by Mary Buckham
He must have heard something behind her words because he waited until they'd crossed the front foyer then pulled her to a stop, out of the reach of eager ears.
"You'll be dining alone."
She held back her sigh.
"When do I see you again?" She wished it sounded a little less breathless, but it was too late to steal back the words now.
"Tomorrow morning. I'll be in a meeting till late this evening."
There was nothing more to say. And yet they stood there, his gaze seeming to ask something of her, his hand still anchoring her arm, his body shielding her from any curious onlookers who might cross the far hallway.
When he broke the silence, she didn't think he said the words he meant to say.
"You'll be all right?"
"Yes. Fine. I'm fine." At least she would be if she could escape to the haven of her room, away from the intensity of his gaze.
"Till tomorrow then." He released her arm and turned away. Only then did she remember the words spoken by the king the night before.
"McConneghy," she uttered his name and watched him pause as if preparing for a blow. Yet when he turned toward her his expression betrayed nothing.
"Yes?"
She stepped closer, meaning her next words for his ears alone.
"There was something else Tarkioff said last night that I think you should be aware of." She knew they were both thinking of earlier, of the lake and her accusations.
"What was it?"
"He said if you no longer pleased him, then accidents could happen."
"Accidents?"
"I think he meant that you could get hurt."
"That is not news. It's part of my job description."
Was the man being dense on purpose?
"Lucius, the king said that if he chose, Vendari could become a dangerous place for you."
She didn't know what to expect, but it wasn't his slow smile. One that looked almost sad. "Then I'll have to share with the king that Vendari is already a dangerous place for me. A very dangerous place."
With that he walked away.
She stood as if rooted to the floor, wondering why she expected sanity in a day that had started rocky and gone downhill from there. Obviously she was dealing with a madman. It was the only plausible answer.
She turned to limp to her room. It was there she found the small bag lying in the center of her bed. A brightly woven bag she'd last seen in the hands of the woman hours earlier. A bag smelling of crushed herbs and promising felicity and long life.
The man had done it again.
Hours later, her sense of disorientation hadn't dwindled. The doctor had told her she'd be sporting a few colorful bruises and scrapes, as if she hadn't figured that out for herself. Dinner had gone off without a hitch, though it was lonely in her bedroom with only her own thoughts: convoluted, jarring, discordant thoughts. Thoughts that refused to disappear no matter how she wrestled them.
How could they disappear when all it took was a look at the connecting door between her room and McConneghy's to trigger images better left buried? Images that built upon one shared kiss. She never would have thought of herself as possessing a wild imagination, but she was painting some pretty graphic and erotic images of what might have happened if Mister Control hadn't pulled back.
Darn the man, anyway. If only she could lump all the churning emotions within her and blame them on raging hormones or lust. Not that either had ever been a problem before, but maybe she was susceptible to cool mountain breezes and hard-eyed men with wounded gazes. But it was more than that, a lot more. It was enough to keep her tossing and turning once she'd gone to bed, the thought of sleep impossible.
For a while she'd grabbed on to the Stockholm Syndrome as a possible solution to her internal turmoil. True, she technically wasn't a hostage becoming emotionally attached to her captor, but for all intents she was vulnerable to McConneghy as her ticket to survival. And it was a documented, scientific fact that the position created unusual responses often confused with attraction, co-dependence and even infatuation.
But darn it, she wasn't feeling infatuation. She had absolutely no trouble seeing McConneghy's less than sterling qualities: his tendency to assume command and expect to be obeyed. And his ability to communicate left a lot to be desired, especially when you were on the receiving end of one of his terse, need-to-know non-answers. And what about his way of getting high-handed, blaming her for getting out of line when it was all his fault? No, it was definitely not infatuation she felt for Lucius McConneghy.
But then what was it? She didn't think it was love, it couldn't be. Love was soft and warm and gentle and McConneghy made her feel none of those things. True, she didn't have a lot of experience in the love department. She'd learned early on that her parents might have wanted a child at one time, but they had never wanted her. Not a realization that created an atmosphere of giving and receiving love.
But she knew love came slowly, built over time, contained trust and caring, at least that's how she'd always pictured it. It didn't happen over days, with a man who hoarded secrets like a miser's gold, who was willing to use her even while he told her he was protecting her, and who no doubt would laugh himself silly, if he ever did laugh, if he knew the train of her thoughts.
She wouldn't blame him, either. She could hardly believe she was even thinking such things. Wasn't she in enough of a mess, far, far from anyone who knew her or might be able to help her, set up to be a decoy for a woman she'd never met, on behalf of a country that wasn't her own, without being betrayed by her own emotions?
With a sigh that floated across the dark room she sat up in bed, threw off the linen sheets and reached for her robe. It wasn't much of a robe, not like her sturdy flannel job back home but, she doubted Elena Rostov wore anything that didn't shout seduction.
