The Makeover Mission (4 page)

She should not be sitting in a private plane being whisked half
way across the world to some country she'd never heard of, to risk her life for
people she didn't know, to pretend she was something she wasn't, and possibly
to die in the process.

With a groan, she fought against the temptation to curl up into
the chair where she sat and bury her head even deeper in her hands. But that
wasn't going to solve anything. It'd be better to figure out how to tell Major
Gray-eyes to take his not-so-brilliant idea and bury
it.

But she already knew what would happen then. He'd hold her tight,
tell her everything would be all right, while he shot another dose of whatever
through her system, rendering her completely vulnerable.

He was right. There was a choice, a small one, but the only one as
far as she could see. And while her elderly parents had raised her to be
mild-mannered, they'd never raised her to be a fool. And maybe, if she kept her
wits about her she might even be able to figure a way out of this nightmare. A
service? Yeah, right. She knew about service, had spent a lifetime fulfilling
duties and obligations to others. This did not feel like service. This felt
like suicide.

She was still sitting in the chair, gazing out the far windows
when she heard him return. He said nothing, just walked over and stood near
her, obviously not expecting her to look at him. The man could give lessons in
patience to a stone, she thought peevishly, aware of the sigh slipping from
her.

"You've made your decision."

He didn't even have the grace to make it a question. "You
know there's only one choice. I'll pretend I'm Elena—a functioning Elena, not a
drugged target."

"Good."

"But I want to know how long this … this farce is going to
last?"

He shrugged. Not a reassuring sign she thought, before his gaze
slid from hers. "Until the wedding."

"Which is when?"

"There's some question about it at this time. Elena, the real
Elena has not been well since—"

"The attack?"

"Yes."

"She was hurt?"

"No. But it has caused her great distress. I have been told
she is under a doctor's care."

"So the wedding is postponed?"

"No. It will go on. We're working on the logistics now."

She just bet he was. But before she could press the point he moved
to the opposite chair and said, "The plane will be landing soon. There are
some clothes in the back room. All are appropriate to what Elena would wear,
and, as you're the same size, should fit you without a problem."

Jane bit her lip, wondering what would have happened if she'd
chosen option B. Would this man have stripped her from her serviceable cotton
skirt and oxford blouse, something very appropriate for midsummer in Sioux
Falls, but obviously out of place in Vendari? She didn't want to think such
thoughts, nor feel the flash of heat warming her cheeks.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No. No, nothing." Leave it to Mister in Charge to see
her blush. She turned to glance at him, catching the wariness in his gaze.
"But wearing the proper clothes is not going to turn me into a king's
fiancée."

For a moment she thought she saw the glimmer of a smile, quickly
banked. "No, but it's not going to hurt. Why don't you change now? Then
I'll give you some background on Elena."

Like an automaton, she rose, surprised her legs didn't buckle
beneath her. Her stomach felt as if she'd been riding tilt-a-whirls all morning
and the headache Gray-eyes had alluded to earlier was all but bringing tears to
her eyes.

Yet, in spite of, or maybe because of, feeling the major's gaze
monitoring her every move, she marched toward the door he indicated, her head
held high, her posture rigid. She might feel like a rag doll without its
stuffing but it'd be a cold day in July before she'd let him know it.

Lucius waited until she crossed into the bedroom before he let out
the breath of air backed up in his lungs. He had to give Jane Richards credit;
she was showing a degree of determination and bravery he rarely saw except in
battle-seasoned troops.

For a second there he'd thought she was going to cave. She looked
whiter than the clouds out the far windows, and about as steady as quicksand.
But she'd pulled herself together, never indicating by as much as a peep that
she needed or wanted help. Yeah, the woman had guts.

Brains and nerve, it was a powerful combination as far as he was
concerned. In another woman, at another time, he'd be mighty drawn to such
attributes. But he couldn't here. Here he had a mission to accomplish and, if
it went anything like it had gone so far, he was going to have his hands full
keeping Jane Richards alive.

Not that he wanted her to know that. She had enough to deal with,
and more to come. With a pang of conscience he couldn't afford, he wondered: If
she had really known what she was up against, would she have chosen to be
drugged and unaware?

"How does this look?"

He hadn't heard the door behind him open, an unusual occurrence
that clued him into how deep his thoughts had been. But when he turned he found
himself pausing, amending his earlier assessment. This woman not only had
brains and guts, she had beauty, too.

A strapless, ruby-red sundress cupped and molded curves he'd never
guessed lay hidden beneath the librarian's plain garb. She'd let her hair fall
loose, undone from the pins holding it back earlier, creating a waterfall of
darkness against her pale shoulders. A waterfall a man could ache to run his
fingers through.

Any other man except him. He had a job to do. End of story.

Yet this double-punch-to-the-solar-plexus kind of beauty wasn't
going to make his job one iota easier.

"Well?" She fanned the skirt away from her. Its color
only served to highlight the combination of sultry beauty and innocence that
looked nothing like Elena Rostov. Nothing at all.

"Do I look enough like her to pass?"

"You'll do." He heard the dryness of his response, hoped
he alone understood its curtness before he saw the quick flash of emotion in
her eyes as she lowered her gaze.

"There's a blue dress that might work better—"

"I said you'll do."

He was acting like an idiot, a rude idiot, but he was finding it
hard to recover his sense of equilibrium. Damn hard.

