hugged the shoreline, rather than taking one of the major roads, and gradually they'd left behind the sprawl of resort communities, hotels and restaurants, even a casino. Now as Miranda looked from side to side, she saw nothing but the wild beauty of land untamed.
"Are you okay?"
The question pierced the silence and had her glancing toward Sandro. He looked deceptively casual sitting there in the loud Hawaiian shirt, one hand draped over the wheel, the other in his lap, but the hard look in his eyes gave away his alertness. As did the gun resting between them.
"I'm fine," she said. "'Why?"
He glanced at her. "You look a little … green."
She forced a smile, pressed a hand to her mouth. She hadn't realized her discomfort had been obvious. "Curvy roads always get me."
"Do you need me to pull over?"
She heard what he didn't ask. "I'm not going to be sick, no."
"Would fresh air help you feel better?"
She didn't understand his sudden concern. Since leaving Lisbon behind, he hadn't spoken, hadn't looked at her. A tension had settled between them, one she didn't understand. It was as though something had changed while she slept.
"Is it safe?"
He checked the rearview mirror. "I haven't seen another car in over half an hour. A brief stop shouldn't hurt."
She swallowed against the nausea. "That would be nice, then. Thanks."
He veered left and pulled the car onto the rocky area leading down to the ocean, easing to a stop behind a clump of overgrown oleander. He killed the engine then reached into the back seat, came back with a bottle of water. "This might help."
After he unscrewed the cap, she took the bottle from his battered hands and put it to her mouth. The liquid felt cool sliding down her throat, refreshing. "Thanks."
"You should have told me you get car sick. I could have taken another route." He looked toward the west, where huge swells gathered and crashed against the shore. "There's less traffic on this road—I thought you might like the view better."
An unfamiliar warmth flowed through her. "The road less traveled," she murmured.
Sandro turned toward her. "What?"
"'Two roads diverged in a wood,'" she said with a smile, "'and I took the one less traveled by.'"
"'And that has made all the difference,'" he surprised her by concluding.
She looked at him sitting there, eyes intent, jaw unshaven. He was in commando mode again, but the words of a poet fell from his mouth. She remembered thinking the same thing the day before, that though his dark hair and unshaven face lent him a look of danger, he had the mouth of a poet.
"Can we get out?"
He checked the phone clipped to his belt, then reached for his gun and curled his fingers around the butt. "For a few minutes."
A blast of cool ocean air hit her the second she opened the door. The wind was sharp, damp, chilling, and instantly she shivered. But it was better than being in that cramped front seat that seemed to shrink with each breath she drew.
Sandro came up beside her and put a hand to the small of her back, guided her away from the road, toward an outcropping overlooking the ocean. They made their way down a rocky path until they stood out of view from the road. Waves crashed below, relentless. Beautiful. The spray shot up like a mist to tease them, driving home that this was real and not some bizarre dream.
Miranda pulled in a deep breath, felt the cool air spread through her. Behind them the sun climbed the sky, leaving a blue so vivid, so sharp, Miranda longed to run back to the car and grab her camera, snap a picture. A photographer's sky, she called it, the kind of stunning backdrop that lent pictures a crispness rarely found.
They stood in silence, the only sound that of the waves battering the sea cliff, a few gulls dipping and diving for breakfast. Hard to believe just the day before she'd been running for her life.
"How long have you worked for my father?" she asked, glancing up at Sandro.
The sharp wind ruffled hair that looked a few
"Are you okay?"
The question pierced the silence and had her glancing toward Sandro. He looked deceptively casual sitting there in the loud Hawaiian shirt, one hand draped over the wheel, the other in his lap, but the hard look in his eyes gave away his alertness. As did the gun resting between them.
"I'm fine," she said. "'Why?"
He glanced at her. "You look a little … green."
She forced a smile, pressed a hand to her mouth. She hadn't realized her discomfort had been obvious. "Curvy roads always get me."
"Do you need me to pull over?"
She heard what he didn't ask. "I'm not going to be sick, no."
"Would fresh air help you feel better?"
She didn't understand his sudden concern. Since leaving Lisbon behind, he hadn't spoken, hadn't looked at her. A tension had settled between them, one she didn't understand. It was as though something had changed while she slept.
"Is it safe?"
He checked the rearview mirror. "I haven't seen another car in over half an hour. A brief stop shouldn't hurt."
She swallowed against the nausea. "That would be nice, then. Thanks."
He veered left and pulled the car onto the rocky area leading down to the ocean, easing to a stop behind a clump of overgrown oleander. He killed the engine then reached into the back seat, came back with a bottle of water. "This might help."
After he unscrewed the cap, she took the bottle from his battered hands and put it to her mouth. The liquid felt cool sliding down her throat, refreshing. "Thanks."
"You should have told me you get car sick. I could have taken another route." He looked toward the west, where huge swells gathered and crashed against the shore. "There's less traffic on this road—I thought you might like the view better."
An unfamiliar warmth flowed through her. "The road less traveled," she murmured.
Sandro turned toward her. "What?"
"'Two roads diverged in a wood,'" she said with a smile, "'and I took the one less traveled by.'"
"'And that has made all the difference,'" he surprised her by concluding.
She looked at him sitting there, eyes intent, jaw unshaven. He was in commando mode again, but the words of a poet fell from his mouth. She remembered thinking the same thing the day before, that though his dark hair and unshaven face lent him a look of danger, he had the mouth of a poet.
"Can we get out?"
He checked the phone clipped to his belt, then reached for his gun and curled his fingers around the butt. "For a few minutes."
A blast of cool ocean air hit her the second she opened the door. The wind was sharp, damp, chilling, and instantly she shivered. But it was better than being in that cramped front seat that seemed to shrink with each breath she drew.
Sandro came up beside her and put a hand to the small of her back, guided her away from the road, toward an outcropping overlooking the ocean. They made their way down a rocky path until they stood out of view from the road. Waves crashed below, relentless. Beautiful. The spray shot up like a mist to tease them, driving home that this was real and not some bizarre dream.
Miranda pulled in a deep breath, felt the cool air spread through her. Behind them the sun climbed the sky, leaving a blue so vivid, so sharp, Miranda longed to run back to the car and grab her camera, snap a picture. A photographer's sky, she called it, the kind of stunning backdrop that lent pictures a crispness rarely found.
They stood in silence, the only sound that of the waves battering the sea cliff, a few gulls dipping and diving for breakfast. Hard to believe just the day before she'd been running for her life.
"How long have you worked for my father?" she asked, glancing up at Sandro.
The sharp wind ruffled hair that looked a few
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