Unfaded Glory (8 page)

He steeled himself and finally stole a glance at her when Gregson announced they were landing at Dulles Airport outside D.C. She'd tried to hide how his words had made her feel, but the more proper and royal she became, the more he knew he'd hurt her.

Hawkins decided as soon as he saw Renner, he'd tell him he was going back to finish Grisha. A one-two pop to the back of the head with a 9 mm would handle what the .38 to the chest couldn't.

She shifted, trying to get comfortable in her seat, but she didn't complain.

He knew she wouldn't. It would be beneath her to complain. Uncouth.

“After Dulles it will be about three more hours to Kansas City, and then another hour home.”

Home. Not that Glory was really his home.

And not that he'd even accepted he was going.

“What's Glory like?”

Hell?

The look on her face was hopeful, earnest, so he tried to think of something good to say. “It's not flat. Everyone thinks that all of Kansas is flat, but it's rather hilly in some places. Where I lived, we're only a few hours from the Ozarks, so there are glacial hills. Glory and Fort Glory were strategic points on the Missouri River, a gateway to the West.”

“Like cowboys and gunfights?” She perked.

“Yes. There's a small town close to Glory where Jesse James was born.”

“So much history in one place. We were always taught that America is new, so everything must be new. But you revere your history as much as Castallegna.”

Not my history,
he wanted to say. Never his own. Maybe his country's, but Glory had nothing for him now.

“If you like ghosts, we're close to Atchison, Kansas, and they have a restaurant that used to be a whorehouse. Legend has it, the ghosts of the women will sit at your table with you.”

She laughed. “Now you're teasing me.”

“No, I'm dead serious.”

“Can we go eat there?”

“We'll take the whole ghost-hunting tour if you want.” Christ, what was he promising her? He wasn't going to be around long enough to take her on a tour. She shouldn't even be going to Glory. What was he thinking?

“Were you the class quarterback who dated all the cheerleaders?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“I never dated them.” Taking them for a ride in his dad's Bimmer and banging them under a slide in the park couldn't be considered dating.

“Did you play sports?”

“Nah, that wasn't me. I was the guy in the leather jacket under the bleachers with the cheerleaders. I was the guy they took home to piss off their daddies. I was the kid with an ADHD diagnosis and I sold my pills for cigarette money until my parents shipped me off to a school for ‘behavior modification.' My rap sheet was as long as my arm before I joined the rangers.”

She tightened her seat belt as they descended to land. “Special Forces? I'd love to hear more about that.”

“Didn't last very long.” He hoped the way he clipped his words would keep her from digging any deeper.

She seemed to be content to let the conversation die, and neither of them spoke again until they disembarked and were taken to a private part of the airport used for maintenance.

They were surrounded by men in suits, with Bluetooth earpieces, leather gloves and guns. Yeah, that was subtle.

Renner was a tall man with a thick gray handlebar mustache and hair cropped close to his head. He reminded Byron of Sam Elliott in more than just his appearance.

He didn't bother with introductions. “Our plans have changed.”

“That's not surprising.” Byron arched a brow, daring Renner to take him to task for anything.

Renner returned the expression and the dare. “By leaving Grisha Kulokav alive, you've stirred the crap pot to a full boil.”

“Come on,” he drawled. “She's a princess. There was going to be an international incident no matter what happened. Save your spin for the oversight committee.” He already knew that Daniel Renner wasn't about to change his mind concerning whatever he'd concocted. He could tell by the tone of voice, the set to his jaw and the look in his eyes. Made Byron want to cuss all over again.

Renner gave him a lazy smirk. “Glad you brought up spin because this is how we're going to play it. We can't deny what happened on
Circe's Storm.
I really would've thought Kulokav wouldn't have admitted to trying to kidnap the princess, but he says they're engaged. Abele Petrakis had the engagement ratified by the Council while Grisha was sent to retrieve her.”

Byron didn't see any discernible difference in Damara. Her expression was one of serenity, but he just knew. He could feel her fear as if it were his own.

He didn't care for that.

Not at all.

Not her fear or the man who put it there. Yet again, he'd failed. And, yet again, someone was in danger because of him.

“I'm going to kill him.” He growled low in his throat like a wild animal and Damara put her hand on his arm like a mistress holding back a mastiff.

“I'm sure you will, but it's going to be a while unless you can find a way to kill him from Glory.”

“I'm not going to Glory,” Byron said with surety.

“Yes, you are. Otherwise the spin won't work. And this has been approved at the highest levels. Do you understand what that means? This is a matter of national security.”

What Renner was actually saying was that the plan was the plan, and if Hawkins didn't get his ducks in line, he'd go to prison as an unperson. They'd shove him in a hole so deep no one would ever find him.