The French doors along one wall of her room, and the stillness of the night beyond them beckoned. Anything to chase away her thoughts, even a moonlit balcony that could have been straight from a Romeo and Juliet scene.
As she opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony shared by her room and the one next door, the night air felt cool against her fevered skin. A storm must be in the offing because it felt humid, thick with anticipation, charged with the same electricity that kept her from sleeping.
It cocooned around her as she stepped into its inky darkness, the balcony floor rough against her bare feet, the sound of the wind sighing through cypress trees beyond the palace gates, a random breeze lifting her hair from where it lay heavy against her back.
She leaned forward, pressing her palms flat against the waist-high railing, feeling the solidness of its iron beneath her curled fingers. The bark of a dog wafted on the breeze. Such a familiar sound. One she'd expect to hear in Sioux Falls, but not here in late August while she stood in a gossamer-thin gown in the silence of the night. Overhead, a thousand stars glowed and she felt alone. So very alone.
"Couldn't sleep?"
The familiar voice startled her with its closeness. She turned to glance toward its sound, surprised in some ways to see the dark outline of Lucius silhouetted against his own open balcony door, not surprised at all in others. Maybe her earlier thoughts had conjured him. But if they had, he wouldn't be standing half in, half out of his doorway, and she wouldn't be all the way across on her side of the balcony, feeling very tongue-tied and awkward.
As if he translated her very wish, or maybe it was fear, he stepped from his room, not moving next to her, though anything within a football field was too close.
Her fingers curled over the iron railing, sure to leave imprints where it bit into her skin. She felt her whole body tense, a fight-or-flight survival mechanism she recognized but couldn't suppress. He'd made her feel that way from the first moment she'd seen him and it had only increased over the time she'd known him.
"You were quiet on the drive from the lake."
"I think I was tired."
"And yet you can't sleep."
&nb
sp; She shrugged, looking away from him, sure he could see too much that she wasn't ready for him to see. "It's so peaceful out here. You can forget…" The words trailed off. She thought he knew what she wanted to forget.
Silence slid between them, a silence deep enough that she could hear the pattern of his breathing behind her. Its slow, even pace acted like a rasp along her nerve endings, a painful torture scraping her too-tight emotions.
"I used to study the night sky when I was growing up. My grandfather taught me the names of most of the constellations."
It was the first time he'd volunteered any of his past with her. She didn't want to read too much into the casual comment, even as it was strange to think of him as a little boy, not as intense, as focused, as sure of everything.
"Where did you grow up?"
"Houston, for the most part."
That surprised her. "But you don't have a Texan accent."
"We traveled a lot when I was young. Never stayed in one place long enough to acquire an accent."
She glanced at him again, noting the way he stood casually, but still aware, like a large cat that could be still and yet poised to leap at any moment His gaze was focused on the sky, but she didn't doubt for a moment he knew exactly what was happening around him—including her staring at him.
"Were your parents transferred a lot?"
"Military. My father was an air force fighter pilot."
That made sense. She could see him growing up in a military family.
"And why Houston?"
"He was killed in a training mission when I was about ten. My mother's family was from Houston so we ended up there." There was no anger in his tone, no bitterness or regret, but she couldn't help feeling all those things for him. "It's a McConneghy tradition."
He'd lost her there.
"What's a tradition?"
"The military. Since the first McConneghy arrived in the States they've served their country."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Since the Civil War. Shamus McConneghy paid for his family's passage from Ireland with the money he was given to fight in another man's place."
"Fight and die?"
"I don't think he planned it that way."
Duty and obligation to country must have been passed to him through the gene pool.
"Tell me some of them managed to fight and come home."
There was enough of a pause for her to know she didn't want to hear the answer.
"My great-great-grandfather was only wounded in the Spanish American War. It took him two years to die of the injuries."
"And the others?"
"They did their duty."
She couldn't help but wonder if the wives and children of his ancestors had had any say in the cost of that duty. Or were these women stronger and braver than she could ever imagine herself?
"Is your mother still in Houston?"
"No. She died of cancer when I was in college."
"I'm sorry. That must have painful for you both."
"She kept it pretty much to herself. Until the end."
She thought of her own parents. They'd both passed away within months of each other shortly before she graduated from college, but then it had been expected. They'd been in their late forties when they'd had her so she'd always accepted that she would be alone as an adult, and possibly sooner. But to have your parents taken from you without being prepared for it was hard for her to imagine.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
He glanced in her direction, his face showing no expression. "One brother, one sister. Both younger."
Of course, the feeling of responsibility. At ten he'd have become the male head of the family. No wonder he shouldered obligation and responsibility so naturally. Everything in his life would have trained him for that role.
"Are you close to them?" She found she really wanted to know, to hear about his childhood, his family. It made him less a stranger, more a real person.
"When I'm stateside, between assignments, we try to get together. My brother lives in D.C., so we see each other as often as we can. Trish lives in Ohio, but we do holidays whenever we can."
