by Mary Buckham
"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.
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Jane'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 sunlig
ht 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.
