Isabella Pisano had spent the past hour, trying to lose her bodyguards. How did she tell her father she knew how to take care of herself, and she didn’t need bodyguards to follow her around? What she needed was space away from the oppressiveness of the constant supervision she’d endured since her return to Venice.

Because her father was a very wealthy man, he felt compelled to keep his family safe from kidnappers. Isabella was a prime target for those who would dare to capture and use her in trade for a hefty ransom.

She missed the freedom she’d had over the past year away from Venice, away from her life as a debutante and spoiled little rich girl. Isabella craved the independence and purpose she’d gained in her year away from Venice.

Slipping free of her bodyguards hadn’t been too difficult in the crowded streets. With so many visitors in Venice for the annual Carnival celebration, she’d easily switched her bright red scarf for a pale blue one and tucked her hair beneath the folds.

Alone at last, she wandered the streets, remembering another time, two years ago when she’d slipped free of her father’s men in order to spend time with a man who had made her blood hum and her heart race. Two years ago, she’d made the mistake of letting a man into her heart and bed, knowing nothing could ever come of it. She had been on the verge of an entirely different path in her life. Having taken a female refugee into the Pisano household, she’d learned of the plight of women and children in Syria, and had vowed to make a difference.

She hadn’t had time to follow her lover, nor had he offered to take her with him. Had he offered, she knew she wouldn’t have left, until after she’d at least tried to do something to help.

When she’d gone to her father to discuss her desire to help the women and children of Syria, he’d forbidden her to go there, fearing for her life in the war-torn nation. He’d suggested she go to Africa and help the poor women and children there.

His suggestion had given her the idea of how she could leave Venice with her father’s permission and blessing.

While he’d been busy running his businesses, she’d left Venice on a mission to help all right. But not the poor children in Africa. Instead, she’d gone to help the women of Syria and Iraq who’d been raped, abused and killed for no other reason than they were women, and ISIS considered them lesser beings than sheep.

The injustice of their plight had pulled Isabella out of her sheltered life.

Meeting Ronin, the American Navy SEAL, and learning about all he’d gone through during his training, left her even more convinced she should do something. She was young and strong and could learn how to defend herself and others, much like Ronin had.

Their time together during Carnival was like a dream. Before Ronin, she hadn’t believed in love at first sight. But their meeting at her father’s masquerade ball had been nothing short of magical. He’d swept her off her feet with his dashing pirate costume and relentless pursuit of her hand in a dance.

Her decision to leave the ball with him had been spontaneous and reckless, but she’d never regretted it, not even for a moment. Her father’s bodyguards had taken the brunt of her father’s ire over her escape, but she couldn’t regret the time she’d spent with the American.

He’d taught her more about making love and following her dreams than she’d learned in all of her twenty-six years as Marcus Pisano’s daughter.

When he’d left her in the Piazza San Marco, she’d missed Ronin terribly and had thought about following him back to the States.

However, he hadn’t promised her forever with him, nor had he invited her to be with him in Virginia. Ronin had made it very clear he had an important job as a SEAL, and he took it seriously. He traveled the world in an attempt to end terrorism and help others regain control of their own countries.

Ronin’s dedication to his work, and the tales the Syrian refugee had imparted, helped Isabella come to the realization she couldn’t go on as the spoiled daughter of a multi-millionaire. She had to do something to help others.

From that moment forward, she’d immersed herself in the study of martial arts, not just mastering moves, but learning how to really defend herself against attack and how to take someone down who stood in the way of her goal. From Asaf, one of her father’s hired bodyguards, a former Israeli soldier and mercenary, she’d learned how to use an entire armory of weapons and how to construct explosive devices out of normal household items.

She’d completed her training and scheduled a yearlong trip to Africa to teach small children how to read and write. She’d sold the idea of the mission to her father on the understanding she’d be safe with Asaf and a contingent of bodyguards. And she’d promised to take along a female friend of hers from university.

From Venice, she’d flown to Uganda, spent a month there, teaching children and recording images she could send back to her father as proof she was still alive.

One starry night, she and Asaf had flown to Turkey and crossed the border into Syria. And thus, her mission began. Over the next year, she’d slipped into ISIS strongholds, freeing women and killing the men who’d horribly abused them.

On two occasions, she’d allowed herself to be captured in order to get inside and convince the girls and young women to escape with her.

