The Makeover Mission

by Mary Buckham

  "There is no such person. Not in Vendari."

  "Oh."

  He couldn't help his smile. Not at the disappointed, frustrated sound in her single word reply.

  "But what if—"

  He tightened his grip, just slightly, but enough to stop her voice in mid-sentence.

  "There can be no what ifs. You are who you're pretending to be and I am the mission. It can't be any other way."

  "Because you say so?" Now she sounded defiant.

  "Because it's the way things are. I told you I'd protect you and I can't do that if—"

  "If what?"

  That was it. He still was a man, no matter what his mission or priorities dictated. And as a man he responded to the question, spoken and unspoken, he heard in her voice.

  With one move, surprising them both by its suddenness he twirled her until she faced him, no darkness of night hiding her wide-eyed expression from him, no double-edged words hiding his hunger from her.

  "If I do this."

  His mouth descended on hers, devouring what he knew he couldn't have, desperate for one last taste, one last touch before he put the impossible behind the both of them. And it might have ended there, one last torrid kiss to haunt him the rest of his life if she hadn't met his passion with her own.

  She molded the length of herself against him, soft, full breasts pressed against his chest, her hands twined around his neck, her thighs entangled with his. What began as lips to lips became body against body and her thin wisp of a gown created no barrier.

  Not that armor plating would have kept him from touching right then. Touching because he wanted to take, and somewhere, in the recesses of his rational mind he knew he could not go that far. But there was nothing rational about what he was feeling right then.

  His hand slid between them, cupping the exquisite fullness of her breast, knowing it would feel right beneath his touch, feathering his thumb across the tightly beaded nipple, exalting in the moan of pleasure his movement elicited.

  "Lucius." It sounded a cross between petulant demand and aching request. She shivered against him, but he doubted the night breeze caused the reaction. Nor his response of drawing her closer, as if by sheer force of want alone they could become one, end the torment they seemed destined to inflict on one another.

  "Lucius, I want—"

  "Shhh." Their time was brief. All too brief and more poignant because of it. He couldn't give her what she wanted, what his own body ached to take, so they had to be content with what they could do.

  He deepened his kiss, ignoring the throbbing of his lower body, the sweet, sweet friction caused by her pressing against him. He'd never thought himself a saint, only a man with responsibilities to fulfill, obligations to meet, but if he walked away tonight he'd deserve every medal for courage above and beyond the call of duty.

  Because that's what it took to step back, drop his hand from the satin of her skin, pull his lips from hers, feel the cool night air wash between them—the kind of courage he hoped never to experience again.

  It took a few pleasure-drugged seconds for Jane to realize he was doing it again; arousing her body to a frenzy of need and want and then pulling away. Slowly opening her eyes, as if awakening from a very deep sleep, she focused on him, aware of the tautness of the skin across his face, the stillness of his body.

  His expression told her he expected her anger. He darn well deserved it for leaving her aching and needy. But she wasn't going to let him get away with it.

  Anger he'd only deflect. He'd pull his mantle of duty and obligation tight about him, accept the responsibility of his actions, and hers, and curse himself. She knew it as she knew the beat of her own heart. She could read it in his face, in the deepness of the lines carved there, in the tenseness of his stance. He was a warrior, prepared for battle and ready to accept the cost. And the pain.

  But she couldn't let him do that. Wouldn't let him do that. She was a woman grown, responsible for her own wants, her own actions. He hadn't seduced her, given her fancy words and softly spoken lines. Not unless barked commands counted.

  No, he'd been honest, at least in this between them. Other things, well, that was another matter. And one that had to be dealed with. But not now.

  Now she stepped forward, noticing the almost imperceptible tightening of his features as if he expected, and felt he deserved, the worst she had to offer. But instead of slapping his face, she raised one hand, a tentative hand she could feel shaking and laid it alongside his cheek.

  His eyes betrayed his surprise. And his wariness.

