Tempted by His Target. Jill Sorenson

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      She flattened her back against the wall, her heart thumping in her chest. She’d mistaken his level of inebriation and made a serious error in judgment. Her knife glinted on the cobblestones, out of reach.

      He followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to rob me?”

      “No,” she said, moistening her lips.

      “I have ten dollars in my wallet. Do you want it?”

      “No! I saw you come out of the cantina and I was trying to catch up with you.”

      “Why?”

      She swallowed hard. “I’d like to offer my services as a tour guide. I know all of the best surf spots.”

      He crossed his arms over his chest, deliberating. “How much?”

      “Fifty a day, U.S.”

      “What does that include?”

      She thought fast. “I’ll take you to a choice location, spot you for a few hours of surfing and bring lunch.”

      “You’ll drive?”

      “Sure. My Jeep has a surf rack.”

      “Okay,” he said, nodding. It was a much better deal than he’d get from EcoTours. They made arrangements for her to pick him up at his hotel in the morning, and shook hands. Isabel felt the same zing of pleasure as she had the first time he’d touched her.

      He released her hand slowly, a crease forming between his brows. “I don’t pay women for sex.”

      She recoiled in horror. “Of course not.”

      “I just wanted to make sure that wasn’t on the table,” he said, raising both palms. “Don’t attack me again.”

      Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “Sorry about that. Gut reaction.”

      He studied her for a moment, as if wondering who or what had made her so cautious. Instead of asking, he minded his own business. “Can I walk you home?”

      “No thanks. I have another stop to make.”

      “See you tomorrow then.”

      “Tomorrow.”

      She reached down to retrieve her knife, watching him walk away. When he was out of sight, she sheathed the blade, hurrying down the alley. As she rounded the corner, she almost collided with a stocky man in a fedora.

      There was an odd moment, not unlike the one she’d just had with Brandon, in which Isabel experienced a jolt of awareness. She looked into this man’s cold, dark eyes and knew: it wasn’t Brandon who’d been following her.

      Before she could react to that certainty, the stranger reached out to grab her upper arm. He also flipped back the tails of his shirt, revealing a handgun tucked in his waistband. He was in his fifties, about Carranza’s age, but hardly soft. “Come with me,” he said in a low voice, his lips curled into a tight grimace.

      Isabel was already primed for action, and she’d trained for this occasion. She lashed out, striking his forearm in a brutal chop. His grip loosened, but he backhanded her across the face, trying to subdue her.

      The tactic worked. Pain exploded in her left cheek, hot and bright. Knocked off balance, she spun around and almost fell to her knees. When he grabbed her by the hair, she cried out, certain he was going to execute her. Panicking, she drew her knife and stabbed backward, using the same motion as an elbow jab.

      The blade found its target, sliding to the hilt in a sickening plunge. Blood spurted over her hand and the man let out a hoarse cry, releasing her hair. She lunged forward, taking the knife with her, and turned to evaluate the damage.

      “Puta,” he spat, holding his side. As blood seeped between his fingers, shock blanched his weathered countenance.

      Isabel’s heart dropped. The wound appeared life-threatening.

      Using his other hand, the man reached for his gun. She could only stare, her mind blank with terror as he leveled the barrel at her.

       Chapter 3

      Brandon knew Isabel had been following him. He’d caught a glimpse of her at the café, and another after he left the bar.

      As soon as they parted ways, he doubled back, returning the favor.

      He doubted she really wanted to be his surf guide, although that was the outcome he’d been fishing for. His mission was to get her out of the country without using brute force. Tomorrow he planned to drop a few hints about continuing the tour in Guatemala and hope she took the bait. Very few surfers visited that section of the Pacific Coast. It was a tempting location for a fugitive, and a freelance sports writer.

      If she’d meant to rob him, she was even crazier than he’d figured. It was more likely that she found him suspicious and decided to do some recon. Either way, he’d have to be careful. She was prickly and distrustful and quick to draw her dagger.

      He paused at the corner, listening for her footsteps. His eyes widened as he heard the sounds of another scuffle. Damn! Did she accost every man in her path? A sharp slap, followed by a muted female cry, spurred him into action. He sprinted down the alley, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

      Isabel was standing across from a stocky man, squared up like an afternoon showdown. Her face was marred by a handprint. His side was red with blood. When the man pulled a. 38 from his waistband, Brandon’s world came to a grinding halt.

      He didn’t have time to think, or shout a warning, or second-guess his actions. He just reacted, launching himself at the guy full force and tackling him to the ground. The man’s gun discharged in an earsplitting blast, and the bullet ricocheted through the alleyway, sending shards of brick flying in the air.

      Weakened by the stab wound, the man beneath him didn’t put up much of a fight. Brandon gripped his opponent’s wrist and applied a crushing pressure, bashing his knuckles against the cobblestones. Grimacing in pain, the man released the weapon. Blood spread from his side, soaking his white shirt.

      Panting from exertion, Brandon looked up at Isabel. She held her trusty dagger at an angle, letting the blade drip dry. Her eyes were dark with horror, her cheek ruddy from the blow. “Get help,” he ordered.

      She touched the mark on her face, glancing around warily. The police would arrive at any second, drawn by the sound of gunshot.

      “Get help, now!”

      She sheathed her knife, backing away.

      Goddamn it. Brandon assumed that the injured man was a cartel member, and a cold-blooded killer, but he couldn’t let a stranger bleed out. “Ayudame!” he shouted down the alley. “Policia!”

      She took off at a dead run.

      The man underneath him lost consciousness, his head listing to the side. Brandon did his best to staunch the blood flow, cursing fluently as he put pressure on the СКАЧАТЬ