The Makeover Mission (21 page)

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

He glanced in her direction, his face showing no expression.
"One brother, one sister. Both younger."

Of course, the feeling of responsibility. At ten he'd have become
the male head of the family. No wonder he shouldered obligation and
responsibility so naturally. Everything in his life would have trained him for
that role.

"Are you close to them?" She found she really wanted to
know, to hear about his childhood, his family. It made him less a stranger,
more a real person.

"When I'm stateside, between assignments, we try to get
together. My brother lives in D.C., so we see each other as often as we can.
Trish lives in Ohio, but we do holidays whenever we can."

"Are you an uncle?"

"Yeah, Alex has two boys."

She couldn't help the smile. The thought of him giving pony-back
rides and getting mussed was too strong an image to ignore.

"Both terrors, but my sister isn't married yet."

"And are you?" She was surprised she'd never thought to
ask the question before. Or maybe she was afraid of the answer.

"Am I what?"

"Are you married?"

He shook his head, his expression unreadable. "No."

"Ever?"

"Almost. Once." He shook his head again. This time the
gesture nearly breaking her heart. "This isn't any kind of career that's
easy on a relationship."

She thought of his ancestors. The ones who had died in the line of
duty and knew they weren't the only ones who paid the price.

"So it became a choice between your job and a wife."

He hesitated for a moment, than shoved his hands in the pockets of
his chinos. "Something like that."

"And the job always comes first."

There was no hesitation this time. "Yes."

"And your family. Do they know what you do for a
living?"

He looked momentarily sheepish. "They know I work for the
government."

"And are away from home a lot."

"Yeah."

"But they don't know any more than that?"

"They're better off not knowing." His words sounded as
though he'd wrestled with this issue already and had come to a decision. Not an
easy one. "I didn't want them to worry. To wonder every time I went away
if I'd be back. It's not an easy burden to ask of anybody."

And he obviously didn't expect anybody to be willing to assume it
for him, she realized. Not the woman he thought he'd marry, not the siblings
he'd helped raise. No one. No wonder the man seemed so alone. He was.

She wanted to reach out to him, to offer comfort in some way. It
was a little like the country mouse wanting to console the city cat, a very
large, very powerful, predatory city cat.

She turned her head to stare at the darkness spread before her and
heard him move, shift ever so quietly until she knew he stood right behind her.
So close that if she stepped back she would press against him, feel the heat
and solidness of him engulf her, know the same sense of security she always
felt around him. A funny emotion to feel about a man she knew was using her.

"You've gone quiet on me again." The huskiness of his
tone washed against her. A very dangerous feeling.

"I was wondering why you told me about your family." It
was the truth, too. "You have large Do Not Pry signs any time a
conversation gets too personal."

She heard the low rumble of his laugh, felt it curling like a slow
fire in her belly.

"Force of habit." His fingers had reached up to lift a
lock of her hair. Lift and let fall. A simple gesture that had her breath
hitching. "In my profession it's not wise to get too close to
anyone."

"Are you warning me off?"

"And if I was, would you be smart enough to heed the
warning?"

"Not likely."

She could feel his smile in the darkness.

"How did I know that was going to be your answer?"

"I always thought of you as a very perceptive man,
Major."

"Perceptive but foolhardy."

That surprised her. The words and the self-deprecating tone. She
made to turn, to see his face, but his hands on her shoulders stopped her. His
hands and his words.

"Don't turn. I only have so much will power."

Now what did he mean by that? Then she glanced down, forgetting
she was wearing a gown and robe that defined gossamer. But she was still only
Jane Richards beneath the silken folds and she was surprised he couldn't see
that.

Lucius knew it had been a mistake, stepping onto the balcony
instead of back into his room once he realized he wasn't alone. His third
mistake of the day. The first had been pulling her into his arms at the lake
and tasting her, feeling her immediate response to him, replacing fantasy with
a reality that was much more difficult to forget.

His second had been in letting those few moments simmer and stew
within him all day, a slow boil of arousal that had been painful for its
duration and intensity. Never before had he been unable to compartmentalize
emotions from his work. Time and time again while he'd debriefed his team, and
then the king and his brother, his thoughts had been elsewhere. And not just
anywhere, but focused on one person, one woman who was playing havoc with his
life while he doubted she had a clue.

And now, standing here, where he could feel the silken resiliency
of her hair beneath his touch, inhale her essence with every breath he took,
was torture more excruciating than anything he'd been trained for.

"Now you've gone quiet on me." He heard the husky,
breathless quality of her voice and told himself he didn't dare respond to it.
Not if either of them wanted to remain unscorched.

"I spoke with Tarkioff earlier." He watched her flinch,
knowing his words caused the reaction.

"I don't want to talk about the king."

She sounded like a sulky child.

"Talking about him would be safer."

"Than what?" Now there was a taunt in her voice. A
woman's dare, willing to risk all rather than walk away from what might be only
emotional pain.

He raised his hands to cup her shoulders, sure that there at least
they'd be safe. As long as he didn't pull her back into his embrace, didn't let
them trail from shoulders to the line of her throat, her breast bone, lower;
didn't let them forget they were there for his protection as well as hers.

"You know this is an impossible situation."

He heard her laugh, a soft whisper of sound that was almost his
undoing.

"I figured that out for myself."

