The Makeover Mission (5 page)

Chapter 3

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J
ane's hands shook as she buckled her
seat belt. How was she possibly going to get through this? Nothing in her life
had prepared her for international politics, mysterious missions or heroics.
Especially heroics.

She came from the heartland of America, the backbone, not the
front lines. She could get through her monthly grant-writing workshop, giving a
little talk that would have her sweating and wishing for oblivion. And once
she'd given the welcoming speech for a visiting library dignitary, which had
her stomach in knots for weeks.

Now this total stranger, of wary glances and few words, wanted her
to impersonate someone who, judging by her taste in clothes alone, was more
sophisticated than Jane could ever hope to be.

As if he read her thoughts, or the panic she felt welling from her
very toes, the major glanced her way.

"Breathe," he ordered, as if that alone would make a
difference. "The temperature in Dubruchek should be around eighty
degrees."

She didn't need a tour guide. She needed a miracle. But his gaze
on her remained calm, his voice low and level.

"The country is land-locked by mountains, keeping it cool in
the summer months. Many think it resembles Switzerland."

Great, she was going to die in paradise. Was she supposed to take
consolation in that?

"Because of the mountains, and except for Dubruchek and the
smaller city of Dracula, most of the locals live in small farming
villages."

"Dracula?"

He shrugged as if he didn't hear the terror in her single word.
"It was a poor choice I agree, but the town's founders were told it was a
well-known name in English literature."

"I guess it could have been worse. Something like
Frankenstein
definitely would have kept away tourist dollars."

"Most likely." He offered her a crooked smile that
softened the harshness of his face. Making it charming, almost, though she
didn't think he'd be flattered by the observation. But it was a smile.

A first, she realized, surprised to find that something as small
as that was helping. The panic was still there, but so was something else. Not
camaraderie, exactly. Major McConneghy didn't look like the type to indulge in
camaraderie. A knowledge that she wasn't going alone into the unknown.
Unwilling, maybe, but not alone.

"We're here."

She felt the thud of wheels hit the tarmac, heard the whine of
engines reversing themselves.

"I don't know if I can do this."

He paused in the act of unbuckling, his movements economical,
unhurried. Nothing like what she was feeling, fear freezing everything.

"Of course you can do it." He stood, moving toward where
she still sat, petrified in her seat. He knelt beside her, unbuckling her seat
belt as if she were a small child, extending his open palm to help her to her
feet.

She placed her hand in his. An automatic response, she told
herself, until she felt the heat of his fingers close around hers, comforting
and commanding at the same time.

"When the door opens you'll step forward—"

Her breath hitched but he continued, pulling her to her feet.

"I'll be right beside you. If there are reporters nearby
you'll wave and act as if everything is fine."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

He gave her a look that reminded her of her maiden aunt Gertrude.
The one who didn't like sticky-fingered, skinned-kneed little kids.

"We'll walk down the stairs and directly to the waiting
limo."

He propelled her forward, giving her no choice but to move, his
hand no longer holding hers but tight around her bare arm. She swore it would
leave a brand there, but wasn't sure she could blame it all on him, not when
she was dragging her feet as much as he was tugging her forward.

"What if there are reporters and they want to talk?"

"They've been informed you're still a little shaken."

"I won't have to act that part."

"—and that there'll be a formal news conference."

When her knees started to buckle at that piece of information he
only held on tighter and added, "Later."

"But what if—"

"You'll be fine. Just smile and wave."

"But—"

The man obviously didn't take terror as a reason not to keep
plunging forward. Already the sounds of a ramp being adjusted into place
sounded from the other side.

"I can't—"

"You can." Major Gray-eyes all but breathed against her
ear, his words meant for her alone. "You've made your choice."

As if she'd been slapped with cold water she felt her panic
recede. Anger replaced it. She'd had no choice. Not really, and the look she
gave her abductor told him as much. Right before she shrugged off his hold,
straightened her shoulders and told herself that nothing, no one, especially
not a gray-eyed dictator standing almost on top of her, was going to know the
cost of the next few minutes.

When the door slid open, and a rush of fresh mountain air washed
against her, she stepped forward. The sunlight blinded her, the air chilled her
skin, creating a ridge of goose bumps along her arms. She wanted to choke. Or
cry. And made herself do neither.

Just as he'd said, there was a crowd of people beyond a barricade
of orange cones and yellow flapping tape. She raised a hand to her eyes to cut
the glare and scan the rest of the tarmac.

A stretch limo waited at the far end of a blue-carpeted runway
that began at the base of the stairs where she stood.

Once, long, long ago, when she had watched a television special
about a Hollywood star, she'd wondered what it would be like to ride in a car
the length of a city block. Now she was about to find out—if an assassin's
bullet didn't stop her first.

"Don't think about it." The major spoke behind her.
Either a remarkably astute man or a compassionate one. But that would make him
human and she didn't want to think of him that way. Not when he was the reason
she was in this mess in the first place. "Smile and wave."

She did. Ignoring that her arm felt like a lead weight and her jaw
muscles ached after only a few seconds.

