The Makeover Mission (19 page)

"I don't understand any of this."

"It's a picnic." He gave her what might have been a
teasing look. Except he didn't tease. He dictated, ordered, arranged, but he
never teased. Or at least not with her. "It's nothing fancy, but it'll
keep you from starving."

"But when? Why? How?"

He stopped unpacking long enough to look at her, his eyes as
unfathomable as the distant water. "You needed to get away for a bit. This
was the quickest way to give you a break. One of my men grabbed food while I
arranged for the car."

Of course, she thought, hurt already overshadowing her earlier
pleasure. He wasn't doing this for her. He was doing this as the quickest,
easiest solution to a glitch in his mission. This was not an intimate getaway
to what had to be one of the most beautiful spots she'd ever seen in her entire
life. This was the most expedient way to soothe the bait's frazzled nerves.
When would she stop thinking like a naive ninny and grow up?

His gaze remained steady on hers for a few more seconds before he
finished his unpacking and settled beside her.

"You went quiet on me."

She had no answer to that. Not when it was the truth. Not when he
sat so close his arm brushed against hers every time he leaned across the
cloth.

"You all right?" He actually sounded concerned, she
thought, finding the lump back in her throat.

"Yes. Of course I am."

It was a lie, but he didn't have to know everything.

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

He must have heard what he needed to hear, because he smiled then.
Right before he leaned forward and covered her lips with his.

Chapter 8

«
^
»

S
he told herself it was because he
took her by surprise, because it had been a wild day, because it was senseless
to fight. Whatever the reason, after a second or two she did not pull back but
leaned in, ignored common sense telling her to be wary and gave herself up to
the sensations bombarding her.

He tasted as she'd known he would. Dark, dangerous, exotic. His
lips were firm beneath hers, coaxing, but only a little, as she needed no slow
seduction. Instead her hands slipped up the smooth cotton of his shirt and
tangled into the thickness of his hair before she knew she'd moved.

His tongue touched her lips and she parted them. Wanting to taste
more, needing to taste more. His left hand cupped her head, fingers splayed
through her hair, tilting the angle of her head to devour more. It was as if he
possessed and begged at the same time.

She wanted to feel him touch her, feel the strength of his fingers
across her skin, know the surety of his holding her close—embracing,
protecting, giving as well as demanding.

She'd been kissed before but never like this. Oh, no, never like
this. It was an awakening: hard, fast and desperate. There was no gentleness,
though she could have sworn that's what she wanted. There was no tenderness
though she knew he was capable of it. This was raw, barely leashed need and she
couldn't get enough.

Her. Plain, ordinary, everyday Jane was being claimed, branded and
devoured, and he was doing nothing more than kissing her. But maybe she could
change that.

She heard a deep moan, his, she thought, and leaned deeper into
the kiss. It was heady. Exhilarating. Frightening. And she wanted it to
continue forever.

Lucius knew he'd crossed the line in that split second of time
between thought and desire. But never in his wildest dreams had he expected
what he found. When had sin tasted so sweet? He felt her tremble, savored the
stroke of her hands along his scalp, the play of her tongue meeting and
matching the quest of his. And he was lost.

He couldn't get enough of her, didn't want to stop the spontaneous
combustion shredding his control second by second. His fingers danced in the
silk of her hair and he knew the movement was branded onto his soul. She
uttered a small, exquisite sigh as he deepened the kiss and he felt emotions
churning within him he'd never known he possessed.

This was a woman who could make him forget. A dangerous woman.
This was madness. It was career suicide. It was nirvana.

The strident cry of a wild hawk broke through to him, its
predator's call like a jagged edge of lightning against his senses. He pulled
back, aware of the flushed face of the woman before him, the kiss-swollen lips
tempting, the dazed expression in her eyes, fluttering open, telling him loud
and clear there'd be no resistance to finishing what they'd started. And that
alone kept him from taking what his system demanded.

She was vulnerable, today more than ever, and there was no way
he'd betray that. No matter what the cost to him.

"What?" She posed it as a question though he knew she
was as stunned by what just happened as he was.

He pulled back, physically placing some distance between then as
if that was going to help douse the fire still roaring through his veins.

"It's time to eat something." He was pleased his voice
sounded calm, nothing like the tempest keeping his pulse high, his heartbeat
matching it. "You skipped breakfast so you'd better get something in your
stomach."

He turned away from the stunned hurt in her gaze, knowing he
should apologize even while he battled with the urge to repeat the last moments
all over again, and take them further. How in the hell did he get himself into
this mess? What had happened to his legendary control? His priorities?

He felt the seconds ticking past, long, slow, agonizing whacks of
time, the only thing he could give her right then to gather herself together.
It wasn't much, but then he hadn't given her anything else except fear,
confusion and terror thus far.

"Is this another part of your plan to soothe the bait?"
He heard the bitter-edged anger in her voice. Better that than unrealistic
expectations, he told himself. Much better.

"Eat." He tore off a chunk of bread, handing it to her
without looking.

"So you're not going to answer?"

"If you want me to tell you I'm sorry, I will." He bit
his own bread, wondering if he'd choke on it.

"You've been relatively honest so far. No need to start lying
now."

She nailed that one,
he thought, not
pleased with the realization.

"Tarkioff mentioned you were not above using seduction as a
tool, but I thought he was exaggerating."

