The Makeover Mission

by Mary Buckham

  Her parents used to employ a similar tactic when she'd misbehaved or displeased them. Disapproving silence once made her disappear into her room, caused her stomach to roil, and left her stammering when asked a direct question.

  Once, when she'd broken a Sèvres china cup belonging to a great-great-grandmother, she'd spent nearly a week walking around on tiptoes. Aware there was nothing she could do to make the eggshell pieces whole again, waiting for the slashing, biting words that would tell her in no uncertain terms what a failure she was. But they never came. Just the tight-lipped silence, glances that looked through her and a tenseness that was a thousand times worse than any outburst.

  With a small humorless smile, she wanted to let Lucius McConneghy know she wasn't going to be cowed by his displeasure. Not when she'd been taught by pros and knew, no matter how long, nor how heavy the silence could be, she could outlast it. Maybe.

  "We're here." His voice sliced through the silence like steel through air.

  She involuntarily flinched, knowing McConneghy was watching her every move. Nothing to be ashamed of, she told herself, ignoring his outstretched hand as she slid out of the limo. Just because she possessed nerves and he didn't, there was no need to be ashamed of them. So why did she feel she'd given something away? Exposed a chink in her armor, a suit she knew had gaping holes. And why did it matter? Who cared if McConneghy knew she was a mass of raw nerve endings and insecurities? His opinion was nothing to her. Nothing.

  If only she could remember that.

  "Mademoiselle Rostov," a plump-faced man with sweat along his upper lip greeted her. "We are most honored by your visit."

  "It is my pleasure. I thank you for inviting me." Was it only days ago she would have stumbled and stuttered over the polite phrases that slipped so quickly from her tongue now? Her smile no longer felt frozen, nor her legs like jelly, and, for chunks of time, she forgot she wasn't Elena Rostov.

  But today McConneghy's scrutiny made her remember. Did he expect her to expose them all? She glanced at him and realized that's exactly what he was waiting for. It was there, in the tenseness of his stance, the way his own gaze remained riveted on hers, the deepening of the creases bracketing his eyes.

  And what if she did? What if she turned to the smiling gentleman even now guiding them to a raised wooden stage in the middle of a parking lot jammed with onlookers and casually remarked that it was all a ruse, she was not Elena Rostov and would he be so kind as to find her a flight back to Sioux Falls.

  "It won't work." McConneghy whispered at her side, his thoughts matching hers line by line.

  "I don't know what you mean." Though lying to a man who missed nothing was pointless.

  "This way, Miss Rostov," someone remarked to her right.

  She turned, feeling McConneghy's arm brush hers, his body acting as a warning. There was no escaping it. Of escaping him. It was then she heard the sounds.

  Firecrackers? It sounded like the Christmas Eve party her parents held, one she had watched from between the rails of the second-floor landing. Her father had exploded a bottle, its cork sailing across the room as people laughed and cheered. But this sound was like multiple bottles popping.

  The next minutes slowed as time and sound froze.

  Open-mouthed dignitaries revolved around her, yet no voices came. A muted roar rose and fell, but far, far away, like an ocean's pulse in the distance.

  Hands reached toward her.

  Nothing seemed real.

  Until a hard body slammed her to the ground. Gravel bit into her palms, her cheek, her knees.

  Reality rushed home with a crash.

  "What—"

  "Stay down." McConneghy's voice shouted in her ear, his body grinding her into the asphalt parking lot. "Do exactly as I say."

  She would, when she caught her breath, which she could do if he'd just budge a little.

  "Quit squirming."

  He held her head tightly down.

  "I said hold still."

  "Can't breathe." The pressure eased. A little. When it did, she was aware of several things at once. Screams intensified. It was no longer a wall of sound but individual bursts, high-pitched and hysterical. The other awareness? McConneghy's body covering hers, enveloping it; a lover's intimacy. Though there was nothing romantic about being sandwiched between a man who paid no more attention to her than to the hard ground still grinding into her skin.

