The Makeover Mission

by Mary Buckham

  Oh yes it did, she thought, not dimming her smile one bit as she followed him out of the room. She thought she could get used to gloating. Quite used to it.

  The next days passed in a blur to Jane. Rising with the sun, she repeated, over and over again, the same moves, the same comments, the same actions until she could do them in her sleep. She learned to crook one finger while sipping tea and to hold her head at an angle when listening with concentration, something the major said happened mostly when a man talked to Elena, very little when a woman did.

  Jane learned to keep her eyes downcast when thinking and to eat escargots without gagging. That lesson took a whole afternoon. But since the squishy, chewy morsels were one of Elena's favorites, the major was adamant that Jane practice eating them until she could without even a grimace. He even handed her a cool washcloth after the first two times her stomach revolted and she had to run to the nearest restroom.

  Protection her foot, the man was a sadist.

  But somewhere along the way she found herself hearing less and less often, "do it again" and more and more often, "that's right. Just like that."

  It was a little like absorbing someone else's thought patterns. Until the day that McConneghy told her to eat squid, dressed up in a fancy name and rich sauce.

  Jane simply glanced at him, then at the inch-long chunks on her plate, gave him an arch look and said, "Eat it yourself, Major, because I'm not going to."

  She set down her fork.

  Whatever she expected, it wasn't his grin, one that did marvelous things to the planes of his face.

  "I think you're there," he replied, ignoring her open-mouthed stare. "If that wasn't a queen-to-her-subject comment I don't know what is."

  "Then you think I'm ready?"

  He sobered immediately, his expression once again shuttered and closed. It was as if a light had been quickly extinguished and she wanted to shiver in the dark.

  "You're as ready as you'll ever be."

  So why didn't the words make her feel better?

  She was asking herself the same question when he met her outside her room that evening for dinner. A dinner they would not be having served to them in the training room.

  Jane tugged at the simple sheath of blue silk and wondered if the woman she was impersonating owned anything that didn't dip to here in front and there in back. She could swear there was less material in this dress than in the one she'd worn the day she had arrived in Vendari, and that said something. But there'd only been two choices that Ekaterina had laid out on the bed and who was Jane Richards to start pawing through that walk-in closet full of clothes to pick out something more appropriate? With her fashion sense she'd probably end up wearing pajamas and not know the difference.

  But on the other hand, she thought, feeling the slide of silk against her skin, it was a bit exciting to step into another's shoes—or in this case clothes—and find herself feeling sexy and provocative instead of competent and unremarkable.

  For the briefest of seconds she allowed herself to wonder if Major Gray-eyes would like this dress on her, before she ruthlessly shoved that idea away. There was no place for such thoughts, not when she knew she'd be a fool to believe the man would want someone like her—plain, everyday, ordinary Jane. That's what she was and a man like him would never look twice at her unless she was involved in one of his schemes, or missions, or whatever he wanted to call them.

  It must be the long days getting to her, something had to account for that briefest of expressions she'd thought she'd seen cross his face earlier. Or maybe it was just her imagination. She'd always thought of herself as sensible and rational, but then again she'd always thought that if you woke up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, you'd go to sleep there, too, and not on another continent in some mountain-ringed country that was ripe for revolution.

  She sensed his arrival before she heard him. Not that he made a lot of noise when he moved. The man walked like a cat. A sleek, predator kind of cat.

  If she thought she was going to receive a compliment from him, she was wrong. There was a quick scan that lingered overlong exactly where she felt most exposed, a tightening of his already stoic expression and a harsh, "Let's go."

  So much for wowing the opposite sex, she thought wryly, making a quick two-step to catch up with his long-legged stride down the hallway. The click of her heels across wooden then marble floors was the only sound between them until they descended down a waterfall of a stairway that looked as if it should be on a movie set. The kind of movie where the princess glided forward into the arms of the handsome prince.

  But not for her. All she did was catch her heel in one of the runners while she was busy gawking. She kept herself from pitching head-first over the rail by grabbing for it and felt the bite of the major's hand around her arm as he stabilized her, with a glacial glare from those gray eyes ordering her to behave herself.

  Nothing like an unspoken rebuke to put a little starch in one's backbone, she thought, waiting until she reached the bottom step and stability to tug her arm free, square her shoulders until she thought they might snap and ask with a frosty tone she was sure the wife-to-be of a king would use when necessary, "Which way?"

  They were in a part of the villa she'd never seen.

  "Straight ahead and to the left."

  Obviously hauteur didn't dent the man one bit. Neither did the fact that when they reached a room with a table large enough to seat a sea of dignitaries, it was empty, except for a ramrod-straight gentleman dressed in what looked like a tux standing just inside the door.

  She hesitated to proceed into the room lit with tapered candles, their flickering lights tossed here and there by two walls of mirrors, a half-dozen crystal chandeliers overhead and furniture polished until it gave off its own light.

  "Will there be others coming?" she asked, hearing the small echo of her own voice in the room.

  "We'll be dining alone tonight." He tucked his hand around her elbow and propelled her forward. She might have thought it a gesture of courtesy but dismissed the idea. The man no doubt guessed she was ready to bolt and was just making sure she had no choice. Again.