Damara was attuned to the doublespeak. “Whatever your plan is, I'd rather have a protector who is willing. Mr. Hawkins kept me safe and got me here. I don't think I, or Castallegna, could ask any more of him.”

“Good thing you're not asking and I'm telling, then, right?” Renner grinned.

And Byron was reminded of Foxworth's grinning rictus.
More to life than this, hoss.

Byron gritted his teeth. What the hell did that even mean now? More to life than war? Yeah, he knew that for some men there was. But not for Byron.

“Listen to me. We've already released a statement. Byron, you're a ranger. You never resigned. You were sent to aid the princess, but you fell in love. It's going to be just like the Bahrain princess and the marine. People will understand wanting freedom for your country, but the world at large has a thing for star-crossed lovers.” Renner focused his attention on Damara. “People will move mountains for love.”

“Didn't they get divorced?” Byron drawled, barely able to keep his anger leashed.

“They did. So we will give them something new to believe in. Something new to hope for. This isn't a girl rebelling against her parents. This is a woman running from a brutal man who'd hurt her, who traffics in people, drugs and arms. And she fell in love with the man who saved her. We're going to give the world a hero, Hawkins. And that's you.”

Every word was a bullet of higher caliber than the last. “You know why it can't be me.”

“Uganda doesn't matter now. For your sake and for hers, you have to put it behind you. Because this is already done. We need that base in Castallegna. What part of
national security
did you miss?”

“National security doesn't mean it has to be me.”

“Yes, it does. Kulokav is alive. Your cover is blown. Your picture has been all over the world news networks for the last six hours. There is no one who doesn't know your face. Your work as an operative is done. Do this job and you'll be set for life. Pension, benefits, hazard pay...whatever you want.”

Then what would he do with himself? Byron felt as if his whole life, as piss-poor as it was, had just been jerked out from under him.

“You don't know what you've done.” With no way to channel his aggression, the dark beast that seemed to live inside him, he didn't know what he would do.

“What I had to.” Renner nodded. “Get back on the plane. Go to Glory. I've made arrangements for you there. I'll be in touch.”

Byron wanted to roar, to rage, but instead he stood, frozen.

Damara moved her hand on his shoulder, and he jerked away from her. Being near her just made it worse.

He had no outlet for his desire or the need for destruction that filled him. Byron felt as if his skin was nothing more than an organic casing for rage that could erupt at any time.

CHAPTER SIX

T
HEY
HAD
TO
PLAY
at being in love, and he couldn't even stand to touch her.

Damara knew he was angry. Angry at Renner, angry at whatever had happened to him in Uganda, but he was angry at her, as well.

She probably deserved it because she could have complained more loudly, more vociferously. After all, their plan couldn't work without her compliance. But after further consideration, she knew Renner was right. This was the best way.

She remembered the story of the princess and the marine. She'd watched the movie, and, at first, she'd been so grateful she had a father who would let her marry whoever she loved. After his death, she'd thought about how nice it would be to have someone save her from Abele.

Even though Byron had saved her in a sense, her purpose was to save her people. This wasn't about some fantasy. Even though she'd played it that way in her head just a little bit.

They were going to be trapped together on the plane for another three hours. She didn't want to spend it in brooding silence or pretending to read books she didn't care about.

“If I find a way out of this, will you take it?” His voice startled her.

Maybe she did want to spend it in silence, after all. “I don't see any other way, but yes. If you find a reasonable way out of this that will still protect my people, I will take it.”

“I'm trying to protect
you.
”

“Don't worry about me. I already told you, you're not responsible for me. I'm responsible for myself.”

“If you don't need me to be responsible for you, then why am I here?”

“Because you're bigger, stronger and you might be faster. Oh, and you have more guns. But I'm not helpless, Byron. And, frankly, it's offensive that you think I am. Needing help doesn't mean I'm helpless.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But you did.” She watched his expression. “You do. Every time you say that something is your fault, or I'm going to get hurt because of something you did or didn't do, you're intimating I can't make my own choices and I'm not responsible for them. I am. I'm responsible for a
nation.
” She sounded much more confident than she felt.

“You don't understand. I can't do this. I can't.”

“I'm not letting you off here. You talked about your purpose in the world and how you justify it? Walking away from me and this mission would be failure.”

He reared forward so his face was inches from hers. “Shut your mouth about things you don't understand, Princess.”

The growl was back.

A prickle of awareness skittered down her back. They were being watched. She looked over her shoulder to see a pack of paparazzi watching from the gate area as they headed toward the plane. She hadn't expected to have to face them so soon, but Mr. Renner must have wanted them to get ahead of the buzz before her brother could influence the media.