  She found that she wanted to soothe. Tell him it was before he put the impossible behind the both of them. And it might have ended there, one last torrid kiss to haunt him the rest of his life if she hadn't met his passion with her own.

  She molded the length of herself against him, soft, full breasts pressed against his chest, her hands twined around his neck, her thighs entangled with his. What began as lips to lips became body against body and her thin wisp of a gown created no barrier.

  Not that armor plating would have kept him from touching right then. Touching because he wanted to take, and somewhere, in the recesses of his rational mind he knew he could not go that far. But there was nothing rational about what he was feeling right then.

  His hand slid between them, cupping the exquisite fullness of her breast, knowing it would feel right beneath his touch, feathering his thumb across the tightly beaded nipple, exalting in the moan of pleasure his movement elicited.

  "Lucius." It sounded a cross between petulant demand and aching request. She shivered against him, but he doubted the night breeze caused the reaction. Nor his response of drawing her closer, as if by sheer force of want alone they could become one, end the torment they seemed destined to inflict on one another.

  "Lucius, I want—"

  "Shhh." Their time was brief. All too brief and more poignant because of it. He couldn't give her what she wanted, what his own body ached to take, so they had to be content with what they could do.

  He deepened his kiss, ignoring the throbbing of his lower body, the sweet, sweet friction caused by her pressing against him. He'd never thought himself a saint, only a man with responsibilities to fulfill, obligations to meet, but if he walked away tonight he'd deserve every medal for courage above and beyond the call of duty.

  Because that's what it took to step back, drop his hand from the satin of her skin, pull his lips from hers, feel the cool night air wash between them—the kind of courage he hoped never to experience again.

  It took a few pleasure-drugged seconds for Jane to realize he was doing it again; arousing her body to a frenzy of need and want and then pulling away. Slowly opening her eyes, as if awakening from a very deep sleep, she focused on him, aware of the tautness of the skin across his face, the stillness of his body.

  His expression told her he expected her anger. He darn well deserved it for leaving her aching and needy. But she wasn't going to let him get away with it.

  Anger he'd only deflect. He'd pull his mantle of duty and obligation tight about him, accept the responsibility of his actions, and hers, and curse himself. She knew it as she knew the beat of her own heart. She could read it in his face, in the deepness of the lines carved there, in the tenseness of his stance. He was a warrior, prepared for battle and ready to accept the cost. And the pain.

  But she couldn't let him do that. Wouldn't let him do that. She was a woman grown, responsible for her own wants, her own actions. He hadn't seduced her, given her fancy words and softly spoken lines. Not unless barked commands counted.

  No, he'd been honest, at least in this between them. Other things, well, that was another matter. And one that had to be dealt with. But not now.

  Now she stepped forward, noticing the almost imperceptible tightening of his features as if he expected, and felt he deserved, the worst she had to offer. But instead of slapping his face, she raised one hand, a tentative hand she could feel shaking and laid it alongside his
cheek.

  His eyes betrayed his surprise. And his wariness.

  She found that she wanted to soothe. Tell him it was okay, that she understood his sense of right, wrong and responsibility, even if it meant her body felt unfulfilled.

  "I won't believe you if you tell me this was a mistake." She offered a smile, one that felt as unsure as her hand that she now slowly slipped to her side. "I wanted this as much as you did. The only difference is I'm honest enough to know it's not going to go away just because it doesn't fit into your definition of a mission. It's not nice and tidy, but it's real. And you'd better learn to deal with it."

  She stepped to the side then, not sure if she could make it all the way to the French doors and beyond on legs that felt like limp spaghetti. The Jane she used to be wouldn't have been able to, she knew that much. But the new Jane, the one who'd stepped into the shoes of another, who'd faced crowds of strangers and kept on going, that Jane could do it.

  Did she have any choice?

