The Makeover Mission

by Mary Buckham

  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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  In 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 almo
st 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.

  As if he read her thoughts, a talent he was particularly adept at, McConneghy handed her a slice of cheese and said. "This morning was easy compared to what's coming."

  The man was a font of good news.

  "Didn't your parents ever tell you if you couldn't say something nice, not to say anything at all?" she snapped back, too tired to care about the tone of her voice.

  He actually had the gall to smile. Something that made little butterflies spring to life in her stomach, fluttering around the knots already there.

  But he didn't respond directly. Instead he looked at a clipboard in his hand. "This afternoon the hair stylist will be here. And the manicurist."

  Without thinking Jane's hands reached for the ends of her hair. "Don't tell me Elena has one of those short, chic haircuts."

  "You're Elena and no." His eyes swept over her in a way that made her want to blush and stammer before his cold, matter-of-fact voice added. "There won't be much change."

  "How are you explaining the need to…" she waved her hands before her. "The need to fix me?"

  "These are not Elena's regular people," he replied. "We couldn't risk them noting the differences."

  The man thought of everything.

  "Come on," he motioned before she'd even finished her last bite, one she didn't even taste over the exhaustion she felt. "Let's get going again."

  "Sadist," she mumbled to herself.

  At least she thought no one had heard, until he speared her with one of those penetrating gray-eyed glares. "Sadism would be to let you walk into a situation without any preparation. I'd prefer to think of this as protecting you."

  She mulled over his words the rest of the afternoon, keeping her own opinions to herself. It was too much effort to voice them, anyway. Maybe it was still shock, or jet lag, or her mind's inclination to retreat from something so out of her control, but by the time Major McConneghy called an end to the day she was ready to sink to her knees right then and there. The only thing that kept her upright and functional was the realization that he was waiting for her to do just that.

  It was in the way he watched her, the way he said little but implied much with his body language. But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. She'd fall apart later, in the privacy of her room. Or so she promised herself as she picked at a dinner served in the ballroom they were using as a training area.

  "If you don't eat, you won't keep up your strength," he said to her when she waved off the second course.

  "And if I eat I'll lose it all over your spit-and-polished shoes," she replied, wondering what had happened to the Jane who got along with everyone, who never uttered a rude word or spoke back.

  All of a sudden a question that had been bothering her resurfaced. She leaned forward and asked, "Exactly where is the other Elena? The real one, I mean."

  For a moment she thought he might not answer. Not that she learned all that much when he finally did. "That's need-to-know information."

  She sat back as if he'd slapped her. "And I obviously don't need to know."

  "Exactly."

  Well, she might not be experienced in the ways of the world, but she could translate do-not-enter signs as well as the next person. Choking down another slice of her rare roast beef, she set the rest aside, sure it would lodge in her throat. Why should it hurt that he wanted her to risk her life for this missing Elena, but didn't trust her to share all but the barest information?

  "All I can tell you is that she's recovering, away from Vendari. It'll be safer for you if you don't know any more details."

  His words caught her off guard and she found herself glancing up, surprised by the understanding she saw in his gaze, not trusting that it was really meant for her.

  Then the implication of his words set in. If she was killed outright it wouldn't make a speck of difference if she knew the whereabouts of the real Elena. But if she was kidnapped—again—then she could be tortured in an attempt to get her to reveal information she didn't know.

  Swallowing hard she pushed away the rest of her meal. Her stomach felt as if she'd taken a dive off a very high tower, knowing the ground was coming up, hard and fast.

 
"You can't keep skipping your meals and expect to function at top form."

  Major Miss-Nothing obviously thought he could control everything. Including her stomach. She had to remember her role here. She was part of a scheme—or mission, or whatever—and that was all. Not a person who was scared right down to the soles of her feet. Not a woman who might want to be comforted instead of admonished.

  She kept her voice calm when she knew it wanted to quiver as she lifted her gaze to the man across from her.

  "I will do what I need to do to get through this masquerade."

  "Mission."

  "And you'll do what you need to do. But—" she saw she had his attention by the way the lines bracketing his eyes deepened, the color of them intensifying. "—if you criticize everything I won't be able to function at all."

  He weighed her words. "That wasn't a criticism."

  "I think you're used to dealing with subordinates. I'm not, nor will I be treated like one."

  The old Jane would never have dared to confront another, especially one who glared at her with ice in his eyes. But a small part of her exalted.

  Silence spun between them. She vowed not to give in, not on this. A man like McConneghy would eat her alive if she let him. And while that challenged her at one level, or at least evoked some pretty heated images she had no business dwelling on, she needed some sense of control. Everything else had been taken from her—her sense of security, her identity, her freedom of choice, but she refused to be treated like a non-thinking, non-feeling robot.

  He reached for his drink, taking a long, slow sip, one that had her thinking about the taste of it upon his lips before she glanced away.

  "I will," he uttered at last, setting down his cup, "attempt to remember not to treat you as a subordinate."

  She gave him a smile, one that seemed to disconcert him, though she didn't have a clue why. "And I will remind you when you forget."

  "I have no doubt about that," came his dry answer, as he rose from the chair. Dinner was obviously over.

  But she had won. Not a battle perhaps, more like a skirmish. But she'd made her point, stuck to her guns and felt like skipping. Until he turned, remarking, "Gloating does not become you."