Rather than be intimidated by his anger, she leaned into him. “We're on.” She smashed her lips into his. His fingers dug harshly into her waist, but she didn't care.

She couldn't. It didn't matter what this cost either of them. It was the only way.

Instead, she focused on what it felt like to kiss him. She didn't know his anger could have a taste, but it did. It was like salt, but still it was good. Still lit a fire only he could extinguish.

Damara broke the kiss and waved up at the crowd before reboarding the plane behind him.

If she'd thought their heated kiss would have soothed him, it had only cranked him higher.

“Don't ever do that again,” he snarled.

“Then do your job,” she volleyed, unaffected by his warning.

“Is that what you want? You want to be just a job to me? What happened to your earlier wish?”

His barb struck home. “Wish in one hand, Hawkins, and goat crap in the other.”

“You're going to be sorry for this, Damara. Mark my words.”

She narrowed her eyes. She knew in her bones that Byron wasn't threatening her. So she called him on it. “You'd never hurt me,” Damara whispered, drawing the sting out of their interaction.

He looked at her, eyes haunted. “Oh, but I will. I won't mean to, but I will.”

“Byron.” His name was a plea, and she reached out to cup his face, the scruff of his unshaven chin rough on her hands. “You won't.” She shook her head. “I won't let you.”

“I don't want your pity.”

“Of course you don't. Who would? Pity is a form of snobbery and condescension. I won't say I understand
your
pain. I don't know what you've been through because you won't tell me. But I will say I understand pain itself. Loss. Guilt. Those aren't unique to you. You're not alone in your suffering.”

“I should be,” he answered darkly.

“But you're not. We're in this together, Byron, whether we want to be or not.”

“When this blows up in your face, don't say I didn't warn you.”

Damara supposed it was wrong on some level that all she wanted to do now was kiss him again. As if that could siphon off his pain and replace it with only good things. She knew she was deluding herself. She couldn't fix whatever was broken in him, but she wanted to shelter him until he could mend himself.

She slid over into the seat next to him, offering him comfort. Damara made him look at her, her fingers on his chin the same as he'd done to her.

“I won't. I promise.” She nodded to emphasize her point.

“Don't depend on me.” He said it like a warning even as his arm slipped around her shoulders.

“I won't. I'll depend on myself.” She already did depend on him. She needed his presence. She felt stronger, more confident just knowing he was near, but she'd never make the mistake of telling him that.

Damara decided that she found this seat next to him much more comfortable than the other one she'd chosen and she stayed there, close to him in the cocoon of quiet acceptance they'd wrought until they landed at Kansas City International.

She wasn't naive enough to think that all his rage and resentment would go away, but for now, in this moment, there was acceptance and peace. Damara had learned that it was those moments she had to choose to live in, whatever happened.

As soon as they walked up the jet bridge, they were met by a woman dressed sharply in white. “I'm Sonja White, and I'm your PR liaison. There is a starving pack of paparazzi waiting to meet you. For now, you are to say you have no comment, but they will be invited to a press junket in Glory. Got it?” She flashed Damara a smile.

Damara decided the woman had too many teeth, like a piranha. That smile wasn't honest and, as her father would say, it wasn't going to launch any ships. Something about her put Damara off, but she nodded.

She knew what she was doing with the press. She'd trained for this all her life.

Sonja wasn't kidding. They were mobbed by cameras and lights, microphones shoved in their faces. When a cameraman got a little too close, Byron immediately placed himself between her and the man, the intent to do violence written plainly on his face.

Sonja had already lost control of the group.

Damara flashed her best princess smile. She crept out from behind Byron and put a hand on his chest to stay him, and he eased back.

So did the crowd, but she asked for more. “Space please, ladies and gentlemen.”

They responded to her calm, cool manner, and she fixed each person on the front lines of the mob with her best princess smile.

When they'd all moved to a distance she was comfortable with, she spoke again. “I'm Princess Damara Petrakis of Castallegna. I know you all have questions, but we've been through quite an ordeal in the past few days. Of which I'd be happy to tell you all about at the press junket in Glory, Kansas. You can get details from our PR liaison, Sonja White.”

“Is it true you're fleeing an arranged marriage to a Russian gangster?” a voice asked.

“Please, as I said, we'll take all of your questions after we've had a chance to rest.” She leaned back against Byron, and his arms came around her so easily, so naturally, she'd swear it was a habit born of years rather than hours.

They cut a path through the crowd, leaving Sonja to deal with the mess.

“You handled that very well,” he told her.

Damara was getting to where she liked praise from him better than chocolate. That simply wasn't to be tolerated because she knew it wouldn't last. This arrangement wasn't permanent, and she had a feeling that before all of this was over, he'd hate her.