The major took her arm; from a distance it probably looked as if
he was assisting, not forcing her to take the first step down the metal stairs.
First one, then another.

"I can walk by myself," she muttered between stiff lips
locked in a smile. "You don't have to worry I'll run away."

"There's nowhere to run."

Oh, the man was just a font of cheerful news.

"Pause before we enter the limo and give the reporters one
last photo op."

She did as he asked, no, demanded, and was never as thankful as
when she slid into the cool leather interior of the vehicle and heard the door
slam shut behind her.

So far, so good, Lucius thought, watching the color seep back into
Jane's face as she leaned against the limo's luxurious seats, her eyes closed,
her breathing less shallow than it had been only moments ago. He'd give her a
minute, but couldn't afford much more than that.

He watched her eyes flutter open and asked, "Feeling better
now?"

"No."

He wouldn't smile. Not at her acerbic response, or the brutal
honesty of it.

"Fine, we'll start, anyway."

"Don't let the grass grow under your feet do you,
Major?"

"Can't afford to."

She took a deep breath and glanced out the window. Except for the
way her fingers smoothed and re-smoothed the folds of her dress he'd have
thought her totally under control. If she managed to keep her composure, and if
his team had made progress on who was behind the attempt on Elena Rostov's
life, and if there were no more attempts until they could eliminate the threat,
they just might make it through this mission. But that was an awful lot of ifs.

"When we reach where we're going you'll be taken to your
quarters."

"Where we're going?"

"There's a small villa outside of town where we'll remain as
long as we can."

"Doing what?"

"Teaching you to be Elena." He noted her puzzled look
and added, "It's wiser to ease you into your position. Cover the basics.
The way Elena talks, the way she walks, who her friends are and what foods
she'll eat or not eat."

He thought he could hear the air sigh from her lungs.

"And you didn't think I should know there was going to be a
reprieve, even a short one, before you throw me to the wolves?"

"Listen very carefully, Miss Richards." He leaned
forward, watching her eyes widen with his movement. "There is no reprieve.
The mission has begun and you
are
the mission. From now on you will
think, act and believe you are Elena Rostov. Your life depends on it."

She glanced at him but said nothing.

He continued. "You're Elena now." He glanced toward the
smoked glass separating their seat from the driver and armed guard up front.
"It's imperative that you talk about yourself as such."

"All right," she took a deep breath and looked as if she
was holding back her temper. "What would I normally do when
I
arrive at wherever we're going? Is that better?"

He ignored the sarcasm. "You've been known to ask for a
review."

"A what?"

"You like to have the household servants line up so you can
review them."

"I see. A queen to her subjects."

He ducked his head to hide a grin, aware he couldn't have
described the process much more succinctly. "Yes, something like
that."

"That's the most archaic—" she caught herself, flattened
her fingers against her skirt and started again. "Then won't the household
know something is up when Ele—I mean, when I don't do that this time?"

"We're using the excuse that you're tired from your long flight
and justifiably concerned about security."

"Where am I supposed to be flying in from?"

Another good question.

"You've been in Switzerland and France, visiting old school
friends."

"And recovering from my ordeal."

"Exactly."

"How many people know about this scam you're running?"

"I prefer to think of it as a mission."

"I bet you do."

"Only the king, his head of state security, Eustace
Tarkioff—"

"I thought the king's name was Tarkioff?"

"Eustace is his brother."

"Ah, nepotism at work."

"As I was saying, only they, my team and myself know of our
mission."

"And me."

"And you."

She turned away from him again, her fingers taking up their
pattern among the dress folds.

"Look, Miss Richards—" he began.

"Elena. My name is Elena. Remember?"

So maybe he shouldn't be trying to offer comfort. Not when she
sounded as hard as week-old ice. But he knew from first-hand experience what
bravado often hid.

"All right, Elena. I know this is difficult."

"Try downright impossible."

"You did fine back there." He nodded to indicate the
airport they'd left behind. "You'll do fine again."

Her glance held fire as she replied. "I'll do fine until I
don't recognize someone I should know, or say the wrong thing to the wrong
person or pick up the wrong fork to eat with. There are a million ways I can
slip up and we both know it."

He'd be lying through his teeth if he refuted her words and he
knew they both realized it, especially when she spoke again, her words pitched
low, as if in speaking them aloud they might come true.

"The problem is you can't be with me twenty-four hours a day
and I can't use the excuse of still being in shock for more than a day or two.
You've got yourself a librarian here. That's all. Not someone who's been to a
private school, who's traveled through Europe, someone who—" she glanced
down at the dress she wore, "who wears clothes that show more skin than I
do in my swimsuit. I'm going to mess up here—sooner or later."

She glanced away, her hands curled into tight balls of misery.
"And when I do, some nameless, faceless person is going to notice and the
whole thing is going to come crashing down around
my
head. If I haven't
been killed in the meantime."

"That's why we're taking what time we can to prep you for the
mission."

"And how long will I have?" she asked.

"A week at the most."

"And if I don't have my…" she mumbled around the word,
"…my
role,
or part or whatever you call it… What if I don't have it
down in this week or so?"