The Makeover Mission

by Mary Buckham

  As he turned to leave, she grabbed his arm, not caring if she left nail marks on his jacket. "You'll be careful?"

  His predator's grin turned into a pirate's. The man was actually enjoying himself. Well, maybe not enjoying, but he wasn't quaking in his boots, either.

  "I'll be careful."

  She didn't want to place any bets on that one. Instead she turned away, letting the nameless, silent team member lead her away, telling herself there was nothing to fear. Not for herself.

  But for McConneghy?

  Lord, she wished she knew the answer to that one.

  Chapter 10

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  Lucius stole a glance at his watch, not surprised to see the smaller hand sliding past three o'clock, feeling it had been a year since he'd left the ballroom instead of hours. His feet echoed hollowly down the empty hallway, a fitting accompaniment to his dark thoughts.

  Something wasn't right. His gut repeated the message; the last few hours verified it. The explosives set off in the courtyard had been noise and smoke and not much more. Either they were dealing with amateurs or bumblers who'd make the Three Stooges look competent by comparison. It was similar to the bomb in the pool room. All smoke, little damage.

  But the initial attack on Elena Rostov had been planned by a pro. From the explosive device used, the timing, the lack of a trail to follow afterwards, it had run like clockwork. So was he dealing with two different threats? And if so, how was he going to keep Jane safe from simultaneous fronts?

  He rounded the last corner, pleased to see Santiago on alert, as if he'd been standing there minutes instead of hours. The kid was good, better than good, as he was standing outside of Jane's room instead of down the hall in front of Lucius's door. The biggest threat would have come from within the palace. By posting himself where he was, the young soldier might have given Jane a few extra seconds of warning should there have been an attack. Time, Lucius knew, that could have made the difference between survival or not.

  "Any problems, Santiago?"

  "No, sir," came the quick response. "The king's brother wanted to leave a few of his men, but I suggested they would be better positioned farther down the hall."

  Since Lucius hadn't seen any, Eustace Tarkioff must have either rejected the offer or called them off earlier. Another piece of the puzzle to analyze and interpret.

  "And the mademoiselle?"

  Lucius watched the young man's face relax. "Meek as a lamb, sir."

  Then they must have been talking about two different women, Lucius thought, failing to suppress a smile.

  "You're done for the night, Santiago. Report back to Elderman and we'll debrief at zero seven hundred."

  "Yes, sir." The young man snapped a salute.

  "Oh, and good job, soldier." Lucius watched the pleasure seep into the other's eyes. "Especially the decoy in front of the wrong door. Nice touch."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Good night, Santiago."

  After saluting the departing soldier, Lucius approached the door with the same rush of adrenaline and wariness that he approached any unknown situation. The night's activities had unsettled him, and he wasn't even thinking about the series of explosions, but about the earlier shock waves. The ones that had begun when a door opened and a woman in black had stood before him, more beautiful than he could have imagined, a smile flirting about her lips, a dare in her gaze.

  He'd been lost from that moment forward. And not because of the way a scrap of material looked draped across her, or the instantaneous response of his body. It was more than that.

  It was the way she knew the servants' names, not for convenience sake, but because she saw them as individuals. It was the way she greeted strangers in a receiving line, or thought to ask about a newborn child.

  Whatever he had expected when he'd entered a dim, cramped room to discover a woman taken against her will, it hadn't been Jane Richards, or what she was doing to his world. The mission had faded beside his need to keep her safe. Somewhere along the line she'd become his woman, the woman he longed to claim and would fight to the death to protect. There was no point in denying it or ignoring it, neither tactic was going to change reality.

  Jane Richards, with her too-large eyes, sweet, sweet smile and stubborn streak that was getting wider every day, had gotten under his skin and branded him. Just as he wanted to brand her, every inch of her. It was a primordial thought, an urge as instinctive and as old as time, which did not sit well. Especially when he knew she deserved more than a man committed to his country, his job and a lifestyle that wreaked havoc on relationships.

