The Makeover Mission

by Mary Buckham

  She willed herself to look away, to break the contact of his gaze pinning hers, and caught herself wondering what was in the glass he insisted she drink. More drugs? Something to keep her quiet and compliant? Until what? Or when?

  "It's just water."

  "Then you take a drink first." She thrust it back into his hands, surprised she dared such a thing, even more surprised when he accepted it and took a long, slow draught, his gaze never leaving hers over the edge of the glass.

  "It will help with the dry mouth." He pressed it back into her hands. Obviously this man had dealt with drugged women before. Not a comforting thought. "Later, if you want, I'll get you some aspirin for your headache."

  Yes, he definitely knew the aftereffects. Just who was this guy? And what did he want with her?

  She watched him rise to his feet and cross to a chair several feet away. Only then did she sip from the glass, thankful for the cool sensation soothing her too-dry throat, yet wary as to why he was being so solicitous. He remained quiet until she had finished most of the water and placed the glass on a coffee table before her.

  It was only then that she sat up and looked around her. Looked around and felt the flip-flop of her stomach. They were no longer in the small, cramped room. It looked like a plane, but not the passenger kind.

  Instead it looked like a living room, with carpeted floors, two butternut-brown leather chairs on both sides of the couch she was sitting on, end tables and a series of oval windows on either side which showed nothing but blue, blue sky. With a feeling of detachment, or maybe it was hysteria again, she was glad to find that here at least she wasn't tied to anything.

  Not that she could make a run for it thousands of feet in the air, she thought, sure it was hysteria making her want to shake her head and close her eyes again.

  But Gray-eyes had his own agenda.

  "We're thirty-two thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean," he remarked, his voice calm and level. "We should be landing in a little over two hours, given our present rate of speed."

  "Landing where?"

  "Dubruchek."

  "And Dubruchek is where?" Jane wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shaking.

  "Dubruchek is the capital city of Vendari. A small, very important mountain country in the Balkans."

  "Important to whom?"

  "To a lot of people." He shifted in his seat, leaning forward, his fingers splayed across his knees as if they were discussing the weather. It was then she saw the gun peeping out from a shoulder holster he wore and knew, like a swift kick to the head, that this was not a dream. It was a nightmare.

  "I know this is all very confusing."

  That was an understatement if she'd ever heard one. But something in his look told her he'd have little patience for pithy comments.

  "Vendari is a monarchy sandwiched between two larger, and unstable countries, which makes it of strategic importance to the United States."

  Great, she wakes up to a strange man and a throbbing head only to get a geography lesson.

  He continued. "It's a monarchy with its own history of bloodshed and violence. Its last king, Zhitomir Vassilivich Tarkioff, was assassinated twenty years ago."

  "And this means what?"

  "Since then they've undergone two attempted coups." He was ignoring her. "Again, not without bloodshed."

  "What does this have to do with me?"

  His gaze asked for patience, his voice gave nothing away.

  "Today Vendari is ruled by King Viktor Stanislaus Tarkioff."

  "The man with the medals?" It was a wild guess, but obviously right on target as she saw his glance narrow, his hands tighten minutely.

  "Yes, the man with the medals."

  "And what is his relationship to Elena?"

  Instead of answering directly, Gray-eyes leaned back in his seat, his gaze shifting to scan the horizon out the row of small windows, his expression blank.

  She thought he might have sighed before he turned to face her again. "Elena Illanya Rostov is the king's fiancée."

  If she thought pushing for answers was going to make things clearer, she was wrong. She was more confused now than when they had started this bizarre conversation.

  "I don't get it." Ignoring the pain it caused, she shook her head, and tightened the grip of her hands wrapped around her arms. "Why does it matter that I look like this Elena Ro…Ros…"

  "Rostov."

  "Why does it matter that I look like her?"

  "Take my word for it that it does. That's all."

  Obviously she wasn't going to get any more information. At least for now. He rose from his seat, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of pressed khaki pants, uneasy about something. He walked away and she guessed it did not bode well for her.

  Lucius glanced out the window, seeing nothing, buying time, even seconds worth of time. How had things unraveled so quickly? Had it been only minutes ago that he was thankful Jane Richards wasn't in hysterics or fighting him tooth and nail? Not that he'd blame either reaction. But he wasn't getting that.

  His limited research had informed him she'd taken a job as a librarian straight out of college, was dependable and conscientious in her habits, didn't even have an outstanding parking ticket to her name and, if a bit boring, could be expected to behave in a rational manner.