  He had raised himself on one arm, his gun drawn and poised, his whole attention focused on scanning the milling, pushing crowd. The only clue that he wasn't his calm, cool self was the beating of his heart, the pulse she could feel racing with her own, measure-by-measure, as he lay pressed against her.

  "Stay still." She wondered if he was dictating to her or to the feet running this way and that just beyond where she lay.

  As far as she could tell the popping noises had stopped. Either that or the shouting drowned them out.

  "When I say three we're going to get up, keeping your head tucked as low as possible, and head for that stack of chairs there."

  She couldn't see anything except pavement and running shoes.

  "What chairs?"

  "Follow my lead."

  As if she had any choice. But he was already counting.

  "One."

  Wait, she didn't know which direction they were running.

  "Two."

  Was he crazy? What if her legs didn't work?

  "Three. Go."

  His gun-free arm pulled her into a low crouch, holding her and covering her at the same time. She felt like a humped camel with a shield. A shield propelling her forward.

  "Run."

  The man was going to be the end of her. How could she run bent over like a question mark, unable to see in front of her and with his legs so intertwined with hers they could have passed as a four-legged creature instead of two?

  "Stop being difficult." His words brushed against her.

  Of all the … thoughts fled her as they reached the rectangular pile of chairs sandwiched one on top of another. He squeezed her between their metal solidity and his own. Now she knew how a piece of lunchmeat felt. She squelched the thought while trying to kneel on scraped knees and keep from having a chair leg's permanent indent on her cheek.

  "For cripes sake, hold still."

  "Quit squashing me and I will." She knew he was trying to do what he saw as his job, but did it mean he had to turn her into a mass of black and blue bruises in the process?

  He shifted, not by much, and barked orders into a small black disc attached to his sport jacket. Had she noticed that there before? Or, like so many other things about this man she wasn't willing to see or deal with, had she turned a blind eye to it?

  Like the final drop of water that fills a bucket to overflowing she found herself wanting to shut down. The conversation with the king, a long, sleepless night, the confrontation over breakfast and now this, unfolding before them, all merged and jumbled. It was like a shouting match with too many voices joining in all at once. The result—a need to cringe from the onslaught, back away, and regroup.

  "Jane. Jane? Got it?"

  She shook her head, aware that McConneghy must have been talking, or more like dictating something to her. But she'd blocked it all out.

  There was something different about his voice though, that got through to her. His voice and his words. It took her a moment to realize what it was. Her name. He'd called her by her real name. Not Elena Rostov or Miss Richards. He'd called her by her real name.

  Lucius told himself to keep his voice level, his manner calm, no matter how much adrenaline surged through his blood. He ignored the fear he wasn't ready to deal with, a fear out of all proportion to what he should be feeling, and all centered on this woman. The one whose eyes gazed up at him, too large in the paleness of her face, whose whole expression said she was one step away from shock or hysteria.

  Not that he blamed her.

  "It's going to be all right. The team's contained the proble
m." When she didn't respond, he added, "Just a man celebrating the birth of his child next block over."

  "I don't understand." She remained crouched where she was until he put his hands beneath her arms and slowly pulled her to her feet, feeling as if he was dealing with fine crystal, ready to splinter at any moment.

  "The gunshots came from a man firing a pistol into the air. Celebrating the birth of his first-born."

  "Gunshots?"

  He didn't know if he wanted to shake her, bring back some of that fire he'd heard in her voice only moments ago, or pull her into his arms and make her promises he knew he couldn't keep.

  "Sit down over here." He practically had to drag her to the nearest chair, feeling her tremors as he eased her into it. He snagged the arm of a woman who looked as though she could get things done and demanded, "Get…" for a second he almost said Jane, but caught himself. An indication of how unstable he was. "Get Miss Rostov a glass of juice or a cold soda. Something with plenty of sugar in it. If you can't find it anywhere else check for some in the limo. And bring her a blanket."

