Duty At What Cost?

by Michelle Conder

  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that much easier to scale a high brick wall as an adult, Ava conceded. In fact it had been downright scary and had shown her how unfit she was. Her arm muscles were aching in protest. It hadn’t helped when she’d discovered the ancient chestnut tree she had been relying on to help her down the other side had been removed, and then two trained security guards wielding machine guns had happened upon her.

  She hadn’t considered that Gilles would have hired extra security for the wedding, but in hindsight she should have done. Naturally the men hadn’t believed her about the car accident, and now all she needed was for one of those media helicopters she could hear to zero in on her and her joyous day would just about be complete.

  It was all Gilles’s fault, she grouched to herself, eyeing the uneven terrain at her feet where the magnificent tree had once stood. And surely they’d raised the height of the wall since the last time she’d climbed it as a tearaway twelve-year-old.

  Shifting uncomfortably, she eyed the two killers camouflaged in street clothes below, glad she was conversant in English. She knew no self-respecting Frenchman would ever be seen mixing flannel with corduroy. ‘If you would just check a couple of hundred metres up the road you’ll find my car and realise that I am telling you the truth,’ she repeated, struggling to hold back the temper her father had often complained was as easy to strike up as a match. Which actually wasn’t true. It took special powers to induce her to lose the plot.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. Boss’s orders.’ That from the one who looked slightly more sympathetic than the other—although that was like saying snow was colder than ice.

  ‘Fine. But I have a headache and I’d like to get down.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am—’

  ‘Boss’s orders,’ Ava finished asininely, wondering what the two men would do if she decided to jump. Not an entirely practical option since she would likely break her ankle.

  It had clearly been an oversight on their part as children only to whittle footholds on one side of the wall. A mistake no self-respecting spy in their right mind would have made!

  Ava briefly closed her eyes and gently tested the injury on her forehead. It felt so large she was sure the House of Fabergé would weep to get their hands on it.

  A wave of irritation threatened to topple her off the wall and impale her on one of those raised guns, and as much as she told herself it was irrational to be irritated with these men, since this whole situation was her own fault, she couldn’t dispel her growing agitation. In truth, she felt like a fool sitting atop Gilles’s wall like a silly bird.

  ‘And where is this boss of yours?’ she queried, injecting her voice with a calm she was far from feeling.

  ‘Coming soon, ma’am.’

  So was Christmas. In four months’ time.

  A low rumble of thunder brought Ava’s head around as she tried to locate the sound. Her view was hampered by soaring parkland trees and wild shrubbery, and the only thing visible in the distance were the rounded red brick towers of the château and a picture-perfect blue sky beyond.

  Then a flash of white amongst the trees caught her attention, and she couldn’t look away as a purebred stallion galloped into view. Ava’s eyes drank in the beautiful creature—and then she felt slightly dizzy as her eyes took in its handsome rider.

  Windswept sandy hair was brushed back from a proud face with a strong nose and square jaw, wide shoulders and a lean torso rippled beneath a fitted black polo shirt, and long, muscular legs were outlined to perfection in white jodhpurs and knee-high black riding boots.

  She sensed he was absolutely furious, even though he hadn’t moved a well-honed muscle. His narrowed eyes were boring into hers with the intense focus of a natural hunter. Even when the horse stamped impatiently beneath him, its nostrils flaring and its tail flicking with irritation, the man remained preternaturally still.

  Ava’s heart pounded and she found her fingers gripping the stone wall for support. Heat was turning her limbs soft. Of course it was the sun making her hot, not the ruthless-looking warrior staring at her with an arrogance that bordered on insolence.

  ‘Are you the reason I’m still on this wall?’ The confrontational words were out of her mouth before she’d known they were in her head and she could have kicked herself. She had meant to be pleasant, to make sure this ordeal was over as quickly as possible. She knew instantly from the firm jut of his jaw that she had well and truly put paid to that.

