The Makeover Mission (7 page)

"Oh?" His tone snapped her gaze to his. A mistake, a big
mistake she realized—too late.

There was something in his look, in the flare of his nostrils, in
the tightening of the skin across his cheek bones that warned her they'd
strayed far from the point she wanted to make.

The mountain breeze cooling the room only moments ago disappeared.
It was the only explanation as to why it suddenly seemed harder to breath, the
air thicker, heavier, her skin too sensitive, feeling goose bumps where there
should be none, aware of the abrasion of her dress across her nipples.

The shifting of his gaze told her he'd noticed.

"You were saying?" His look dared her to jump deeper
into the waters already threatening to take her under.

"I … I can't remember," she admitted truthfully, aware
it gave him an advantage.

Yet, as if she'd thrown a switch, his expression changed, became
banked, distant. He mentally and emotionally retreated from whatever brink they'd
both teetered on.

"Everything I do is for your protection and the protection
of this mission." She wondered which of the two
protections took priority in his mind. "I give the orders. You obey them.
Clear?"

As glass, she wanted to respond, but found the words stuck
somewhere in her throat. She nodded instead, too worn out to fight this man on
so many levels at the same time. Whatever had just happened between them had
been a mistake. Her head relayed the message, his actions reinforced it, but it
wasn't going to be easy to forget that for a few seconds at least, the world
had slipped out of orbit.

"I'll have your maid show you the way to the dining room for
dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

He looked like he wanted to argue, then stopped. "Fine. I'll
have a tray sent up later. Tomorrow she can show you the way to the dining
area."

"It's all right, I'm sure I can find my own way."

She heard the sharpness in her tone. It was a tone she'd never
have used in her own world. She'd been taught to be better than that, gentler,
more willing to please others.

"The maid will show you the way." Either he didn't hear
her response, or chose to ignore it. Then before she could say more he added,
"It's for your safety."

That's right, they wouldn't want to lose their pigeon at this
point, she thought wryly. Her expression must have given her away, for he
shrugged his shoulders and turned.

"I'd recommend you retire early this evening. We have a full
agenda tomorrow."

The man could burst bubbles quicker than a pin in a balloon shop.
So they were back to dictator and minion. There was no time for a snappy
comeback before the connecting door snicked shut behind his silent departure.

At least she had all night to pull herself together. Enough time,
she hoped, to resurrect her defenses and to remember, all too vividly, the
major's words from earlier that day. His directive to trust no one. Including
himself. Especially him.

Lucius wondered if he'd lost his mind. What else could account for
the few moments when he'd stood over Jane and no longer thought of her as a
pawn in a dangerous mission? He'd forgotten everything except for the way her
dark eyes flashed fire, her ridiculous phrase about primitive urges and the
white-hot stab of lust slicing through him like an inferno sweeping across dry
timber.

He'd been an operative long enough to know that desire and
adrenaline were twin cousins under tense situations. But that knowledge had
deserted him without a qualm, to be replaced by other knowledge. The certainty
that, if he'd pushed moments ago, he'd not be standing, still breathing
heavily, on one side of a two-foot thick wall right now, with her on the other
side.

He'd seen it in her gaze, anger giving way to wariness, wariness
slipping into desire, a heartbeat away from capitulation. He'd registered the
way her breath hitched a notch, her pulse escalated in the hollow of her
throat. One step, one minor movement forward and he'd know if she responded
with the same lightning quickness he'd observed in her thought process, if she
tasted as sweet as she looked.

And it was that thought that had stopped him cold. Days ago he'd
never have met Jane Richards, their paths would never have crossed, their
destinies never intermingled. But she'd been right earlier when she'd accused
him of forcing her into limited choices.

He'd brought her to Vendari, against his better judgment, and
thrust her into a mission fraught with danger on all sides. What kind of
low-life scum was he that he'd place her in more peril? The kind that came with
an emotional price tag.

He was going to do everything in his power to keep her safe, but
he couldn't do that if he led her into a physical relationship based on nothing
more than close quarters, fear and dependence on her side, dominance and power
on his. Like a lamb to slaughter, he could manipulate her total dependence on
him, her vulnerability without him, until she wouldn't know the difference
between her abductor and her angel.

But he would.

Maybe that few minutes was meant as a sign—a warning that for some
reason this woman tugged at emotions he'd thought locked and buried away, at
least as long as a mission was involved. And now that he knew, knew to tread
lightly, he could save them both pain.

The mission came first and, as long as Jane was a key component of
the mission, any feelings he might experience around her had either to be kept
strictly under control or downright ignored. Not easy, he accepted, crossing
into the room he was to occupy during the duration of this stay in Dubruchek.
Not easy at all when this librarian from Sioux Falls slipped through his best
defenses against personal involvement—with anyone.

But he'd handled difficult, if not impossible, tasks before. He
could, and would handle this one. Both of their lives, as well as the lives of
his team members depended on it.

Chapter 4

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^
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I
n spite of a night spent tossing and
turning, Jane did find herself feeling more refreshed in the morning. She
thought she could get used to sleeping between Irish linen sheets every night.
But even as the thought materialized it was followed quickly by reality. The
reality that this was going to be her first full day of playing Elena Rostov.
Or at least trying to.

"Is Major McConneghy awake?" she asked, already guessing
the answer. He didn't strike her as the kind of man who would lag around in
bed.

