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of the country. But an unknown assailant had mowed down both plans and both men, leaving Sandro with an angry woman and one hell of a problem.
    Possession of Miranda Carrington didn't figure into any of his plans, not C, not D, not even Z. Possession of Miranda Carrington went against every strategy, every rule, in the International Security Alliance operations manual. And unless Sandro played his cards right, the ominously silent ambassador's daughter could not only ruin years worth of work, but get them both killed in the process. Again.
    This time for good.
    Staying alive demanded he find a way to unload his unwanted charge before anyone realized he had her. Her disappearance would be viewed as kidnapping, and the fallout would create an international fiasco. The United States government couldn't sanction his actions, nor could the ISA claim him, not when doing so would forfeit years of undercover operations.
    The low burn in his shoulder intensified, forcing Sandro to bite back a muttered curse. He had to maneuver out of this jam all by himself, just like he'd fallen into it. He'd long since learned the risk of putting his life into the hands of others. No way would he jeopardize the fate of an innocent woman.
    The term collateral damage turned his stomach.
    Frowning, he glanced at the woman walking beside him. He held her hand securely in his, but instinct warned touching Miranda Carrington required more than flesh to flesh contact. She held her chin high, shoulders back, those fascinating gypsy eyes focused on some point in the distance, as though being shot at and pursued through back alleys was an everyday occurrence.
    "Almost there," he said, unnerved by her silence. She hadn't uttered a word in over thirty minutes, but he could tell she was thinking as rapidly as they were walking. He could only imagine the questions racing through her, the uncertainty.
    He would get her inside, get her safe, then tell her what he could.
    Which wasn't much.
    "Almost where?" she asked, but didn't look at him.
    He, on the other hand, couldn't stop watching her, all that thick blond hair cascading around her face and over a shoulder bared by her loose-fitting crimson blouse, that lush mouth set in a mutinous line and those defiantly high cheekbones. He knew where he wanted to take her, all right.
    He knew where he wanted her to take him.
    He also knew he was flat out of his mind.
    Javier was right. Sandro had been living in the shadows far too long.
    But he felt the light now, the heat, and that was the problem. All because of one stupid kiss. A reckless, desperate measure to keep her from rousing suspicion in the local woman. An insane curiosity to see if her mouth would feel as welcoming as the long-ago tabloid picture had promised.
    A smart man would erase the encounter from his memory. A smart man would forget the feel of her lips, the soft little sigh that had escaped. He'd expected her to slam her fists against his chest and shove him away, to stomp down on his feet, to fight. But she'd barely resisted. It was as though he'd laid siege to her with a stun gun rather than his mouth. She hadn't been angry as he'd expected, as he deserved, but … frozen.
    The realization should have brought him great relief.
    It didn't.
    Stopping adjacent to a crumbling stone wall, he pointed toward an overgrown oleander, dotted by a showy display of bright pink flowers. "Just through here."
    She leaned closer. "Through where?"
    He pulled a tangled clump of honeysuckle aside, revealing a broken-out section of the wall. The sun beat mercilessly against his back, but in the forgotten world beyond the opening, shadows beckoned. He itched to step through to the other side, to the familiar, secretive world in which he thrived.
    "Through there," he said.
    Miranda pivoted toward him. In the space of a heartbeat the unflappable facade faded, replaced by a vulnerability he hadn't sensed before. Hadn't expected. Wariness glinted in the near-translucent green