  * * *

  Wolfe didn’t move a muscle as his eyes swept over the fey gypsy on the wall. He’d been wrong. She wasn’t attractive. She was astonishingly attractive, and his soldier’s eyes noted everything. High cheekbones, honey-gold skin, eyes as dark as night and thick sable hair pulled into a ponytail, wisps from which floated around a lush, sulky mouth that looked as if it was waiting to be kissed.

  By him.

  Impatiently discarding the unexpected thought, he let his eyes drift lower over a white cotton shirt the gentle breeze was using to outline her rounded breasts, and fitted jeans that hugged long slender legs. And bare, stocking-clad feet!

  Achilles swatted the air with his tail, as if he too was disturbed by the vision, and then Wolfe registered her haughty, royally pissed-off question and recovered himself. She was an intruder, and she was ruining a rousing game of polo, and if she was upset she could stand in line.

  ‘No.’ He shot her a cursory look. ‘You are the reason you’re still on that wall.’

  Ignoring her hissed exhalation he swung out of the saddle and approached his men. He could feel her eyes following him and wondered at their exact colour, immediately irritated at the irrelevant thought.

  He waited for Eric to fill him in on how they had come across her, and then indicated for him to pass over the leather handbag he held in his hand.

  ‘Is the gun absolutely necessary?’

  Her slightly bored question floated down from the wall.

  ‘Only if I have to shoot you with it.’ He didn’t bother looking at her when he spoke. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them.’

  ‘I’m not a criminal!’

  He ignored her little outburst and inspected her handbag. ‘Find anything interesting in here?’

  ‘No, boss. Usual women things. Lipstick, tissues, hair clips. No ID, as I said.’

  He heard her exasperated sigh. ‘I already told your watchdogs I had a car accident and my purse must have fallen out of my bag.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  ‘For whom? You?’

  Wolfe gave her a stare he knew from experience made grown men think twice. ‘You have an awfully smart mouth for someone in your predicament.’ And he wished she would close it. The husky quality of her lightly accented voice was having an adverse effect on his body.

  ‘I am Princess Ava de Veers of Anders and I demand you let me down from here immediately.’

  Wolfe ran his eyes over her again, just for the sheer pleasure of it and because he knew it would put her on the back foot. ‘What are you doing on a wall, Princess? Learning to fly?’

  ‘I am a guest at this wedding and you are likely to lose your job if you insist on leaving me up here. I’m probably sunburned by now.’

  ‘By this watered-down version of the sun?’ And on that golden skin? ‘Unlikely. And honoured guests usually approach by the main gates. What outlet do you work for?’

  Her brow crinkled. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Newspaper? Magazine? TV station? Nice camera, by the way. Mind if I take a look?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  He dumped her handbag on the grass and started checking through her photos.

  ‘I said yes, I do mind.’

  ‘Whether I look or not isn’t contingent on whether you mind.’

  ‘Why bother asking, then?’

  He nearly smiled at the exasperation in her voice. ‘Manners.’

  She made a cute noise that said he wouldn’t know what manners were if they conked him on the head.

  Frow
ning at the photos on her camera, he glanced up at her. ‘Nice celebrity shots on here. I repeat—what rag do you work for?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I am not a member of the paparazzi, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I own an art gallery. Those were taken at a recent opening night. Not that it is any of your business.’

  Wolfe rubbed his jaw and pretended to consider that. ‘Really? Given your current predicament, I’d say it’s very much my business.’

  She looked as if she was holding on to her temper by a thread. ‘I do understand how this looks. And I even appreciate how efficient your men were at spotting me—’

  ‘I’m so happy to hear that.’

  ‘But—’ she carried on as if he hadn’t interrupted ‘—I am who I say I am. My car is a couple of hundred metres that way, and your men would already know this if they had bothered to go and find it instead of holding their weapons on me as if I was a terrorist.’

  Wolfe handed the camera to Eric. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He didn’t bother to hide the contempt he felt for her type. Haughty princesses—real or imagined—who thought their needs took preference over everybody else’s. ‘Did I forget to tell you? My men take orders from me, not you.’