  He unlocked the door, turning the handle slowly, not wanting to frighten her if she was still awake on the other side. The room was bathed in shadows, a single nightstand lamp casting an amber glow throughout it.

  Another woman might have had the room ablaze to ward off the fear, but leave it to Jane to keep a cool head. The shadows gave her the advantage over anyone coming in from the lighted hallway. It even took him a second or two to locate her, curled up in a club chair dragged across the room until it stood halfway between the French doors and where he stood. The woman would have been a natural strategist, he realized, allowing the smile that accompanied the thought.

  He entered quietly, closing the door behind him, the sound of her even breathing taking away some of the fear congealed in his gut. She looked nothing like the Siren nestled in her chair cocoon, her legs drawn up beneath the thin silk of her dress, her hair tousled about her shoulders. She looked relaxed and vulnerable, except for the Glock nine-millimeter lying lax in her right hand.

  The image slammed against him with the force of a gale. She should have been sheltered from violence, from the ugliness he dealt with on a regular basis. But she wasn't and he'd been the one who'd dragged her out of her safe, secure world into the middle of this mess. Guilt ate like acid through his system.

  "McConneghy?" He heard her soft whisper from where he stood, not daring to slip any closer, accepting that even he had limits on his control. Limits constantly stretched too thin around this woman.

  "Yeah, it's me. It's all right. Another false alarm."

  He watched her sleepy smile, felt his body's immediate response and bit back a groan.

  She stretched. A slow, sensuous arch of arms and back that had him entranced and petrified at the same time. Nothing had changed. She still deserved more than he'd offered her thus far, and giving in to the burning need raging within him was only going to compound the situation. But looking at her there, sleep-rumpled and inviting, smiling that soft smile that crumbled his defenses quicker than an Uzi blast at short range, taxed to the limit his resolve to do the right thing.

  Jane shrugged off the last dregs of a haunted sleep she'd never meant to indulge in and wondered what she'd done now. Lucius looked like a thundercloud ready to erupt, eyes narrow, skin stretched taut along his nose, shadows hollowing his cheekbones. He'd said everything was okay, but maybe it really wasn't, and he didn't want to give her the bad news.

  Standing up, tugging her dress back into place, she felt the gun she'd been holding slip to the floor.

  "Careful." He snapped the words out.

  "Sorry." She looked at it where it lay, an inert blob of darkness in the dusky room. "I don't think anything broke."

  He groaned as she glanced up, then went still.

  "I really don't think I hurt it."

  "Forget the gun, Jane. The fact you didn't blow off your foot is a miracle, but I should get used to things like that happening around you."

  "Like what?"

  "Forget it."

  The man really was too tense. There had to be something he was holding back. "Tell me the truth."

  "What truth?"

  She stepped toward him and saw him tense even more. "The truth about what happened tonight. It was bad, wasn't it?"

  "You mean the explosions?"

  "Of course I'm talking about the explosions. That's why you're so on edge isn't it?"

>   "Part of the reason." His voice must have dropped an octave, or the room grew suddenly chilly. Something had to account for the goose bumps trilling across her skin.

  "What's the other part?" She stepped closer, wanting to see his face clearly in the weak light. This time he definitely groaned. "Are you hurt?"

  She was at his side in a moment, stopped only by his palm, raised as if warding her off.

  "Don't come any closer."

  He sounded in pain.

  "What is it? Where are you hurting?"

  "Lady, you're killing me here. I think it'd be better if you stepped back."

  What was the man babbling about? Could it be a head injury? She stepped close enough to see the pulse point pounding alongside his temple, heard the raggedness of his breathing, watched his features tighten even more.

  She lifted her right hand to his forehead, brushing back a lock of midnight hair, expecting to feel blood beneath her fingertips. "You're in pain."

  "Damn right I'm in pain."

