The Makeover Mission (27 page)

"But have you found the men who set off the explosions?"

Lucius wanted to give her points for neatly deflecting the royal
attention. He couldn't have done it better himself.

"We are working on the issue." Viktor Tarkioff slanted
both his brother and Lucius looks that said he expected more than that.
"But there is nothing for you to worry about. We have increased your
security."

Jane glanced his way then, wariness replacing her earlier bravado
and for that alone Lucius could wring Tarkioff's neck.

"Then you feel there will be more incidents?"

Before Lucius could respond, Tarkioff replied. "It is the
price one pays. A necessary evil in today's world. A burden borne by those who
serve."

"You'll be safe." Lucius could not stomach one more
banality. "We've only increased security as a precaution, not because we
believe the risk to you has increased."

"I see." He watched her swallow, her fingers smooth at
her skirt before she rose to her feet. Her voice remained steady though, as she
addressed a glowering king. "I will not keep you from your work then.
Thank you."

Lucius was at her side before she reached the door, his hand
slipping around her elbow in an automatic gesture. He noted that her gaze did
not meet his, and that beneath his touch her skin was cold.

"I will escort the mademoiselle to her room." He said it
for the benefit of Tarkioff and his brother, but for the look Jane shot him, he
might have just announced he was escorting her to prison.

"Good day, mademoiselle." It was Eustace's voice
following them from the room.

Lucius waited until they reached a relatively secluded section of
the hallway before he tugged her into an empty room, closing the door behind
them.

"Are you trying to cause an international incident or just
being stupid?" All the emotion he'd been holding back, the frustration
with Tarkioff, the need she roused in him simply by being in the same room, the
awareness of the tightrope she walked with her two-edged words, all roared
through him, coating his words with an anger based on fear. Fear that what he'd
only begun to accept might be possible between them would be cut short if he
did not protect her. If he could not keep her safe.

He wrapped his hands around her arms, reassuring himself
physically that she was there, ignoring the hurt he saw in her gaze. "This
is not a game we're playing. The stakes are too high, the risks too great. If
Tarkioff or Eustace even suspected there was something going on behind their
backs—"

"Something?" The hurt look deepened in her gaze.

"You know what I mean."

"Are we going back to the beginning? To master and
peon?"

"We don't have time for this."

"Oh?"

Now he knew he'd taken the wrong track.

"I have an irate king breathing down my neck, an unexplained
incident, worried heads back in the States—"

"And me."

He allowed the sigh building in him to escape.

"I didn't mean it that way."

"Don't worry, Major." She tugged her arm but he only
tightened his grip. "I may be slow but I'm not stupid. I know what it
means to be a liability. I know very well, so you don't have to explain the
nuances to me."

He tried to gentle his voice. Not easy when a woman was glaring at
you with pain and humiliation in her eyes.

"Jane, I didn't mean it like that. I just don't have time to
explain everything right now."

"There's nothing to explain." It sounded so final it
scared him. This was not the same woman who had walked into a room moments ago
with fire in her gaze. He'd been truthful though, he didn't have a lot of time
to clarify everything with her. No time at all. So he communicated in the only
way he was sure would get through.

Before she could protest or evade, he pulled her to him. His lips
claimed hers as she opened them in a gasp of surprise, and then he devoured.
Slowly, surely he reassured her that what they'd started last night was still
there, was still alive and vital and as important to him as it was to her.

When he finally came up for air he noted the passion building in
her gaze and the raggedness of her breathing. He knew he felt the same himself,
and later, he hoped not much later, he'd do something about it.

"Trust me on this, Jane." The anger was gone from his
tone, but not his sense of fear. Fear for her, fear for what she was doing to
him without even being aware of it. "We'll talk later, but right now the
safest place for you is in your room. I'll send up something to read, some
videos for the DVD player. Just stay there, where I know you'll be safe."

He watched her close her eyes as if coming to an internal decision
before she raised her gaze to his, clear and determined.

"I'll go, but that doesn't mean I'm going to like it."

"I didn't expect miracles."

She smiled then. A tentative one, but it gave him hope. He took
her arm again and made to open the door.

"Lucius?"

He paused. "Yeah?"

"Take care of yourself in the meantime."

"Will do." He would, too, now that he had a reason to.

Jane counted to thirty-two, the number of steps between the main
door to her room and the set of open French doors. She knew because it wasn't
the first time she'd counted them. It was obvious she and the major would have
to discuss the meaning of the word
later.
Another fifteen minutes or so
and she'd disregard the silent sentinel posted outside her door all day and a
good part of the night and go find McConneghy in person. The man was a sadist
to leave her cooped up like this all day, alone, fretting, aching from his
kisses. Especially that last one.

She turned at the French doors and began counting backwards, the
sweep of silk pants washing against her legs. She was beginning to like silk
against her skin. That and the scent of Chanel No. 5. Had it been that long ago
that this had all seemed so strange and frightening? Less than a month since
Lucius McConneghy had crashed into her life and changed everything?

Her footsteps stilled across the floor, her bare toes glad for its
coolness beneath them, its solidness. Something had to be solid when everything
else was thrown into confusion. A month ago she'd known exactly who she was,
what she was doing, and, if it was a little bland and boring, the texture of
her days.