  Her pout turned even sexier. ‘Convenient.’

  He wasn’t in the frame of mind to appreciate her wisecrack and nearly reconsidered his need to verify her identity before tossing her back over the wall.

  ‘Eric. Dane. Take the Jeep and find her car. If it exists.’

  She sniffed at his instructions and shifted her bottom on the wall. She must be completely uncomfortable by now. Serve her right.

  ‘I told you to keep your hands where I could see them.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Do you think it might be at all possible that I could wait on the ground for your men to return? I promise not to overpower you while they are gone.’

  The air seemed to buzz with the antagonistic heat she imbued him with, and her accent lent her sardonic words a sexy edge. She was a wicked combination of beauty and spirit, and not even the way she spoke down to him was enough to keep his libido at bay. A truly annoying realisation.

  ‘I think I can handle you.’

  Her eyes dropped to his mouth and Wolfe felt a kick of lust all the way to his toes. He waited, breathless, for the heat in his groin to dissipate, but if anything it got worse. Then her eyes blazed into his and the chemistry he’d been trying to ignore sparked like a live wire between them.

  The way her eyes widened he thought perhaps she had read his thoughts, but that was impossible. Fourteen years in the business and Wolfe knew how to hide what he was feeling—hell, he’d learned how to do that by the time he could walk.

  Perhaps she’d just felt the same burn he had. And had liked it just as little, if her wary gaze was anything to go by. Which gave him a moment’s pause. If she was a journalist—or, worse, some sort of political stalker—she’d have already used that connection to manipulate him, not shy away from it as if she’d just been singed.

  His eyes took in wrists that looked impossibly slender within the cuffs of her masculine-style shirt, then moved down along fine-boned hands and nails buffed to perfection. She didn’t do hard labour. That much was obvious.

  He knew instinctively she was who she said she was. It was in her regal bearing, the swanlike arch of her neck, in her sense of entitlement and the way she looked at him as if he was staff. His mother had often looked at his father like that and Wolfe had always felt sorry for the poor bastard.

  She shifted again, her eyes on the ground. ‘Do you have any suggestions on how I might get down from here?’ And with a degree of dignity, her tone seemed to imply.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to unfold my trusty ladder from my back pocket?’ Wolfe mocked. ‘Oh, dear. Left it at home.’ He opened his hands, palms facing upwards. ‘Guess you’ll just have to jump into my arms, Princess. What a treat.’

  His horse snickered and her eyes used the excuse to glance at the stallion before returning to his. ‘Channelling your inner Zorro?’ she asked sweetly.

  His lips twitched. ‘Only because I left my Batman tool belt at home.’

  ‘With Robin?’

  Despite his less than stellar mood he chuckled. ‘Cute. Toss down the boots first.’ The last thing he wanted was to be stabbed by one of those dangerous-looking heels, and by the gleam in her eyes that was exactly what she was considering.

  ‘I have a better idea. Why don’t I just go back down the way I came up?’

  ‘No.’

  Her lips tightened. ‘It makes perfect sense. I can—’

  ‘Try it and I will shoot you.’

  ‘You don’t have a gun.’

  ‘I have a gun.’

  She paused, her stillness telling him she was weighing up whether he was telling the truth or not. Her eyes slid down his torso and over his legs and he felt a rush of unexpected excitement, as if she’d actually touched him.

  ‘You are being overly obnoxious about this,’ she fumed.

  ‘Not yet, I’m not.’ Wolfe barely managed to suppress his rising aggravation at this physical response to a woman he already didn’t like. ‘But I’m getting close.’

  ‘If you drop me I’ll sue you.’

  ‘If you don’t hurry up and get down from that wall I’ll sue you.’

  Her dark brows arched imperiously. ‘For what?’

  ‘Trying my patience. Now, pass down the boots. Nice and easy,’ he warned softly.

  With an audible sigh she dropped her boots one after the other into his outstretched hands. The kid leather was warm from her touch.