  She knew it. She'd been right all along. He'd been injured in the line of duty, in protecting her, and now he was being noble about it. "What can I do to help?"

  He closed his eyes. If it'd been anybody else she'd have thought he was praying. Or counting to ten.

  "Tell me what to do to take away the pain. Do I need to get a doctor?"

  "No."

  "Do you need to lie down?"

  "Not yet."

  "But you sound like you're hurting."

  His fingers clamped around her wrist, drawing her hand away from stroking his face, but not releasing it.

  "I am hurting and you're making it worse. Sweet mercy, I'm not made out of stone."

  He could have fooled her, she'd never seen anyone so rigid. He looked ready to explode.

  "If you tell me where you're hurting maybe I can fix it. I had to get my first aid certificate for the library, and I passed with flying colors. Everything, that is, except the applying pressure part, but I'm sure I could manage it if you needed me to."

  "You're doing just fine with the pressure part."

  She found herself smiling. How nice of him to give her a compliment when it was obvious he was hurting.

  "Don't look like that." The man practically growled the words, his hand tightening about hers.

  "Like what?"

  "Like an innocent just ready to be gobbled."

  "Gobbled…" His look stopped her. It dried her words to dust and singed her down to her toes. Why hadn't she noticed it before? The intensity, the power, the sensual hunger all but floored her. Reality dawned, slowly, but crystal-clear. The room was no longer chilly, but hot, too hot and growing warmer by the second.

  "You're not really hurt, are you?" She whispered the words through too-dry lips, unable to turn away.

  "I'm not hurt." His words rasped against her. "But I am hurting. Big-time."

  He glanced down and her gaze followed his, stopping at the bulge against his suit pants, a very large bulge.

  "Oh."

  "If you don't want to finish what we started at the lake yesterday I suggest you retreat to your room."

  "I didn't start it, you did."

  "So I did." His free hand reached up to brush her hair from her shoulder. Why such a gentle gesture should make her want to tremble made no sense. But then nothing else did either. "The point's the same. Leave now or deal with the consequences."

  "And if I don't?"

  "I'll give you ten seconds to get to the door, Jane. After that—"

  "What?"

  She didn't know if he was more surprised, or she was, at the dare in her voice. The old Jane would have been running for the door. The new Jane held her ground.

  "I don't want any regrets. We're talking sex here, that's all. No promises, no commitments."

  No lies, she wanted to add, but didn't. Even here, she knew he was being noble, giving her an out, making what was happening between them as black and white as possible.

  But he was wrong. Everything was in Technicolor-shades red-hot and vibrant, and for once she was going to forget caution and grab on to life with both fists.

  "All right, we're talking sex." She watched wariness seep into his gaze, until she added, "Is that all we're going to do—talk? Because if it is, it'd better be a darn good conversation."

  He hesitated, questioning her or himself, she didn't know. All she knew was she forgot to breathe until the hand that had played with her hair slipped around her waist, tugging her close enough that she felt scorched by the heat in his gaze.

  "Fine. No more talking."

  The words barely registered before his lips captured hers. Devoured, more like it. Holding nothing back, demanding, coaxing, claiming, all before she could think. Not that she wanted to think, not when her system sang with its own response, as outrageous and unrestrained as his.

  His hand flattened against her back, its heat outlined against her cool skin, pulling her closer, until she felt the long hard length of him melded against her. And she wanted more.

  They moved. A silent two-step, until the bulk of the bed pressed against the back of her knees. He deepened the kiss. She responded. Her hand slid beneath his jacket, tangled with the leather of a holster strap and stilled.

  "Damn it." He muttered another pithy oath as he pulled back enough to strip his jacket and harness off with a fluid movement. The jacket slid to the floor, the gun was strategically placed on the bedside table. Even now, he remembered his duty first. Not that she expected less.

  She thought he should have looked less lethal without his weapon, but he didn't. Not with that heat in his smoke-silvered eyes, that growl in his voice. "Come back here."