He glanced at her then, glad to see color in her cheeks that was
not arousal. It meant she was fighting back. She had to fight back to survive
the next two weeks, but it didn't mean he liked being the target.

"I wouldn't trust everything Tarkioff says."

"You don't care for him, do you?"

He wondered if she meant it as a statement or a question.
"Most people hear the word
royal
and assume the pomp, the
pageantry, means greater than real-life people."

"And you don't."

"I know being born to a title doesn't mean you deserve that
title."

She flinched at the hardness of his tone. A hardness he hadn't
realized escaped until it was too late.

"You don't like Tarkioff?"

"No." The least he could give her was honesty.
"He's the man I must work with in this country, nothing more. After the
wedding my duties to Tarkioff will end. Which is none too soon for me."

"Why?"

"There's a phrase about absolute power corrupting absolutely.
It's founded in truth."

"Does that apply to the king's brother too? And Elena?"

Loaded questions. If only she knew how loaded. He hedged his
answer. "I have found it a challenge to find simple men in places of
power."

"Do you enjoy living in a world where you trust no one?"

No one had ever asked him that particular question before. No one
would have dared. One more sign that he'd allowed this woman to get too close.

"I didn't make this world." He swallowed some bloodred
wine. "But I can't afford to hide my head in the sand and get the job
done."

"Ah, the all-famous mission."

When had she gotten so quick with her tongue? What had happened to
the woman on the plane, intelligent but reserved? Another few comments and
she'd be drawing blood. Not that he didn't deserve it.

"I do what I have to do." He paused, then continued.
"I won't pretend not to have enjoyed what we just did, but it was a
mistake. It won't happen again."

When she didn't reply, he glanced at her, at the crumbs of bread
shredded in her lap, uneaten, at the curl of her lips, ones he could still
taste, but holding no passion now. He expected scorn, and told himself he could
live with it, but what he saw instead startled him. There was no bitterness in
her gaze, no look of a woman used and turned aside. Instead there was empathy.
A compassion so deep he thought he'd drown in it, so compelling it shook him to
the core of his being.

He was a soldier, used to meeting steel with steel, but in Jane
Richards's eyes he found what he'd been searching for his whole life without
knowing it existed. Not for him. Never for him. Here was a haven, a respite
from the battles he fought year after year, here was acceptance that what he
did and what he might be were two separate things, at least some of the time.
And if someone had placed a pistol to his head with the trigger cocked, he
couldn't have been more terrified.

"It's time to go." The words came out abrupt and husky
and the smile playing about her lips told him he'd just given himself away.

But she didn't taunt him. Instead she brushed the crumbs from her
lap, rose slowly and stood, gazing toward the lake. The image of her there, the
breeze tousling the hair he knew smelled of citrus and honey, caressing the
fine line of her profile, would remain with him forever. A reminder of what
might have been if he were another man and she another woman, in another place
and time. But it could never be now, because he wouldn't allow it. He couldn't
allow it. Not while her life remained in the balance. Her life and the mission.

Jane accepted the silence as they drove back to the palace. She
would never have considered herself an experienced woman of the world and yet
she knew something had changed between her and McConneghy at the lake. And it
wasn't because of that kiss, the one she could still taste if she ever so
gently ran her tongue along her lips.

No, something else had happened between them and she relished the
timeless quality of the drive to figure out just when and how things had
shifted between her and the man sitting tight-lipped and silent beside her, his
competent hands caressing the wheel with the same strength and control that
he'd caressed her.

Maybe that was it. McConneghy hadn't been controlled when he
kissed her. His hands hadn't remained passive and sure, but had roamed across
her face, her skin, her hair, like a crazed man memorizing something he'd never
possess. And later, when he pulled away from her, erected that shield between
them that felt layers thick and impenetrable, she thought she'd glimpsed
something in his gray-eyed gaze. A hunger replaced by a bleakness that broke
her heart.

She never thought to see such loneliness in another's eyes. An
emotion that touched her own core. Touched and tore. She expected to be alone,
having been raised with elderly parents, no siblings to share her life, no
connection to anyone except her co-workers, tenuous relationships at best.

But why did McConneghy look like he'd breached an invisible
barrier only to withdraw behind his shell of control and aloofness? Surely a
man who advised rulers of small, strategic countries could not be lonely. A man
who looked like he did, who moved like he did, who possessed grace and leashed
power, tenderness and strength, intelligence and responsibility, surely a man
like him could not be so alone that he'd need, or want, even for a short space
of time, a woman like her?

Could he?

The walls of the palace rose before them. Too soon, she thought,
way too soon. But there was no denying the armed sentries saluting their
vehicle as it roared beneath the arched gates and over the cobbled courtyard.

"I'll have Dr. Illiyich come up to your room to look at your
scrapes."

Jane glanced at her knees, where dried blood adhered shredded
nylons to her skin.

"There's no need." Was that her voice that sounded so
calm and serene? After the day she'd had? "I'll just wash up with soap and
water."

"I'll have the doctor come, anyway."

So they were back to dictator and peon. She sighed as she opened
her car door, not waiting for either McConneghy or one of the security men to
come running.

"Fine." She smoothed the front of her skirt, knowing it
was a hopeless cause. She felt stiff and sore, souvenirs from being scraped
across the pavement, her hair must be a mess from the wind and someone's hands,
and her swollen, well-kissed lips told their own tale. No doubt the real Elena
was going to have to live down this arrival for the next few months.