oh. Good." Again, she shivered. "Is there any way to heat things up?" she asked. "I mean, it's okay if we can't, I'm not complaining, but I just thought I'd ask."
"You mean the heater," he said.
"Yes. What else?" she asked, then her imagination took over.
He abandoned his post at the window and crossed to the rinky-looking unit. He moved with surprising grace for such a big man, not making a sound, barely disturbing air currents.
"This should help," he muttered, then fiddled with a knob. "You might want to try some socks, too."
She looked down at her bare feet. Little remained of the glitter polish she'd run across her nails the week before. "Good idea."
"I fixed up the bed for you," he said as she sat on the mattress and pulled on a pair of plain white socks. "It's not much, but at least it's clean."
"Thanks," she said, looking up with a smile of gratitude. But the hard look on his face warned he wanted no gratitude from her. He wanted nothing.
Silence then, broken only by the soccer match blaring from the black-and-white TV. Goallll!
Sandro dragged a chair to the door, and for some crazy reason Miranda felt even colder than before. Soon they would turn out the lights and she would crawl between the blankets he'd purchased so she didn't have to sleep on dirty sheets.
But before then, there was something she had to know.
"Sandro?" she asked, leaning forward to remove the towel from her hair. Then she worked at combing out the newly shoulder-length, cinnamon-brown locks.
Across the room, Sandro inspected the lock on the door for the umpteenth time. "Yeah?"
"How did you know about my tattoo?" The question spilled out in one breathless rush.
He stilled. Straightened. Turned to face her. "The tattoo?"
She nodded, forced a nonchalant smile. The tattoo wasn't a secret, had caused quite a scandal in her family. Her father had been furious, her mother distraught. Why, her mother said, didn't Miranda realize she'd never be able to wear a sleeveless gown without the whole world seeing the small dragonfly?
But she wasn't talking about the whole world here. She was talking about Sandro, a man she'd never met, never heard of. A man who knew something very personal.
"It doesn't matter," he said brusquely.
"It does to me." More than it should.
He resumed fiddling with the door. "I saw it in a picture," he said noncommittally.
"What picture?"
Again he stilled, again he glanced at her. But this time he lifted his fingers to his mouth, drawing her attention to the stubble on his jaw, those lips far
Her chest tightened at the memory.
She didn't want to consider why.
Nor did she want to consider why she'd felt so … antsy while she showered. Maybe because she knew Sandro was just a heartbeat away and the door didn't lock. Maybe because the shampoo and soap she smoothed over her body had been purchased by him. For her. Or maybe, just maybe, because when she closed her eyes, she could see him as vividly as though he'd joined her in the shower, could imagine the hands running over her body were not her own, but rather those strong, capable hands that had been unable to cut her hair.
Danger, she thought again. Dangerous.
He still hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. He just watched her, the light from across the street slashing in, momentarily rescuing him from the shadows, then returning him with brutal speed and precision. As the day had worn on, the whiskers covering his jaw had thickened, darkened, to the point now where they looked soft, rather than hard. Tempting, rather than menacing.
Something deep inside her started to tremble. "Sandro?" she said, looking from his eyes to the gun. Her heart started to pound. "Has something happened?"
He followed the direction of her gaze, abruptly lowered his weapon. "Just a precaution."
"Oh. Good." Again, she shivered. "Is there any way to heat things up?" she asked. "I mean, it's okay if we can't, I'm not complaining, but I just thought I'd ask."
"You mean the heater," he said.
"Yes. What else?" she asked, then her imagination took over.
He abandoned his post at the window and crossed to the rinky-looking unit. He moved with surprising grace for such a big man, not making a sound, barely disturbing air currents.
"This should help," he muttered, then fiddled with a knob. "You might want to try some socks, too."
She looked down at her bare feet. Little remained of the glitter polish she'd run across her nails the week before. "Good idea."
"I fixed up the bed for you," he said as she sat on the mattress and pulled on a pair of plain white socks. "It's not much, but at least it's clean."
"Thanks," she said, looking up with a smile of gratitude. But the hard look on his face warned he wanted no gratitude from her. He wanted nothing.
Silence then, broken only by the soccer match blaring from the black-and-white TV. Goallll!
Sandro dragged a chair to the door, and for some crazy reason Miranda felt even colder than before. Soon they would turn out the lights and she would crawl between the blankets he'd purchased so she didn't have to sleep on dirty sheets.
But before then, there was something she had to know.
"Sandro?" she asked, leaning forward to remove the towel from her hair. Then she worked at combing out the newly shoulder-length, cinnamon-brown locks.
Across the room, Sandro inspected the lock on the door for the umpteenth time. "Yeah?"
"How did you know about my tattoo?" The question spilled out in one breathless rush.
He stilled. Straightened. Turned to face her. "The tattoo?"
She nodded, forced a nonchalant smile. The tattoo wasn't a secret, had caused quite a scandal in her family. Her father had been furious, her mother distraught. Why, her mother said, didn't Miranda realize she'd never be able to wear a sleeveless gown without the whole world seeing the small dragonfly?
But she wasn't talking about the whole world here. She was talking about Sandro, a man she'd never met, never heard of. A man who knew something very personal.
"It doesn't matter," he said brusquely.
"It does to me." More than it should.
He resumed fiddling with the door. "I saw it in a picture," he said noncommittally.
"What picture?"
Again he stilled, again he glanced at her. But this time he lifted his fingers to his mouth, drawing her attention to the stubble on his jaw, those lips far
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