  When he pulled out her chair and she slid into it, her "thank you" sounded like a cross between a hoarse croak and a hairball. Then she forgot all about it as she caught his smile reflected from a dozen of the mirrors. A smile she doubted he even knew he used. Charming. Inviting. The kind of smile that made women forget about security, stability and thinking with their heads. A big-time-trouble smile.

  "There will be other dinners with many more guests." He took a place opposite her and snapped open a damask linen napkin which should have looked out of place in his strong hands, but didn't. "Tonight I thought you might enjoy a quieter setting."

  There was no enjoyment in it, she silently acknowledged, sliding her own napkin from beside the china place setting to her lap. How could she enjoy anything when everywhere she looked there was a reflection of her, but not her. There was nothing plain or ordinary about the woman she saw mirrored over and over again, exposed skin looking luminescent in the candlelight, eyes too large in her face, her hair left free around her shoulders. This was not the same woman who normally ate at a dinette table in the kitchen, a book propped on the table before her, her cat twining himself around her ankles.

  Maybe it was all a nightmare, and any moment now she'd wake up and be where she should be, which wasn't in the formal setting of a baroque villa, watching a servant fill her crystal glass with red wine.

  But if it was a dream, where did Major McConneghy come from? There was nothing in her wildest imaginings that could have manufactured the man across from her. He'd changed from his khaki clothes into more formal wear, but not a stuffy suit. He should have looked different, which he did, but not in the way she expected.

  Leave it to the man to look as at-home and competent in a collarless shirt and unstructured suit jacket as he had in his earlier casual outfit. The way he sat in his chair, calm, relaxed, tasting the win
e and nodding his approval to the servant as it lie did tills often—well, as often as he arranged to abduct small-town librarians from their ordinary worlds.

  "Don't you enjoy Bordeaux?" His question startled her enough that she glanced at the fragile stemmed glass he held in his hands, glanced at the touch, delicate but strong, rough against smooth, by which he held it. An image that had her wondering if he'd hold a woman as carefully, as gently, before she felt the heat steal into her cheeks and through her body.

  With a deep swallow she reached for her own glass.

  "I don't know if I've ever had a Bordeaux," she admitted, making sure first there was no servant to overhear her statement. For all she knew, Elena drank the stuff like water, so she didn't want to slip up there. She raised the glass to her lips, and with a sip, part apprehensive, part daring, she tasted, delighted to find it wasn't just one taste but a whole range of tastes dancing across her tongue.

  "Oh, this is good." The words came out as a whisper as she traced her tongue where the wine had been. "I didn't think it'd be like this at all."

  Then she looked up, caught by the expression on the face of the man opposite her. She might have thought she'd imagined the tense moments between them before, but this time it wasn't an overactive imagination or a long day. Not when the image was reflected back, again and again, by the mirrors around her. As if in a kaleidoscope she saw his gaze lock on her lips then slide lower, causing the wine she'd just sipped to feel like liquid fire scorching her throat.

  He looked like a man waging a war with himself, skin stretched taut over his cheekbones, eyes narrowed, gaze hidden. She could feel her own immediate response, one that nothing in her years as a librarian had prepared her for. The fluttery feeling in her stomach, the sudden aching heaviness of her breasts, the rasp of silk against sensitized skin with every breath she inhaled. She felt hot and chilled at the same time, caught in a no-time space that seemed to stretch out forever, but that must have lasted only seconds.

  It was broken, like glass against a marble floor when, with a sound that rivaled a cannon blast, a servant cleared his throat before entering the room, a covered silver tray in his outstretched arms.

  Jane very carefully set her glass down, thankful she managed it without spilling its contents across the pearl-white tablecloth. She felt as if she'd been caught in an indecent act and didn't know where to look, what to do while her cheeks flamed and a trio of servants rustled around her, serving food she neither saw nor smelled.

  Automatically she thanked each and every one of them, surprised when her dinner companion remarked, "You'll have them talking in the kitchen for a week."

  Her gaze shot up to lock with his, sure he was referring to the servant catching her staring at him like an infatuated teenager, appalled that she'd given herself away so easily. Until he added, "They're not used to being publicly thanked for doing their job."

  "Oh." She glanced toward the far doorway, feeling as if she'd failed her first exam in the art of impersonating the rich and sophisticated. "I didn't know."

  "An error we can remedy. Tomorrow we'll focus on more of the details to your position." He gave her a sharp-eyed look, not like the earlier one, but said nothing more.

  How was she ever supposed to impersonate Elena if she couldn't even get through a simple meal? Not that the meal before them was simple. It wasn't. It was exquisite, with a cold tomato-red soup, a salad of a dozen different greens, a poached white fish sautéed in what smelled like a mango and papaya sauce and more. And it all could have been sawdust as much as she was able to taste any of it.

  Each bite stuck in her throat, like a lump of ineptitude that wouldn't go down no matter how much she swallowed. She'd taken to just moving piles around on her plate when one of the women servers asked her, "It does not meet with mademoiselle's approval?"

  Before she could reply, the woman continued, "I will have the cook prepare something new. Something better."