The women she’d rescued called her their Angel of Mercy.

The men of ISIS learned of this Angel of Mercy and wanted her dead. So much so, they’d put a price on her head and threatened to kill anyone who harbored or aided her in her efforts to free the women.

Their threats hadn’t stopped Isabella. But when their threats turned to reality, and the women who’d aided and helped her along the way were tortured and killed in public as a deterrent to others, Isabella knew she had to leave. By staying in Syria, she put more people at risk than she was helping.

With Asaf’s help, she left the country in the dead of night, just like she’d entered. However, nothing ever went exactly according to plan.

The price on her head was too tempting. Spies lay in wait. They’d been ambushed. Since the price on her head was to deliver her alive, they’d no need to spare Asaf. He was killed outright.

Isabella returned fire, barely escaping with her own life. Under the cover of darkness, she’d traversed hostile territory on her own. Yes, she’d made it back to Italy. Yes, she’d found her way to her father’s house in Venice and resumed the life of the daughter of an Italian tycoon. But nothing was ever the same. She wasn’t the person she’d been when she’d left.

Her father never knew what she’d done. He’d never suspected she’d gone into enemy territory, rescued abducted women and killed ISIS murderers and rapists. All he’d learned upon her return, was that her bodyguard had died, and he needed to assign her a new one.

Isabella spent the first couple of weeks at home, her heart hurting from losing her best friend and mentor, Asaf. She hadn’t needed to go out. Servants brought her whatever she wanted.

But soon, the walls of her father’s mansion closed in around her. She longed to be out in the open. All the nights she’d slept under the stars, with no light noise to pollute the heavens, made her wish she could see past the lights of Venice.

When she couldn’t stand being inside anymore, she left the house and wandered the avenues, her bodyguards close beside her. Even the streets didn’t feel the same. Everywhere she turned were memories of the days she’d spent with a handsome Navy SEAL, before she’d set off on her personal journey to save the world.

She would have thought two years would have dulled the longing for the stranger who’d changed her forever.

She found herself standing in front of Hotel Eden, staring at the place she’d spent several fabulous days, discovering her own sexuality with a man who’d taught her more about lovemaking than she’d known existed.

Isabella found herself wishing she could see him again. If only for a moment. Perhaps that time in her life had been nothing more than an exaggerated product of her memories and imagination.

From Hotel Eden, she moved through the streets, ducking into alleys when the bodyguards weren’t paying attention. Soon, she’d lost them in the crowds of tourists already partying.

Her meandering led her to Piazza San Marco, where she’d last seen Ronin. As soon as she entered the square, she viewed the sea of humanity, wondering why she’d bothered to venture out during Carnival. People jostled her, laughing and probably drunk. It wasn’t as if she’d really believed she’d run into Ronin there. It was just memories that had led her to the square.

Ronin would be somewhere saving the world, one terrorist at a time.

Her chest tightened, and tears stung her eyes. Nothing was the same. She didn’t belong in Venice. Isabella wasn’t sure where she belonged. She didn’t even feel like she belonged in her own skin.

She turned to exit the piazza when she saw a tall, dark-haired man, wearing a tight black T-shirt that stretched across broad shoulders. His hair was cut short, military-style.

Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. Her feet carried her toward him. People crossed her path, blocking her way. She struggled to see the man in the black shirt, ducking around a woman in a bright, royal blue dress. Then she was there, and he was right in front of her, reaching for another woman and calling out, “Isabella.”

Isabella’s heart skipped several beats and then raced on.

The woman turned and smiled. She was old and gray-haired.

After two years, Isabella wasn’t the same woman Ronin had known, but she had to know if this man was him.

“Ronin?” she called out, her voice soft, breathy, as if she couldn’t quite force air from her lungs. As he turned, she held her breath.

Joy surged into her chest and filled her heart. It was Ronin—not a stranger, not a dream.

“Isabella,” he said and opened his arms.

She didn’t hesitate for a second, but fell into his arms.

Finally, she’d come home.

Ronin couldn’t believe his eyes, but the proof he held against his body convinced him he wasn’t living a dream. Isabella was pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I never thought I’d find you,” he whispered against her hair.

“I thought you were a dream,” she said.

He chuckled, a happiness so pure filling him to full and overflowing. Ronin lifted her into the air and swung her around. Then he set her on the ground and kissed her like there would be no tomorrow.