And now? Now everything was up in the air. It was bad enough there
were threats against her life, well really Elena's life, but since everybody
seemed to have accepted that Jane was Elena that didn't make a lot of
difference. No, what was really bothering her could be pinpointed to one man.
One impossible, responsibility-driven, too-difficult-for-words man. A man she
was falling in love with.

She sat down on the bed, as stunned by her realization as anything
that had happened to her thus far.

How could she possibly love a man she barely knew? He was the one
responsible for getting her into this outlandish situation in the first place,
and he made no bones about not wanting anything more than a physical
relationship with her. Of all the men in the whole world, she couldn't have
picked one less likely to be her type.

But even that thought didn't help matters. The old Jane might have
been willing to ache from afar, well aware that a man like Lucius McConneghy
could never love her back and accept that she'd spend her life wanting
something that was not to be. It was a sappy reaction, but then she was sappy,
or had been. She'd been a doormat when it came to asserting herself, her needs,
her agenda. And now? Was she much different now?

With a heavy sigh, she wondered if, once she changed back into her
sensible cottons and polyesters, resumed her job at the library and stopped
using perfume she could never afford on her salary, she'd also revert to the
old Jane's ways. Was being a sap in her blood? Responsibility was bred into
Lucius. Heck, the guy went into the military knowing most of the males of his line
had died as a direct result of that life. No wonder responsibility was such a
strong element of his character.

But did any of it make any difference? She loved him and knew he
might care for her. A man who made love the way he had all the previous night had
to have some sort of feelings behind such passion, but that didn't mean he
loved her. She might be inexperienced, but she wasn't a total fool. He'd said
as much before they'd taken that first heady step.

Would she go back and change it? No way. Not one exhilarating,
exciting, breathtaking second. But what now? Could she enjoy what they had,
stop thinking about the future long enough to experience the present, accept
that she might not have a forever, but she could have a here and now?

Before she could make a decision, as if she really thought there
was any but one decision to be made, she heard the quiet rattle of the door
handle and a voice that made her heart accelerate.

"It's me. Open the door."

She rose from the bed, surprised her legs were as steady as they
were, and crossed to open the door. She felt breathless and shaky inside and
hoped he didn't notice.

The look in his eyes kept her from speaking. A hot, dark,
dangerous look that had her blood heating, her pulse racing even before the
door behind him clicked shut.

"I want you." He spoke the three words as a desperate
man, his arms pulling her into his, his lips claiming hers.

There was no more conversation as she tasted his need.

This was not the man of last night, the aroused lover still in
control, still holding back a part of himself. No, this was a man who was
giving as he took, his hands fast and sure across her back, tangling in her
hair as he deepened his kisses.

Her mouth opened beneath his, but it wasn't enough. She felt the
two of them move until a wall stopped their progress, but not his passion. His
fingers slid beneath the hem of her loose shirt, a guttural groan breaking from
him as he discovered no bra to hinder their movement.

He touched, stroked, kneaded, even as she felt his hunger grow,
hers expanding with it. His hands shifted direction, slipping beneath the band
of her pants, letting them slide to the floor, cupping the bare skin of her
buttocks.

He pulled her closer to him, lifting and stretching her legs until
she felt impaled between him and the hard surface of the wall.

"I can't wait." His movements echoed his words as she
felt the thrust of his sheathed shaft against her entrance, its bluntness
demanding acceptance. "Tell me yes, Jane. Tell me yes."

She smiled against his hair, feeling more sure of herself in those
seconds than in her whole life. He might not love her, but right then and there
he needed her. More than that, she wanted him. All of him.

"Yes."

The single word was all he needed as he surged forward, stretching
her until she felt the fullness of him deep, deep within her. Then he began to
move. Strong thrusts, each one demanding more than the last. It was if all the
emotion she'd glimpsed in him from time to time, the feelings tightly leashed
and controlled, were slashing at him, pushing at him to dissolve the difference
between him and her until it was only them.

His moan of release echoed against her hair, harsh and wracked,
and yet he held her high, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands digging
into his shoulders. She could feel the pulse of his heart quiet against her,
hear the raggedness of his breathing begin to slow while they stayed where they
were, as if caught in a heartbeat of time. She knew then, without words, that
he was already regretting his actions. What she wasn't sure of was the reason
why.

"Are you going to tell me this was a mistake? She surprised
herself by the ferocity of her tone.

He pulled back then, enough for her to see the tiredness
bracketing his eyes, the exhaustion lining his face. "No. No mistake. I
needed you too much for that."

His words warmed her even as he slowly slid her legs to the floor,
his hands not releasing her until sure her own legs would hold her.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No." She responded both to the question and the
hesitation in his gaze. "In fact, it was much better than a bland 'how are
you?'"

She caught his wry grin, pleased she'd lightened some of the load
pressing down on him. No doubt he'd been cloistered with Tarkioff and his
brother all day, something that would try the patience of the strongest of men.

He lifted a hand to her face, the gentleness of the act bringing
tears to her eyes. She felt his fingers glide across her brow, stroke a strand
of hair from her face, memorize the line of her cheekbone and jaw.

"I never want to hurt you." She knew he was talking
about more than the last few minutes, but she was at a loss how to take away
the regret shadowing his gaze.

"They don't grow wimps in South Dakota." Keep it light,
she told herself. Keep it light. "You'll just have to try harder next
time."