"Sit down." He waited until she complied, her shoulders
a little more slumped than even seconds ago, and called himself a fool. She needed
his support, not the sharp edge of a temper.

"The dress looks very nice on you."

As far as compliments went the words didn't seem like a lot. But
he noted that her hands stopped pleating the skirt between her fingers and
stilled. Her eyebrows arched, as if he'd taken her by surprise. A clue that
he'd come across like a real jerk before if it took so little to reassure her.

"Tell me about Elena." She spoke first, saving him from
wondering where to start. "Won't my speaking English be a problem?"

"No, English is widely spoken throughout Vendari. That and
the fact the king insists on bringing Vendari into the new century. He requires
English to be the primary language spoken. Having been raised in a boarding
school in Switzerland, Elena's two most fluent languages are English and
French."

"But the general population? What if someone asks me
something in their native language? Won't they expect me to respond?"

"No. It's widely known that Elena does not speak any of the
three local dialects. She has, on numerous occasions, let it be known that she
believes clinging to the old customs is barbaric. English is the only language
she will respond to. She follows the king's lead on this issue."

"Well, good. At least the part about the language. But it
sounds like she didn't grow up in Vendari."

"No, she didn't. She left the country before her fifth
birthday, coming back only for short visits."

"How old is she?"

"She turned twenty-three two months ago."

"So she's a year younger than I am."

"Yes."

"And how does she feel about this marriage?" He thought
he detected a note of compassion in her voice. "Surely she can't know the
king well if she has hardly been in Vendari?"

"If you're asking if this is a love match, it isn't."

"Oh." Did she have to sound wistful?

"Ms. Rostov knows exactly what she's getting out of the deal,
so don't waste any pity there."

Her eyebrows arched again, making him feel like someone who
routinely stole candy from children.

"We don't have much time and a lot to cover," he said.

"Of course." Damn, if she didn't sound like a prissy
librarian catching him chewing gum behind the stacks. He resisted the urge to
squirm. Barely.

"We'll be landing at Dubruchek's only airport where one of
the king's limos will pick us up."

"Will the king be there?"

"No. He's involved in a series of high-level meetings that
will occupy most of his time for the next couple of days."

He could have sworn she looked relieved at the news.

"Will I have to … to interact with him much?"

"You
are
his fiancée."

"I'm a hostage pretending that I'm a political pawn entering
a loveless marriage," she threw back, blowing a stream of air that made
the midnight-black strands of hair dance around her face. "I just want to
know how far I'm going to have to take this farce."

"No, you will not be expected to sleep with the king if that
is what you're asking, Ms. Richards." Now it was his turn to sound prissy
and her look told him as much.

She released the breath she'd obviously been holding.

"We don't know the principals behind the last attempt on Ms.
Rostov's life and, until we do, we have to assume any number of individuals
close to the king may be involved."

"But you do have some suspects?"

Too many to count, he silently acknowledged, including some bad
customers he'd tangled with in the past. But that was his problem, not hers.

"There are suspects." Instead of replying with specifics
he nodded his head, scanning a sheaf of papers he had extracted from a file.
"You'll want to be on your guard. At all times. Trust no one. No one. Am I
clear?"

When she didn't answer immediately he raised his head, catching
the speculative look in her dark eyes.

"Is there a problem?"

She shrugged and looked away. "I'm assuming that includes
trusting you."

"Especially me."

He let his words hover between them, laser-sharp and lethal. There
was no point in pretending otherwise. There was too much at risk for both of
them.

He watched her swallow, hard, before she pasted a shaky smile on
her lips and leaned forward. "I'll keep your advice uppermost in mind."

He could like her at that moment. Admit, if only to himself, he
admired the flashes of fire she probably wasn't even aware she possessed. But
there was no room for such thoughts or feelings.

Instead he glanced at the papers and continued as if the last
seconds hadn't occurred. "Elena Rostov is the only daughter of Pavlov
Rostov. Her mother died when she was still a baby and she's been raised almost
exclusively in Switzerland."

"Will her family know I'm impersonating her?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Surely you can't believe her family wants her killed?"

"We can't take that chance. It's a known fact that Pavlov Rostov
would gain a lot of sympathy if his daughter is killed."

"But—"

He rose to his feet. "Have no doubt about the matter, Ms.
Richards. We have taken care to protect you from coming too close to the Rostov
family. As for others, make no mistake, there are a lot of individuals who
would benefit by Ms. Rostov's death."

"You mean my death." She looked at him then, her gaze
holding him as effectively as any set of restraints. "I think you've been
honest, at least as honest as you think you can be. Let's not pretty up the
picture at this point."

"All right." He set down the file he'd been clutching.
"You're in a very precarious position."

He thought she mumbled something about an understatement but
couldn't be sure.

"It's my job to make sure you're safe and I'm very good at my
job." He wished she didn't look quite so skeptical at his statement.
"I'm going to be right at your side as much as possible while you're in
Vendari. If there's an attempt on your life, they'll have to go through me to
do it."

When she gave no response, not that there was a need for one, he
glanced behind her shoulders and caught sight of the granite-studded mountains
of Vendari out the plane windows.

Their time was up. Ready or not.

"Buckle up, Ms. Richards. We'll be in Dubruchek in a few
moments." He heard the command in his tone and wished it could be
otherwise. But wishes wouldn't keep Jane Richards alive.