  Chapter 9

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  Lucius glanced at his watch. What was keeping her? The one thing he'd come to depend on with Jane was that she was punctual. She might have the rest of his world head over heels, but at least she'd never thrown off his time schedule. Until now.

  He glanced up as the door began to open.

  "It's about time—" The rest of his sentence disappeared as he tried not to swallow his tongue.

  "Do you like it?" she asked, as if she didn't see him standing there thunderstruck and speechless. "Ekaterina helped me choose something special for tonight."

  And then she turned and he felt his gut plummet to the floor. Special? That damn dress could cause a riot. It would cause a riot if even one man looked at her the way he knew he was looking at her. He felt the slam of jealousy, white-hot and potent, screaming through his veins.

  "Don't you like it?" There was the slightest edge of hesitancy, of doubt in her voice, as she glanced at him.

  He grabbed on to it like a lifeline.

  "I've seen handkerchiefs with more material to them."

  He thought he might have hurt her with the abruptness of his words until she straightened her shoulders, making him wonder if that damn dress would slip off with such a move. Realizing that they'd never make it to the function if it did.

  "I see you're still cranky." She said it with pouted lips. At least that's where his attention was snagged. Had he kissed those same lips? Where had he found the strength to stop kissing them?

  "Let's go." It was more command than request, but darn if he was going to let her know how she'd rattled him. That was the last thing he needed going into an assemblage of most of the movers and shakers in Vendari. He felt like he was leading fresh meat to a pack of piranhas, the biggest fish being Tarkioff himself. One look at Jane in that dress and the man would feel no compunction at taking what he saw as belonging to him anyway.

  So much for trying to protect her. What had happened to the straitlaced librarian who had quaked in her boots the first day he'd led her onto a crowded stage? Now he was walking down the hallway with a sweet, seductive siren who smelled of Chanel No. 5 and tasted like forbidden fruit. He knew, he had yet to forget her taste. Forget or stop craving.

  "I think you look very nice in your tux. Very suave and dangerous."

  When had a woman's compliment made him want to blush? "Thank you."

  "Aren't you going to tell me I look nice in my dress?"

  He dared not even look at her dress, not at the way it swirled around her hips when she walked, at the way it molded every curve like a lover's hands.

  "It's a nice dress."

  "Are you going to be sulky all night?" He thought she might be goading him. Not a wise thing to do in his present mood.

  "I'm not being sulky."

  "It's hard to tell."

  "Did you ever stop to think what that dress is going to do to Tarkioff?"

  He heard her quick intake of breath. "I didn't wear it for Tarkioff."

  Lust slammed into him with the power of a locomotive.

  "Who'd you wear it for then?"

  "Ahh, Mademoiselle Rostov and Major McConneghy. It is a pleasure to see you."

  Jane was never so pleased at an interruption in her life. She couldn't remember the name of the funny round man who was even now extending his pudgy hands to them, but she knew she owed him more than she could ever repay. Another few seconds beneath McConneghy's glare, within reach of his slashing tone, and she would have hit him with her beaded bag. Not a very effective weapon, but there wasn't much else at hand.

  Maybe her plan wasn't such a good one after all. What did she know about seduction? From Lucius's look, very little. He was supposed to move toward her, not growl and scowl. Maybe she should have read a few more articles in those Cosmo magazines before she'd shelved them.

  "Please. Please." The man gestured to a gathering throng near double doors leading into what looked like a large hall or ballroom. "His highness sent me to look for you."

  Thank heavens, she thought, before she saw the glances shooting her way, then silently sliding away. Maybe the dress was a little too daring? No time to retract now. The best bet would be to stiffen her spine, make sure her smile remained firmly in place and bluff her way through. Something librarian Jane knew how to do with her eyes closed. Something that would be easier to do if Lucius McConneghy wasn't impaling her with his gaze. Condemning or devouring, she didn't know.

  "Ahhh, my Elena. You look enchanting." The king's voice sounded as slick as an oil spill. But at least he seemed to appreciate the effort she'd made.