  He didn't have to ask twice.

  Jane didn't have a lot of experience behind her, but there wasn't time to worry about it. In the space between one heartbeat and the next she was in his arms, straining beneath his kisses, tearing at his shirt like a woman crazed.

  Crazed with lust. Her—quiet, unprepossessing, plain Jane was making noises in her throat that sounded feral, her fingers were desperate to touch his skin, her mouth opened beneath kisses that all but consumed her, and still she wanted more.

  The room tilted and she thought she'd buckled until she felt the give of the mattress beneath her, the weight of Lucius atop her.

  "More." It was her voice pleading.

  "My pleasure." She heard the grin behind his words, felt the give of her dress as it slid from her neck to her waist, shivered beneath the wave of air across her sensitive skin, her aching nipples.

  "Lucius?" She didn't know what she wanted, but knew where she'd find it.

  "Is this what you want?"

  His wet tongue abraded her right nipple, rough against rough. She almost shot across the bed.

  "Yes. Yes."

  "And this?" He suckled his lips around her areola until she wanted to scream.

  "Yes. Oh, yes, I—"

  He moved to her left breast. She shifted beneath him, arching to grant him greater access, squirming when he took full advantage of it.

  "Lucius…"

  "Yes, love." The endearment arrowed to her heart even as she accepted that it meant nothing. Not like what he was doing to her body, tensing it, teasing it, taunting it.

  "Damn it, Lucius—"

  She felt another grin against her stomach. Right before his tongue swirled against the dip of her belly button, his hands pressed against the mound lower.

  Her clothes were in the way. Why didn't he pull them off? Why didn't he end the torment? Why didn't he hurry?

  But leave it to Lucius McConneghy to bring her to a quivering mass of aches and needs and leave her poised while he dawdled. The man was going to kill her. Exquisitely, one nerve ending at a time, but sweet death was still death.

  His hands stroked. Heel of his palm to fingertips, using the silk of her dress, the nylon of her panty hose as a barrier, or a torture device, she didn't know. All she knew was, it was driving her insane. The slow, deliberate rasp, pr
essure applied, then receded. Again and again.

  Her hands clawed at him. Wanting his shirt gone. Wanting his skin against hers. Just wanting.

  "Lucius, please—"

  "More?"

  "Yes, darn you."

  "Such unladylike talk." His laughter floated across her senses. "What would the other librarians say if they heard you now?"

  "They'd say you're a dead man unless you hurry up."

  He stilled, then raised himself until he dominated her line of sight. She was afraid he was going to pull back, as he'd done at the lake, and then she'd have to kill him for sure.

  But instead he smiled, a smile so sinful it should have been illegal.

  "You saying I'm going too slow for you?"

  She wasn't sure if it was tease or taunt. "Well, not exactly."

  "You want fast now?"

  Her body wanted blessed relief. Her soul wanted him to continue what he was doing forever. Her response straddled both.

  "I want you inside of me." The old Jane would never have dared to make such a demand.

  His only response was a grin. That and the sound of her dress tearing. Or maybe it was her pantyhose, but that didn't matter right then. Not when she felt the gentle strength of his hands slide between her thighs, stroking, stroking, again and again.

  "Lucius—"

  Somehow he'd managed to shuck his pants, though his bloody shirt, minus a few buttons, was still stubbornly in place. She felt the pressure of his knee wedge against hers, the quest of his fingers tangle in her curls, the deepening of his kisses.

  She'd died and gone to heaven. She knew it. This was not what she'd experienced before, given that her experience bordered on the lean side. But even in her wildest imaginings, she'd never have thought sex could be wanting and aching and straining and needing. The man was killing her.

  "If you don't—"

  He shifted, moving away from her for a scant moment, long enough to make her wonder if she'd pushed him away with her neediness, until she heard the crackle of a package being ripped open. Always the protector, she smiled, sure that now was not the time to point it out to him.