"Then you can figure out what would happen if there was the
slightest hint that the king's intended was involved, in any way, with his
political advisor. His foreign political advisor."

"The king called you a conduit."

"It's as good a term as any other."

"And what if—" She paused as if unsure of her next
words, or his reaction. "And what if this same political advisor was
involved with a librarian from Sioux Falls, South Dakota?"

"There is no such person. Not in Vendari."

"Oh."

He couldn't help his smile. Not at the disappointed, frustrated
sound in her single word reply.

"But what if—"

He tightened his grip, just slightly, but enough to stop her voice
in mid-sentence.

"There can be no what ifs. You are who you're pretending to
be and I am the mission. It can't be any other way."

"Because you say so?" Now she sounded defiant.

"Because it's the way things are. I told you I'd protect you
and I can't do that if—"

"If what?"

That was it. He still was a man, no matter what his mission or
priorities dictated. And as a man he responded to the question, spoken and
unspoken, he heard in her voice.

With one move, surprising them both by its suddenness he twirled
her until she faced him, no darkness of night hiding her wide-eyed expression
from him, no double-edged words hiding his hunger from her.

"If I do this."

His mouth descended on hers, devouring what he knew he couldn't
have, desperate for one last taste, one last touch before he put the impossible
behind the both of them. And it might have ended there, one last torrid kiss to
haunt him the rest of his life if she hadn't met his passion with her own.

She molded the length of herself against him, soft, full breasts
pressed against his chest, her hands twined around his neck, her thighs
entangled with his. What began as lips to lips became body against body and her
thin wisp of a gown created no barrier.

Not that armor plating would have kept him from touching right
then. Touching because he wanted to take, and somewhere, in the recesses of his
rational mind he knew he could not go that far. But there was nothing rational
about what he was feeling right then.

His hand slid between them, cupping the exquisite fullness of her
breast, knowing it would feel right beneath his touch, feathering his thumb
across the tightly beaded nipple, exalting in the moan of pleasure his movement
elicited.

"Lucius." It sounded a cross between petulant demand and
aching request. She shivered against him, but he doubted the night breeze
caused the reaction. Nor his response of drawing her closer, as if by sheer
force of want alone they could become one, end the torment they seemed destined
to inflict on one another.

"Lucius, I want—"

"Shhh." Their time was brief. All too brief and more
poignant because of it. He couldn't give her what she wanted, what his own body
ached to take, so they had to be content with what they could do.

He deepened his kiss, ignoring the throbbing of his lower body,
the sweet, sweet friction caused by her pressing against him. He'd never
thought himself a saint, only a man with responsibilities to fulfill,
obligations to meet, but if he walked away tonight he'd deserve every medal for
courage above and beyond the call of duty.

Because that's what it took to step back, drop his hand from the
satin of her skin, pull his lips from hers, feel the cool night air wash
between them—the kind of courage he hoped never to experience again.

It took a few pleasure-drugged seconds for Jane to realize he was
doing it again; arousing her body to a frenzy of need and want and then pulling
away. Slowly opening her eyes, as if awakening from a very deep sleep, she
focused on him, aware of the tautness of the skin across his face, the
stillness of his body.

His expression told her he expected her anger. He darn well
deserved it for leaving her aching and needy. But she wasn't going to let him
get away with it.

Anger he'd only deflect. He'd pull his mantle of duty and
obligation tight about him, accept the responsibility of his actions, and hers,
and curse himself. She knew it as she knew the beat of her own heart. She could
read it in his face, in the deepness of the lines carved there, in the
tenseness of his stance. He was a warrior, prepared for battle and ready to
accept the cost. And the pain.

But she couldn't let him do that. Wouldn't let him do that. She
was a woman grown, responsible for her own wants, her own actions. He hadn't
seduced her, given her fancy words and softly spoken lines. Not unless barked
commands counted.

No, he'd been honest, at least in this between them. Other things,
well, that was another matter. And one that had to
be
dealed with. But not now.

Now she stepped forward, noticing the almost imperceptible
tightening of his features as if he expected, and felt he deserved, the worst
she had to offer. But instead of slapping his face, she raised one hand, a
tentative hand she could feel shaking and laid it alongside his cheek.

His eyes betrayed his surprise. And his wariness.

She found that she wanted to soothe. Tell him it was before he put
the impossible behind the both of them. And it might have ended there, one last
torrid kiss to haunt him the rest of his life if she hadn't met his passion
with her own.

She molded the length of herself against him, soft, full breasts
pressed against his chest, her hands twined around his neck, her thighs
entangled with his. What began as lips to lips became body against body and her
thin wisp of a gown created no barrier.

Not that armor plating would have kept him from touching right
then. Touching because he wanted to take, and somewhere, in the recesses of his
rational mind he knew he could not go that far. But there was nothing rational
about what he was feeling right then.

His hand slid between them, cupping the exquisite fullness of her
breast, knowing it would feel right beneath his touch, feathering his thumb
across the tightly beaded nipple, exalting in the moan of pleasure his movement
elicited.

"Lucius." It sounded a cross between petulant demand and
aching request. She shivered against him, but he doubted the night breeze
caused the reaction. Nor his response of drawing her closer, as if by sheer
force of want alone they could become one, end the torment they seemed destined
to inflict on one another.