  "Oh, no please." Jane reached her hand to the one removing her half-eaten meal. "Please, it's a wonderful meal. It's just been a long day."

  When the woman looked at her as if she'd sprouted horns, Jane glanced toward the major, who regarded them both. "Do something. I don't want the cook to feel insulted."

  He glanced from her to the servant and nodded his head. "Tell the cook the meal was exquisite. As usual. Mademoiselle has had a long day so we'll skip the dessert."

  The woman nodded and silently retreated, still looking befuddled, but before Jane could ask why, another person walked into the room. A man she recognized only too well though she'd seen him only briefly, through a haze of drugs and fear.

  "It really is remarkable," Viktor Stanislaus Tarkioff, King of Vendari, remarked, striding into the room, his medals shooting spears of light with every step he took. "Simply remarkable."

  He moved to stand across from her, placing himself behind and to the left of the major, silently watching Jane as if gauging her reaction to his nearness.

  That alone kept her from revealing it. At least she hoped it did, because she didn't think the king would appreciate knowing his pretend fiancée loathed him right about then. Like a magnet for all the turmoil this man had caused in her life, she fought twin needs. One to hurl something at him, preferably something heavy, the other to run from the room, screaming at him to find another way to fix his country's problem.

  It wasn't helping matters that he was looking at her not as a person, one unwillingly abducted from her home to travel half way across the world to become a pawn in a dangerous political game, but as a tool. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Goose bumps crawled up her skin as his gaze raked over her, impersonal enough, but leaving her feeling as if she was less than human. Nothing like the way the major had made her feel with his look. Nothing.

  "You have little to say?" His voice mocked, in spite of its soft tone, lyrical with the accent of his country.

  "Nothing appropriate for mixed company."

  "That is good." He laughed, a sound rolling around the room like an empty can. "I like a woman who looks like ice while she spits fire."

  Well, he'd gotten the wrong woman. There was no fire in her and never had been. What he'd gotten instead was a small-town librarian who could blow this crazy plan at any minute, who just wanted to live long enough to sleep in her own bed once again and wear her own clothes.

  As if the weight of the last days slammed against her all at once, she knew couldn't stay in the room with either of these men for one more moment. They each demanded something from her, something she did not want to give.

  "Excuse me." She rose to her feet, ignoring both the king's surprised look and the major's wary one. "I'm sure you'll understand when I say it's been a long day."

  The king tried to interrupt, but she wouldn't let him. "I'd like to go to my room. Now."

  "I thought we would have a glass of cognac in the library. I have come a ways to visit with you tonight," he pouted, but she did not glance his way. She knew it was the major who would make the final decision. She held his gray-eyed glance until he rose to his feet, crumpling his napkin into a snowy mound on the table.

  "Your Highness," he began, though he, too, did not look at the man. "I think your fiancée is right. I shall escort her to her room, then return to join you in the library."

  "See that you do," came the king's snapped answer. One that told her she'd made no brownie points with her supposed intended. Not that she cared.

  In silence she walked from the room, aware of McConneghy's silent presence shadowing her, up the stairway and down the long hallways. Only when they reached her room did he speak.

  "Wait here."

  "But, I'm—"

  "Do as I say. Wait here."

  Did she have any choice? She assumed not as she watched him step in front of her, slide into the room, turn on the light and inspect every corner before he gave her an all-clear nod.

  The man missed nothing. Which was probably a good thing, she realized, becau
se all she noticed was the thin scrap of sheer pale peach lace that must have been meant as a nightgown draped across the turned-down covers of the bed. Never, in all her life, had she dreamed of owning such a garment. Nightgowns like that belonged to seductresses, to women who reveled in their power over men, to bank accounts that didn't need to be constantly balanced.

  The major's gaze followed hers before he came to stand beside her. Obviously in his world such garments were not out of place because his look wasn't heated now, but worried. He gazed down at her, standing so close she could watch the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat. He raised one hand, tentatively, a move that looked out of place for him, then let it slip back to his side.

  "Sleep will help." He sounded as if they weren't the words he'd originally intended, but was at a loss for others.

  She could find no energy for an answer.

  He was almost at the door before he spoke again. "This is an important thing that you're doing."

  "If you say so."

  Silence descended, a tense, awkward pause thick with tension. Until he broke it. "You'll feel better in the morning."

  She waited until she heard the door click shut behind his departure before she allowed the sigh she was holding to escape. She might feel better in the morning, but she'd still be an impostor in Vendari. She'd still be everyday Jane Richards playing a life-or-death part with no script.

  Lucius waited outside the door, feeling as frustrated and powerless as a raw recruit on his first mission. Part of him wanted to turn back, tell the hollow-eyed exhausted woman he'd left on the other side of the door that there'd been a mistake, that tomorrow he would put her on a plane for home and make her nightmare disappear.

  But he couldn't do that.

  He started down the hallway, seeing all too clearly in his mind the way she'd walked it earlier. Who'd have thought a librarian could wear silk with the grace of a duchess? They'd lucked out there. She fit the part of a king's intended better than the real thing, though he figured he'd be keeping that observation to himself—if he wanted to retain his role as peacekeeper to Tarkioff.