  The woman looked at him as if he was crazy. The morning sun was already high and hot in the sky; asking for a blanket was like asking for more sand in a desert. But once the woman's gaze shifted to Jane sitting in the chair, she nodded and left.

  Lucius crouched down beside Jane, taking her hands between his. Ice would have felt warmer.

  "There's nothing to worry about. It's all over now." This time.

  She looked at him as if he were a lifeline, reaching inside him to tug at emotions he thought locked away. "Those were gunshots?"

  For a moment he wondered if she'd already snapped until he remembered who she really was and where she'd come from. In that other world, the one he tried so hard to protect, he'd almost forgotten people could live their whole lives without being exposed to the type of violence he lived with day after day. Guns, bombs, exploding land mines, it was as alien to her life as porch swings, slow summer evenings and babies were to his. Something he'd do well to remember.

  "A street over, a man shot several rounds from his pistol into the air to celebrate the birth of his first-born." He spoke with calm, deliberate words, willing the dazed expression to leave her face, the mute appeal in her eyes to disappear.

  "Was it a boy or a girl?"

  He shouldn't have been surprised. He was beginning to understand that to her, the unknown man would be an individual with a name, a face, an importance simply because he was alive. To him, the man was nothing until his actions impacted the mission. Another difference to keep in mind.

  "I don't know if it was a boy or a girl. I'll find out."

  She gave a smile as an answer, a small tremulous smile that tore through him like a torch through ice cream. He decided he'd make sure he discovered from the proud but foolish papa not only the sex of his child but its name, birth weight and whatever else, anything to coax another smile from her.

  "Major?" A voice spoke near his elbow. "The drink you asked for. And the blanket."

  He stood and accepted both, aware Jane was still not true to form when she said nothing as he pressed a cold can into her hands and unfurled the blanket loosely around her shoulders.

  "Drink this. Slowly but steadily." He crouched beside her again, aware he'd have to leave any second yet loath to do so. Especially as her gaze followed his every move, as if drawing what strength she still possessed from him.

  He watched her grimace as she tasted the sugar-laced liquid, then square her shoulders and swallow again. Finally she was following orders.

  The mike at his shoulder squawked and he knew he'd run out of time. "Stay here. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  "Where—"

  "Three of my team will be stationed around you. You need anything, ask one of them."

  She continued to look at him, her gaze less shocky than moments ago, replaced by a remoteness he didn't care for. Without being aware of it he took her hands between his, willing some warmth into them, not caring who noticed his actions.

  "Everything will be all right. There's just a few details to clear up."

  He wondered who he was reassuring as he rose to his feet, releasing her hands in the same motion. He nodded to Sanchez, who stationed himself behind her, glanced at Elderman to her left and Williams flanking her right. She was as covered as she could be in case the incident had been only a ruse. A ploy to relax their guard long enough to take advantage of the confusion, to make their move.

  "I'll be back."

  He meant it as a promise and left.

  Jane didn't know how long she rubbed her fingers back and forth along the icy sides of the soft drink she gripped like a buoy, feeling the water bead beneath her touch. Sounds spilled over her, the rush of voices no longer screaming but still holding fear beneath their clamor. If she raised her head she would see the profiles of two of McConneghy's team.

  A bubble of hysteria threatened to escape but she wouldn't let it. She knew if she did, she'd never be able to get beyond the fear. Better to focus on the incongruity of her, plain Jane from Sioux Falls, huddled beneath a scratchy blanket in a parking lot in a country she'd only vaguely heard about less than a month ago, being guarded by armed men. She'd had nightmares that made more sense.

  "Mademoiselle Rostov?" A woman's voice called to her, softly. Three men immediately turned, startling Jane with the speed and precision of their movement. From statue-still to red alert, she thought, aware her hand had crumpled the thin aluminum can before she could stop herself.