  ‘Now you.’ His voice had grown rough—a clear indication that some part of him was looking forward to holding her in his arms. And what was wrong with that? He might not be interested in starting up another affair straight after his last one had ended so tastelessly, but he was male and this woman was beautiful.

  ‘I’d rather wait for a ladder.’

  So would he.

  ‘Then you’d better settle in. I run security, not rescue.’

  Again she glanced dubiously at the ground. ‘It didn’t seem like such a big drop when I was younger. And what happened to the chestnut tree that used to grow here?’

  ‘Now you’re mistaking me for a gardener, Princess. What next?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Certainly not for a nice man. Rest assured of that. And my correct title is Your Royal Highness.’

  He knew the correct title. He might not be royal himself, but he’d met enough in his lifetime to know how to address one. ‘Thanks for the tip. But I don’t have all day. So let’s go.’ Time to stop thinking about the tempting swell of her breasts and her hot mouth.

  ‘You don’t have all day? Thanks to you, I’m impossibly late now,’ she complained.

  He beckoned her with his fingers. ‘My heart bleeds.’

  ‘You’re really very rude.’

  ‘Want me to leave you up there?’ he prompted, fresh out of patience.

  ‘Excuse me for being a little uneasy.’

  Wolfe sighed and held his hands up again. ‘I’ve never dropped a princess before.’

  ‘You’ve probably never had the opportunity before now.’

  He shook his head. ‘You sure do know how to make yourself vulnerable, Princess.’

  She muttered something in French, making him want to smile. She was all fire and...attitude!

  Balancing on her hands, she carefully swung her leg over the wall, so that she was perched on it like a little chipmunk, her fingers turning white as she gripped the edge. Still she hesitated, lifting first one thigh and then the other to make sure the fabric of her jeans didn’t catch.

  ‘Want me to count to three?’ he drawled.

  She threw him a dark look, her eyes fixed firmly on his, and then they snapped closed and she launched herself off the wall.

  Wolfe felt her svelte torso slide through his hands as he caught her, his arms wind
ing around her before she hit the ground. Her rib cage heaved as she dragged in an unsteady breath, the movement flattening her soft breasts against his hard chest.

  Her arms clung tight around his neck, holding his face against the warm pulse at the base of her neck. His senses instantly filled with her heat and sweet perfume. He usually found perfume cloying. Hers wasn’t, and was probably the reason he held her longer than he needed to. Held her moulded against him as if he’d been doing it his whole life. Held her long enough to wonder how it would feel to fit himself deep inside her.

  Tight. Hot. Wet.

  Wolfe’s head reared back as his senses took over and he found himself staring into exquisite, wide-spaced navy blue eyes that made him feel as if he’d been hit by a land-to-air missile.

  ‘You can put me down now,’ she said a little breathlessly.

  He could slide his hands down to her butt and wrap her legs around his waist, as well.

  As if he’d spoken out loud the air between them thickened, and he felt every hot inch of her go impossibly still against him.

  Almost embarrassed by a stupefyingly strong urge to crush her mouth beneath his, which had held him spellbound for—God—he hoped only seconds, he none-too-gently set her on her feet and stepped back from her.

  It was only then that he noticed the slight swelling above her right temple.

  ‘You should get that looked at,’ he instructed roughly.

  Her eyes licked over his face before meeting his, her breathing as uneven as his heart rate. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Put your shoes on. It’s time to go.’ He busied himself with collecting Achilles while his mind came back on line. By rights he should search her, to make sure she was clean, but, hell, he wasn’t touching her again. Bad enough he’d have to put her on the back of the horse since Eric and Dane had yet to return.

  He frowned, wondering what was taking them so long.

  ‘I’d rather walk.’ Her eyes flitted from the stamping stallion and back to him.

  Realising he was functioning below par, and that had he been on a real military expedition he might well be dead now, Wolfe re-engaged his instincts and gave her a hard stare. ‘You can try my patience, Princess, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’