  What they had neglected to discover was that she was also a woman who had a quick and ready intelligence. One able to control herself under the most extreme circumstances, and one who was unlikely to accept pat and pretty answers about what was going on.

  Things were going to hell in a hand basket.

  "You're not answering my question." She sounded almost prissy.

  If he didn't think it would get him into hot water he'd smile at her tone. Didn't she realize he was the one in the position of dictating—not her?

  He turned to face her, wondering if he was doing it for her sake—or his own. "Elena Rostov plays a very pivotal part in the politics of Vendari. She's the daughter of one of the king's leading rivals for power."

  "So her marriage to the king consolidates power in the country."

  "Exactly."

  "I still don't see why it's important that I look like her."

  "Because early last month there was an assassination attempt against her."

  Silence hung in the air. McConneghy could tell to the second when she grasped what he was saying.

  "If Elena dies, the country could be plunged back into civil war?"

  "Not could. Would. There's no doubt about it. Her family has a distant contention to the throne. If she's killed it will be seen as an attempt to discredit her family's future ties to the royal family."

  "So you're trying to make sure that the marriage goes through."

  "Once Elena and the king are married, her value as a political pawn is decreased."

  "Because?"

  "Before her marriage Elena is seen as much as a daughter to her father, Pavlov Rostov, as a fiancée to the king. After the marriage—"

  "After the marriage, if she's killed, the king or his family will no longer be the prime suspects."

  He'd definitely have to watch himself around this one, he thought, admiration—and wariness—increasing.

  "So where do I come in?"

  Seconds ticked past while he grappled for the right words. As if there could be "right words" in a situation like this. "We need a stand-in for Elena. Until the wedding."

  "A what?" She rose to her feet now, facing him across the cabin, all color drained from her face.

  "We need a volunteer to take Elena's place until the wedding."

  "A volunteer?"

  "Just until the wedding."

  "To do what?"

  It was getting sticky. "To take over her official duties. To portray her in public."

  The silence thickened until he could have sworn he heard the pilots breathing in the cockpit.

  "Portray her in public?"

  "Just routine. At this time she has no real du
ties, but she's appearing among the people before the wedding so that they feel a part of the process."

  "You want a guinea pig." Her voice rose an octave. So she wasn't as calm as he might originally have thought. "No. No, make that a target. A sacrificial lamb."

  He could lie to her. Tell her he'd do everything in his power to protect her, which he planned to do, anyway. But there was something in her gaze that made him hesitate. He could appreciate someone who wanted the truth—the unvarnished truth—rather than platitudes.

  "That's exactly what we need."

  She swayed. He moved to prevent her crumpling to the floor, but at the last second she raised her hands, warding him off. He told himself he deserved her lack of trust. But that didn't mean he liked it.

  She lowered herself to the couch, perching on the very edge of the leather cushions, her fingers curled into the fabric as if she was holding on for dear life. When she glanced at him he saw the confusion, the disbelief in her gaze. If he'd felt like pond scum before, he felt like bottom sludge now.

  "Who are you?"

  It was a fair question, just not one he had expected so soon. "My name's McConneghy. Lucius McConneghy."

  "Major McConneghy."

  Yes, he'd definitely have to watch himself around her.

  "Major Lucius McConneghy."

  "Which branch of the military?"

  This is where things started to really get sticky. "It's an obscure bureau tucked in a back corner of the Pentagon."

  "But it's one that allows you to abduct and drug unsuspecting civilians in broad daylight and transfer them, against their will, to small eastern European countries?"

  "Something like that."

  "Aren't there laws against that type of thing? Or do you think yourself above the law?"

  He tried to ignore the disdain in her voice, but couldn't. Then he wondered why it didn't just slide off his back as it should.

  "There are times when laws have to be bent."

  "Semantics."

  "Reality."

  She was glaring at him now. No longer looking as though she'd crumple and fold, for which he was grateful.

  "There are people who're going to notice I'm gone."

  He heard the hope and knew he had no choice but to crush it. Hope might cause her to take unacceptable risks, putting both her life and the lives of his team at risk. So why did it feel as if he was destroying a child's vision of Santa Claus? Sometimes he hated his job.

  "The library has been notified there's an illness in your family. That you'll be away for some time."

  "You know I work at a library?" She shook her head, obviously not comprehending the means available to someone like him to meet a strategic objective.

  "Of course you know." She slid back against the cushions, her shoulders slumped, her voice less forceful. "What else have you taken care of?"

  "We've canceled your speaking engagement for the grant-writing seminar, asked your landlady to look after your cat until you return and have arranged to have your bills automatically paid, courtesy of Uncle Sam."