“Thank you.”

“There's our car.” He pointed at a black car.

“How do you know?”

“Government plates.” He indicated the tags on the back.

The door opened for them, and Byron made sure she was secured before he got into the car. Just like her other bodyguards.

Exhaustion and relief swept over her. She hadn't realized how tired she was, or that she'd been figuratively holding her breath, until the car was in motion. She sagged against him.

“I wasn't kidding when I said we'd been through a lot in the past few days. I think every bone in my body hurts. Even my face.”

“It's about an hour to reach Glory. Then you can sleep for as long you want, Princess. But let me warn you, it's nothing like Barcelona. There won't be any room service.”

“I don't even care. The first thing I want to do is eat your McDonald's. Then I want to sleep for a year. Maybe a bath.”

“Do you have McDonald's on Castallegna?”

“No. They wanted to put in a few restaurants, but Abele said no when they wouldn't pay him a ‘finder's fee.' But they made us their French fries and they were so good.”

“The people will like that.”

“What?”

“A French-fry-eating princess.”

“They will like the hero who saved the princess, too.”

“As long as no one forgets this is just a role and I'm not a hero.”

She wasn't going to argue with him about it, so she said nothing. Her brain had latched on to the idea of a bath. Of sitting and soaking away the bad parts of the past few days but keeping the good.

Only, thinking of Byron and water... She remembered what it was like when he allowed her to touch him freely. To enjoy him and, in turn, be enjoyed.

She supposed having been intimate with the man she was to pretend to be in love with made it that much easier.

“And in that vein, I think when we're alone, we should keep touching to the minimum.”

She realized she'd dropped her head on his shoulder. “I'm sorry.” Damara straightened. “But I don't agree. Who knows how long we'll have to use this ruse, and it'll be hard to protect me if you're sitting a mile away from me.”

“This is my line in the sand, Damara. Don't push me on this.”

“Renner said—”

“Renner is cordially invited to go play a hearty game of hide-and-go-fuck-himself, and he's a quarter behind.”

She had no idea what that meant, but she knew it wasn't a good thing. “This isn't going to work.”

“No, and I told him that.”

She gritted her teeth. “Fine. Maybe we can say that it wasn't you. That you were the guy my fiancé sent to retrieve me. That we were already in love somehow.”

He perked. “That might work.”

His eagerness to embrace that scenario hurt more than it should have. He was right. Sleeping with him had been a mistake. She might not have done it if she'd known that night in Barcelona wasn't their last. This was too hard. She was supposed to pretend to be intimate with a man she was already intimate with, but also had to pretend that intimacy meant nothing to her. It was too much, too complicated.

“Yeah. It might.” She leaned against the car door and watched the scenery go by. Damara didn't want to say anything else to him. She couldn't, not without her throat constricting and all her stupid little-girl ideas getting crushed under his boot.

Damara knew that's what they were, but that didn't stop her from wanting to hold on to them anyway.

* * *

S
HE
DIDN
'
T
UNDERSTAND
, but Byron didn't expect her to. He just couldn't have her touching him all the time, clinging to him, pretending to be his when she wasn't.

And never could be.

He knew his rejection stung, but better to sting now than damage later. Because he wouldn't stop with the soft touches, the way she burrowed into him. He'd move his hands up the back of her spine, or down to her hips; he'd cup her perfect breasts, kiss her full lips... And, silly girl that she was, she'd let him.

Byron was already hard with want and she made him feel as if he was a kid again with no idea how to handle his own needs.

There was part of him that had listened to everything she'd said and believed it. It was louder now than it had ever been. She said she was a woman in charge of her own destiny so he should take her up on everything she offered and not look back. Not look forward.

Just look at now.

Byron knew she deserved better than that.

It was all worse now that he was coming back to Glory. He didn't want to be here. The familiar sights as the car passed over the bridge and into Glory didn't bring him the ease it might have brought some people coming home after all these years. Not Byron Hawkins. The last time he'd passed through Kansas City, he hadn't even bothered to make the drive.

Now the familiar sights and smells turned his stomach, knotted it up with knitting needles.

The town had been decorated for Christmas, little wreaths and bells hung off light posts and everything that would stand still long enough to be draped in evergreen. Santa decals adorned a lot of the storefronts, along with fake snow and cozy winter scenes. Sweet Thing advertised a new kind of hot chocolate and “dipping biscuits,” whatever the hell those were. The Corner Pharmacy offered a Winter Wonderland Shake, probably some monstrosity of eggnog and cinnamon. The local theater showed scheduled performances of
The Nutcracker
on the old-fashioned marquee.