  "Mademoiselle Rostov." The voice came again as Jane shifted her gaze from firearms held ready to an older woman standing nervously a few feet away. The woman was not dressed in the pressed suits of a delegation member, but the full skirt and work-worn blouse Jane had noticed many of the general population wore. "I have brought you something, mademoiselle."

  Was she a threat? A terrorist in disguise? Is this how Lucius viewed all strangers?

  The woman swallowed deeply and advanced forward a step, her hands clutched around a small, brightly colored bag extended before her.

  Afraid one of her silent, efficient guards would shoot first, ask questions later, Jane stood, letting the blanket slip from her shoulders.

  "Wait." She didn't know if it was Elderman or Sanchez she spoke to and right then didn't really care. She addressed her next words to the woman. "You must not come closer. Please."

  "It is for good luck." The woman extended the bag she carried, letting it dangle between callused fingers. "The herbs will bring long life and felicity."

  Long life or another bomb?

  The woman moved closer and Jane reacted. It wasn't fear for herself but fear for the men around her. Would they die protecting her? Or have to live with the decision to take one life instead of risking another?

  She couldn't let them do it. If the woman meant to kill her, so be it. But only her. She could live with that more than with the thought of others suffering because of her.

  Brushing past her nearest guard before he could react, Jane stepped toward the woman, but before she could reach her, a hand jerked her to a rough stop.

  "Are you crazy?" It was Lucius. "Williams, check the bag. I'll deal with you and Elderman later."

  "It's not their fault." The words slipped out even as McConneghy was hustling her away from where the woman still stood, her expression as dazed as Jane felt.

  She wondered if her words registered with McConneghy as he pushed her into the front seat of a compact car.

  "Of all the pea-brained, idiotic—"

  He stormed to the driver's side, slid behind the wheel and began muttering through a clenched jaw. And he was talking about her.

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Don't get prissy on me. Not now, lady."

  She'd never been prissy in her entire life. "I am not prissy."

  "You're prissy with a capital P." He shifted gears and the car lunged forward, taking the city streets with hair-trigger precision. "Are you trying to get
yourself killed?"

  "I didn't do anything—"

  "You were walking up to a total stranger. She could have had anything in that bag."

  "I know that."

  He gave her a hard-eyed glance before his gaze shot back to the road.

  "But I wasn't about to let anyone else get hurt because of me."

  "You can't possibly be that stupid."

  Jane told herself she wouldn't cry. Not in a million years. Just because it had been a rough day, a very rough day so far, and now she had to endure insult added to injury, did not mean she would cry. Sniffing a little was okay. But definitely no tears.

  "Do you think that you, who have the self-preservation sense of a gnat, are better equipped to deal with a killer than my trained team members?"

  Okay, maybe one or two tears. But she wiped them away quickly.

  "I told you to stay put. That didn't mean expose yourself to the first stranger that approached."

  He made her sound like a stripper. Or an idiot. Or a combination of the two.

  "I bet you gave Williams one of those big-eyed looks of yours. Twisted him around your pinkie before he knew what hit him."

  Who was he talking about? She'd barely dated and here he was making her sound like Mata Hari in disguise.

  "Or did you use that voice on him? The one that makes you feel like a heel for not jumping high enough, fast enough."

  That was it. She'd had all the guff she could take in one day. She only wished her throat wasn't choking up on her with a lump the size of the Grand Canyon. "Stop it. Just stop it. I didn't do anything wrong and I'm not any of those things you're calling me. So just stop it."

  He shot a glance at her, no less hard than the one before, but warier this time. As if he'd heard something in her voice she'd hoped she'd kept hidden.

  They drove in silence for a space, the city giving way to small patches of farms with chickens scrounging in the yards and sparse, rocky earth plowed in crooked furrows. Jane kept her face turned toward the scenery, her hands cupped into a useless ball in her lap. When McConneghy spoke at last, several miles had slipped past and his voice sounded less harsh and more husky. "I can't protect you if you don't help."