  If he thought he would interject a little levity into the situation he was dead wrong. Her gaze, when she raised it to his, was as bleak as any he'd ever seen. And that was saying a lot.

  "I have friends—"

  "Not a lot I'm afraid. And they've received word that you're off to visit an elderly sick aunt. Aunt Dorothy."

  "I don't have an aunt Dorothy."

  "We know it. Fortunately, from our perspective, you do not have many close friends." He watched her shoulders slump more and felt like a heel. But she had to know where she stood. "In fact, very few know you outside of your work. Your parents are both dead. No siblings. No lovers."

  She blushed, keeping her gaze averted as she mumbled, "So you've made me disappear with no one the wiser?"

  "Yes."

  "And what if I don't want to play stand-in for this Elena? What if I refuse?"

  "You have no choice."

  "Meaning what exactly?"

  Time to play hardball. He sat back in the chair, making sure he enunciated each word clearly. There'd be no doubt here. Neither one of them could afford it. "You can agree to play the part of Ms. Rostov, attending functions, being seen in public, doing what any young woman would do on the eve of her marriage—"

  "Or?"

  "Or Elena Rostov can be devastated from her recent ordeal and need to be kept under sedation until she's feeling better."

  "You'd drug me? Again?"

  He couldn't be swayed by the despair he heard in her voice, nor the silent appeal he read in her gaze.

  "Yes, if we had to, we'd drug you. It's up to you."

  "Even if it meant that, being drugged, I'd have no chance at all against someone trying to kill me?"

  She caught on quick.

  "You'll have all the protection we're able to—"

  "Enough." She shot to her feet, pacing to the far side of the plane as if she wanted to put as much distance as possible between them.

  "I might not have a lot of experience in this sort of thing, but I'm not a total idiot, either. If you were so sure you could provide total protection you'd have no problem with Elena continuing as she has been."

  No, this woman was definitely not slow on the uptake.

  "I could lie to you."

  She speared him a withering glance. Who'd have thought dark eyes could hold such fire?

  He changed his tactics, if not his tone. "Do you want me to tell you what we're asking doesn't hold risks?"

  "It'd be a lie. And you're not asking."

  "You have a choice here."

  "Not much of one. You've made darn good and sure of that."

  "We didn't create the situation, Ms. Richards."

  "But you brought me into it. Against my will. Without my knowledge." She paused, gulping air before she added. "And now you have the audacity to tell me I have a choice."

  Yeah, the lady saw too clearly what she was up against.

  He rose to his feet and glanced at his watch. "It might be best if you thought of it as a service to your country. A vital service. We'll be landing within an hour. I have some things to see to in the cockpit." Which was an out-and-out lie, but right then the only thing he could think to give to her was space and a little time. A very little time. "I'll need your decision when I return."

  He didn't wait for her answer. As she had pointed out, there wasn't much to choose between. But for her sake, and the sake of the mission, he hoped she'd make the right choice. If she didn't, well he'd deal with that if and when the need came.

  Jane watched Gray-eyes, or Major McConneghy, or whatever he wanted to call himself walk silently from the cabin space and disappear through a metal door marked Private. She waited until she heard the click of the door being closed before she gave in to what she'd wanted to do since she'd opened her eyes. With a small oath her co-workers from the library never would have suspected she knew, she sank into the nearest chair, her legs no longer capable of holding her. Her head slipped into her hands, despair finally overcoming her outrage, her fear, her confusion.

  How dare some nameless government agency snatch her from her sane, comfortable world and force her to become a target in some obscure country's game of survival? And force was the operative word. Even the major didn't pretend there was much of an option. For that at least she was thankful. Not that she was willing to give the man points for anything else.

  It didn't take a high IQ to know he was the brains behind this crazy scheme. That he was the puppet master, pulling strings and disrupting lives with as much compassion as a sponge soaked in vinegar.

  She glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was a little after ten in the morning. Which morning she wasn't sure, but she did know exactly what she'd be doing if some grim-lipped major hadn't changed everything.

  She'd have been at work for a little over an hour. If it was Wednesday, the weekly staff meeting would just be finishing and she'd be rotating from the main circulation desk t
o the information desk. She'd handle questions, from the obvious to the esoteric, feeling as if, in her small way, she was helping others.

  So what if she didn't have a large social life outside of the library? Or really any, to speak of. The stark facts the major laid out before her were pretty bleak. No family, no friends, no life. How did he phrase it? No lovers. But it still was her life. She should be the one in control of it.

  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."