  The smile she gave him was only a little tentative. She ignored McConneghy at her side and extended her hand, which Tarkioff raised to his lips. She thought she heard McConneghy growl.

  "If you will stand by my side, my dear." The king phrased it like a request but she'd been in Vendari long enough to know better. Squeezing in between Tarkioff and his brother, Eustace, was a tight fit. Tighter still when McConneghy clung to her side like a burr to socks.

  "What are you doing?" she whispered, keeping her smile pasted in place.

  "Protecting you."

  "You can't do that if you smother me first." Too late, she thought of a dozen different ways he could press down upon her, each one more graphic and erotic than the last. She could have sworn the temperature in the room jumped ten degrees.

  "I'll take that risk."

  Were they still talking about being smothered? Jane didn't think so, not with McConneghy's shark smile and the intensity of his gaze. Maybe she'd gone too far with her dress? Hadn't she seen a documentary about little fishes getting eaten by bigger fishes only because they dared to swim in the wrong part of the pond?

  Fortunately she didn't have time to dwell on her unpleasant thoughts as the receiving line began to swell, each individual requiring a smile, a handshake and a few words of greeting. And to think she used to envy royalty who had to do this for their living. But at least they didn't have McConneghy breathing over their shoulder. He stood just behind her, out of the direct line, but closer than her shadow. Every time she shifted she could feel the brush of his sleeve against hers, sense the slightest of whispers of his hand across the bare skin of her back.

  Right then and there she decided if she was ever to be tortured, she'd be a failure at holding back. Not when every nerve ending, every ounce of awareness she possessed was attuned to his next move, the next accidental touch, the lightest of impersonal caresses.

  The man was killing her, second by second and he didn't even know it. Or did he? After a hint of roughened fingertips crossed her lower back, causing her to stiffen in order to fight the sensations they ignited in her, she began to wonder if Lucius McConneghy wasn't playing her for a fool. He'd be a master at this game of cat and mouse, while she knew she'd never get beyond amateur status.

  But why? Was he trying to punish her by taunting her in just the way she had meant to tease and taunt him? Or was he trying to show her how far
out of her comfort zone she'd traveled? That wouldn't be too hard to do, but darn, she resented his being able to get away with it.

  What if she turned the tables on the always-in-control major? What if, instead of flinching every time he brushed against her, she, too, played his game? Hadn't she decided to dare tonight? What was the point of screwing up her courage if she was going to run at the first sign that things weren't going the way she planned?

  What would Elena of the silk clothes and diaphanous nightgowns do if the man she wanted was standing within inches, trapped as surely she was trapped in this receiving line? For the first time that night Jane felt a real smile. The old Jane wouldn't have dared—the new Jane could hardly wait for the fireworks.

  Lucius cast a cautious glance down the line. At the rate it was progressing, he'd be an old man before it petered out.

  Old and broken. Surely the Grand Inquisitors did not need the rack and thumbscrews to bring a man to his knees. All they would have had to do was place him within touching distance of the woman he ached for, close enough that he could inhale the scent of her skin with every breath, hear the pattern of her breathing, feel the texture of her skin now and again when she accidentally brushed against him, and the man would crumble.

  Lucius knew he would. He was crumbling now and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Not with every eye of Vendari upon them. What had happened to his legendary control?

  Before he could pull together what shreds of it he thought he might have left, Jane stepped back. Far enough back that he had no choice but to stop her movement with the palm of his hand against her lower back. Either that or have both of them tumble against the windows behind them.

  It was a big mistake. The second he felt the softness of her skin beneath his touch, the curve of her spine begging him to caress, he knew he'd crossed an invisible line. One spelling doom for his mission, spelling doom for himself.

  "Stay still." He all but hissed the order in her ear. Aware how tempting it'd be to nibble on her earlobe even as he was telling himself fools who played with fire got singed.