too sensuous for a man of such hard lines and stark angles. "Just a picture."
And she had her answer. Along with it came the same cold fingers of exposure she'd come to Europe hoping to escape.
He'd seen the tabloids.
* * *
Darkness still covered the land, but soon the sun would nudge against the eastern sky, lighting the land and stealing their cover. Sandro watched Miranda sleeping, envied her that ability to drop off so completely that not even the constant drone of sirens disturbed her. When was the last time he'd slept through the night without the aid of whiskey? When was the last time he'd awoken with his heart rate steady, his body dry?
When was the last time he'd watched the rhythmic rise and fall of a woman's chest while she slept, listened to the soft little sound of her breathing?
He hated to wake her. Hated to disturb her. Sometime during the night the blanket had slipped down over her shoulder, riding low along her waist. She slept on her side, with one leg stretched out, the other crooked up at an angle. She looked peaceful, her newly brown hair spilling across the pillow. Even the shoulder length looked provocative. He was tempted to lift a hand, to touch, to smooth the strands back from her cheek.
He really was a son of a bitch.
They weren't here for a lover's tryst. They were here because his plan had backfired and her life lay on the line. They were here because the general wanted her every bit as badly as Sandro did.
But for very different reasons.
"Miranda," he whispered, putting a hand to her shoulder. The sleeve had fallen back, allowing his fingers to skim the small dragonfly. "Time to wake up."
She moaned softly, then shifted against the mattress as her eyes drifted open. They were heavy with sleep, unfocused, hazy like that mind-blowing moment when a man pushed inside a woman. A dreamy little smile curved her lips, as though waking in a strange bed with a strange man was a common occurrence for her.
Because the thought twisted his gut, he pushed it aside.
"Miranda?"
"Hmm." She stretched, sighed. "Sleepy."
"I know, bella, but it's almost sunrise. We've got to go."
The haze shattered immediately, and her eyes came fully open. No longer glazed, but alert. Sharp. Heartbreakingly courageous. "Go where?"
"North."
She pushed the hair from her face. "North?"
"It's never a good idea to stay in one place for long. Until I receive word on how we're getting you out of the country, we keep moving." He'd hoped that information would have come by now, had tried to call Javier during the night. Nothing.
"Hawaii?" Miranda asked sleepily.
"Afraid not," he answered with a smile, then realized she was staring at his shirt. An array of retro surfboards floated against a melon-green background. "We're traveling as tacky tourists, remember? I'm Fred. You're Ethel."
She pushed up against her elbow. "You hardly strike me as a Hawaiian-shirt kind of guy."
But he had been. Once. In another lifetime. They'd all been. He and Roger and Gus. They'd had a contest to see who could procure the loudest, tackiest, most outrageous Hawaiian shirt. Some sported hula girls, others grass-skirt-clad Elvis Presleys, one boasted flamingos, another showcased woodies. They'd worn them all the time, everywhere.
Even when they died.
And now Sandro had them all.
Because even in death, he'd managed to live.
"I'm full of surprises," he muttered, then stood and crossed the room. "Thirty minutes to sunrise," he said. "We need to be on the road before then."
* * *
The morning sun burned off the gray, bathing the land in shimmery strokes of yellow and peach. A heavy mist clung to the vegetation that tangled along the right side of the road, while off to the left, the Atlantic crashed mightily against ancient sea cliffs. No tourists yet, just an occasional bicyclist enjoying the last minutes of quiet before day seared away night.
They'd been driving for over an hour in the same car Sandro had used the night before. They'd
And she had her answer. Along with it came the same cold fingers of exposure she'd come to Europe hoping to escape.
He'd seen the tabloids.
* * *
Darkness still covered the land, but soon the sun would nudge against the eastern sky, lighting the land and stealing their cover. Sandro watched Miranda sleeping, envied her that ability to drop off so completely that not even the constant drone of sirens disturbed her. When was the last time he'd slept through the night without the aid of whiskey? When was the last time he'd awoken with his heart rate steady, his body dry?
When was the last time he'd watched the rhythmic rise and fall of a woman's chest while she slept, listened to the soft little sound of her breathing?
He hated to wake her. Hated to disturb her. Sometime during the night the blanket had slipped down over her shoulder, riding low along her waist. She slept on her side, with one leg stretched out, the other crooked up at an angle. She looked peaceful, her newly brown hair spilling across the pillow. Even the shoulder length looked provocative. He was tempted to lift a hand, to touch, to smooth the strands back from her cheek.
He really was a son of a bitch.
They weren't here for a lover's tryst. They were here because his plan had backfired and her life lay on the line. They were here because the general wanted her every bit as badly as Sandro did.
But for very different reasons.
"Miranda," he whispered, putting a hand to her shoulder. The sleeve had fallen back, allowing his fingers to skim the small dragonfly. "Time to wake up."
She moaned softly, then shifted against the mattress as her eyes drifted open. They were heavy with sleep, unfocused, hazy like that mind-blowing moment when a man pushed inside a woman. A dreamy little smile curved her lips, as though waking in a strange bed with a strange man was a common occurrence for her.
Because the thought twisted his gut, he pushed it aside.
"Miranda?"
"Hmm." She stretched, sighed. "Sleepy."
"I know, bella, but it's almost sunrise. We've got to go."
The haze shattered immediately, and her eyes came fully open. No longer glazed, but alert. Sharp. Heartbreakingly courageous. "Go where?"
"North."
She pushed the hair from her face. "North?"
"It's never a good idea to stay in one place for long. Until I receive word on how we're getting you out of the country, we keep moving." He'd hoped that information would have come by now, had tried to call Javier during the night. Nothing.
"Hawaii?" Miranda asked sleepily.
"Afraid not," he answered with a smile, then realized she was staring at his shirt. An array of retro surfboards floated against a melon-green background. "We're traveling as tacky tourists, remember? I'm Fred. You're Ethel."
She pushed up against her elbow. "You hardly strike me as a Hawaiian-shirt kind of guy."
But he had been. Once. In another lifetime. They'd all been. He and Roger and Gus. They'd had a contest to see who could procure the loudest, tackiest, most outrageous Hawaiian shirt. Some sported hula girls, others grass-skirt-clad Elvis Presleys, one boasted flamingos, another showcased woodies. They'd worn them all the time, everywhere.
Even when they died.
And now Sandro had them all.
Because even in death, he'd managed to live.
"I'm full of surprises," he muttered, then stood and crossed the room. "Thirty minutes to sunrise," he said. "We need to be on the road before then."
* * *
The morning sun burned off the gray, bathing the land in shimmery strokes of yellow and peach. A heavy mist clung to the vegetation that tangled along the right side of the road, while off to the left, the Atlantic crashed mightily against ancient sea cliffs. No tourists yet, just an occasional bicyclist enjoying the last minutes of quiet before day seared away night.
They'd been driving for over an hour in the same car Sandro had used the night before. They'd
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