"Are you an uncle?"
"Yeah, Alex has two boys."
She couldn't help the smile. The thought of him giving pony-back rides and getting mussed was too strong an image to ignore.
"Both terrors, but my sister isn't married yet."
"And are you?" She was surprised she'd never thought to ask the question before. Or maybe she was afraid of the answer.
"Am I what?"
"Are you married?"
He shook his head, his expression unreadable. "No."
"Ever?"
"Almost. Once." He shook his head again. This time the gesture nearly breaking her heart. "This isn't any kind of career that's easy on a relationship."
She thought of his ancestors. The ones who had died in the line of duty and knew they weren't the only ones who paid the price.
"So it became a choice between your job and a wife."
He hesitated for a moment, than shoved his hands in the pockets of his chinos. "Something like that."
"And the job always comes first."
There was no hesitation this time. "Yes."
"And your family. Do they know what you do for a living?"
He looked momentarily sheepish. "They know I work for the government."
"And are away from home a lot."
"Yeah."
"But they don't know any more than that?"
"They're better off not knowing." His words sounded as though he'd wrestled with this issue already and had come to a decision. Not an easy one. "I didn't want them to worry. To wonder every time I went away if I'd be back. It's not an easy burden to ask of anybody."
And he obviously didn't expect anybody to be willing to assume it for him, she realized. Not the woman he thought he'd marry, not the siblings he'd helped raise. No one. No wonder the man seemed so alone. He was.
She wanted to reach out to him, to offer comfort in some way. It was a little like the country mouse wanting to console the city cat, a very large, very powerful, predatory city cat.
She turned her head to stare at the darkness spread before her and heard him move, shift ever so quietly until she knew he stood right behind her. So close that if she stepped back she would press against him, feel the heat and solidness of him engulf her, know the same sense of security she always felt around him. A funny emotion to feel about a man she knew was using her.
"You've gone quiet on me again." The huskiness of his tone washed against her. A very dangerous feeling.
"I was wondering why you told me about your family." It was the truth, too. "You have large Do Not Pry signs any time a conversation gets too personal."
She heard the low rumble of his laugh, felt it curling like a slow fire in her belly.
"Force of habit." His fingers had reached up to lift a lock of her hair. Lift and let fall. A simple gesture that had her breath hitching. "In my profession it's not wise to get too close to anyone."
"Are you warning me off?"
"And if I was, would you be smart enough to heed the warning?"
"Not likely."
She could feel his smile in the darkness.
"How did I know that was going to be your answer?"
"I always thought of you as a very perceptive man, Major."
"Perceptive but foolhardy."
That surprised her. The words and the self-deprecating tone. She made to turn, to see his face, but his hands on her shoulders stopped her. His hands and his words.
"Don't turn. I only have so much will power."
Now what did he mean by that? Then she glanced down, forgetting she was wearing a gown and robe that defined gossamer. But she was still only Jane Richards beneath the silken folds and she was surprised he couldn't see that.
Lucius knew it had been a mistake, stepping onto the balcony instead of back into his room once he realized he wasn'
t alone. His third mistake of the day. The first had been pulling her into his arms at the lake and tasting her, feeling her immediate response to him, replacing fantasy with a reality that was much more difficult to forget.
His second had been in letting those few moments simmer and stew within him all day, a slow boil of arousal that had been painful for its duration and intensity. Never before had he been unable to compartmentalize emotions from his work. Time and time again while he'd debriefed his team, and then the king and his brother, his thoughts had been elsewhere. And not just anywhere, but focused on one person, one woman who was playing havoc with his life while he doubted she had a clue.
And now, standing here, where he could feel the silken resiliency of her hair beneath his touch, inhale her essence with every breath he took, was torture more excruciating than anything he'd been trained for.
"Now you've gone quiet on me." He heard the husky, breathless quality of her voice and told himself he didn't dare respond to it. Not if either of them wanted to remain unscorched.
"I spoke with Tarkioff earlier." He watched her flinch, knowing his words caused the reaction.
"I don't want to talk about the king."
She sounded like a sulky child.
"Talking about him would be safer."
"Than what?" Now there was a taunt in her voice. A woman's dare, willing to risk all rather than walk away from what might be only emotional pain.
He raised his hands to cup her shoulders, sure that there at least they'd be safe. As long as he didn't pull her back into his embrace, didn't let them trail from shoulders to the line of her throat, her breast bone, lower; didn't let them forget they were there for his protection as well as hers.
"You know this is an impossible situation."
He heard her laugh, a soft whisper of sound that was almost his undoing.
"I figured that out for myself."
"Then you can figure out what would happen if there was the slightest hint that the king's intended was involved, in any way, with his political advisor. His foreign political advisor."
"The king called you a conduit."
"It's as good a term as any other."
"And what if—" She paused as if unsure of her next words, or his reaction. "And what if this same political advisor was involved with a librarian from Sioux Falls, South Dakota?"