"The major wakes with the sun." Ekaterina walked back
and forth between the main bedroom and the walk-in closet, her hands busy with
dresses, accessories and shoes. "He swims each morning in the pool behind
the villa."

No wonder the man looked like he had abs of steel beneath khaki,
she thought. Not that she'd noticed. Much.

"And do you know where he is now?"

"He waits for you in the breakfast room."

"What?" That was the last thing she wanted. Setting
aside her coffee and hopping from the bed she raced toward the bathroom and a
shower. It was worse than being late for the weekly staff meeting and she
hadn't done that once in her four years of employment. What must the man think?
That she was a sluggard, a lazy-bones, avoiding her duty—or at least what he
saw as her duty.

It might not have been an issue, as she normally didn't take much
time to get ready in the morning anyway, but heading to a job as a librarian
hadn't meant much in the way of makeup, finishing her hair and accessorizing
her wardrobe. Being Elena might be harder than she had first thought. On the
other hand, maybe Elena, being a real princess, was allowed to lie around and
do nothing. Oh, why hadn't she read the
National Enquirer
more closely?

Sure Major McConneghy would be pounding on the door any minute,
Jane tugged on the outfit Ekaterina had laid out for her. It looked like a
jogging suit made of washed silk. Maybe that's what well dressed queens-to-be
wore to eat breakfast. No one in their right mind would exercise in such a
suit. At least not exercise and sweat.

Remembering all too well the major's last command to her the night
before, she called for Ekaterina to accompany her and all but ran to the dining
room.

Skidding around the last corner and coming to a full halt outside
a room bright with early-morning sunshine she wondered why the room left little
impression on her. Not with
the major
sitting there. He should have looked out of place amidst its cheeriness, he of
the pressed chino pants and casual shirt, every crease in place. But of course,
he didn't. He sat there, an elegant china cup raised partway to his lips, his
dark brows arched in a V, his eyes as still as an Arctic lake.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she exhaled, sure she could
explain, though it looked as if it might be an uphill job, considering the
man's impenetrable expression.

"You're not late." He glanced at his watch and added,
"In fact, you're almost two hours early by Elena time."

"Elena time?" The question came out a little
breathlessly as she scooted into the closest chair, hating the fact she could
feel perspiration clinging to the back of her silk shirt. "Just what is
Elena time?"

"Simple. It's always two hours after everyone else has
assembled."

"You mean Ele—" she quickly glanced around the room,
noting Ekaterina had already left them before she lowered her voice and
continued, "You mean I'm habitually late?"

"No." He reached for a croissant nestled in a basket.
"Being late implies you know when a function is scheduled to begin. Elena
time is an orchestrated move guaranteed to let all and sundry know that the
most important person has just arrived. It's a very effective ploy."

He said it so calmly, she thought. Such slashing, cruel words
would have devastated her. But she wasn't really Elena, she reminded herself,
reaching for the carafe of coffee.

"I don't know if I can do that." She hadn't realized
she'd voiced her thoughts aloud until the major shot her one of his enigmatic
glances.

"We'll make excuses for such inconsistencies."

She spread butter on a croissant and shook her head when he
offered her some jam. "I have a feeling there's going to be a lot of
explaining to do."

"We'll take care of it."

All too clearly she remembered the king's cryptic comment from
that small, cramped room. "Your job is to fix problems."

Major McConneghy appeared perfect for his job.

"You're wearing perfume."

Leave it to a man like McConneghy to notice, she thought, feeling
the heat begin to climb into her face.

"Ekaterina said it's my favorite."

"It suits you." He looked at her over the rim of his
cup. "Enticing yet innocent. Though smelling of sunshine and soap also
suits you."

Not sure what he meant by his words, or if she was ready to know,
she quickly changed the subject. "What's on the schedule today?"

"Drills."

"Drills?"

"A future queen must know how to walk, to talk, to address
her superiors and inferiors. There is a lot to learn."

Jane wanted to groan aloud. Somehow she thought it'd all make more
sense by the light of day. But it didn't.

As if he guessed her thoughts he pitched his voice lower.
"The more you learn now, the less likely you'll make a mistake
later."

Like she needed reminding.

"Fine." The word came out sharp. "Let's get started
then."

"First, you eat something." He spoke as if talking to a
child. "We have a long day ahead of us and I won't have you fainting on
me."

"I've never fainted in my life."

He leaned forward. "You've never taken lessons in deportment
before, either."

Jeesh. How hard could it be? she thought, picking up and biting into
a ripe plum. Being a queen couldn't be that much harder than actually working
for a living. Could it?

She found out several hours later.

If she'd thought the major was diabolical before, it was nothing
to what she felt about him after four straight hours of "drill." The
man was a sadist.

Stand. Sit. Walk straight. Curtsey. Smile. Wave. Stand up
straighter. Who'd have thought there was a way to graciously sit in a chair by
approaching it backwards. Or three different kinds of waves to use when
communicating from far away. Or six kinds of forks to choose from at official
state dinners.

Her jaw hurt from smiling. Her fingers cramped from waving and
gesturing. Her knees ached from rising and lowering herself into five different
kinds of chairs.

And all through it Major Lucius McConneghy just kept saying,
"Now do it again."

She wanted to throttle him.

By the time they took a break for a light lunch she felt as if
running a marathon, cold turkey, would be better than being a queen-to-be.