She returned the kiss with a ferocity he didn’t recognize. Isabella had lost weight, and her body was sinewy, her muscles tight.

When he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, she opened to him, meeting his tongue with a warm, wet caress. She tasted of mint and coffee.

Ronin lifted his head and drank in the sight of her.

She’d cut her long wavy hair to shoulder-length. Her face was leaner and there were two new scars. One near her mouth, the other across her cheekbone.

He thumbed the one by her mouth. “This is new.”

She laughed and ran her hand over his face. “And so are these.” Her eyebrows dipped, and she stepped back, running her gaze over him from head to toe. “Are you all right? Have you been in some pretty bad firefights?”

Ronin shrugged. He didn’t want to think about all that had happened in the past two years. “Nothing unusual.” He narrowed his eyes, studying her scars. “How did you get these scars?” He brushed the scarf back from her face, and it fell onto her shoulders.

“Nothing unusual,” she echoed. Isabella glanced away, fumbling with the light blue fabric, trying to pull it up over her head.

A man in a jester’s costume danced by, caught the end of her scarf and spun away.

Isabella gasped and grabbed for it.

Ronin yelled, “Hey!”

The jester flung the blue wisp of fabric into the air. A breeze caught it, and it drifted to the ground.

Isabella ducked her head, her hair falling over her face as she lunged for the ground.

Ronin dropped down to his haunches, reaching the garment first.

Over their heads a loud crack could be heard, followed by the sound of rapid-fire explosions.

Isabella flatted herself to the ground.

Ronin fell on top of her, shielding her body from attack.

Women screamed, and the crowd surged toward the exits.

People tripped and fell over them. Ronin knew they’d be trampled to death if they stayed on the ground. He hooked his arm around Isabella’s waist and scooped her off the ground.

She held onto the scarf and ran alongside him.

Ronin glanced around, searching for the best way out of the piazza. As he panned the area, his gaze landed on the jumbo-tron display screen. The screen was wrecked, with gaping holes ripped through its center.

Overhead, more bursts exploded, raining confetti down on the piazza.

People stopped running and laughed. Some raised their hands to the confetti and danced around.

Ronin realized some of the blasts were confetti being launched into the air. But confetti couldn’t have destroyed the jumbo-tron. Could it?

While others stopped running and resumed their celebration, Ronin hurried Isabella out of the piazza. If a confetti bomb could destroy a screen, he could only imagine what it could do if it hit a person.

Once out of the piazza, Isabella paused long enough to wrap the scarf over her hair and halfway across her face. Then she led the way through the streets.

Ronin followed, unsure of where she was taking him, but trusting that she knew where she was going. When they arrived in front of Hotel Eden, Ronin smiled. “You remembered.”

Isabella didn’t pause to respond. She glanced in both directions, and then dove for the door.

Once inside, she spoke in rapid Italian to the clerk at the small desk tucked into a corner. The young clerk shook his head. She spoke again, and the clerk raised his hands, palms up.

Isabella sighed. “They have no rooms available.”

Ronin’s lips twitched upward on the corners. “Let me try.” He turned to the clerk. “Prenotazione per Magnus.”

The clerk looked down at his computer screen, a frown pulling his eyebrows together. “Ronin Magnus?” He glanced up.

Ronin smiled. “Sì.”

Isabella’s lips twisted into a wry grin. “This is Carnival. Rooms are impossible to find. You had to have made that reservation months ago.”

He shrugged. “I did. I knew I’d be in Ireland for my brother’s wedding, so I scheduled more leave after the wedding and booked my hotel here in Venice.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

Before he could answer, the clerk handed him a key and gave him the room number.

The old hotel had no elevator, and his room was on the third floor. He led the way up the narrow, wooden staircase, knowing this structure wouldn’t pass building codes in the US. At the top of the stairs were three doors, none of which were the number on the key tag he held in his hand.

Having been there two years ago, Ronin knew to go through the middle door, which led into a hallway with three more doors and a floor-to-ceiling mirror at the end of the hallway.

Isabella chuckled behind him. “You got the same room?”

He nodded. “I asked for it, specifically.” Then he pushed the mirror, and it folded like an accordion, revealing yet three more doors. The last door on the right was his destination. He pressed the key into the lock.

Isabella covered his hand with hers. “Why did you come here?”

He turned to her, gripped her arms and stared down into her eyes. “I came to find you.”