by Leslie Jones
Now that she’d arrived in Parvenière, her encounter with the gray van seemed surreal. Jay Spicer had promised to call her if the local police found the van or the men, but he wasn’t optimistic. The license plate had been stolen from a hapless teenager’s aging Buick. The sketch artist had done a reasonable job, but Christina had gotten barely a glimpse of the men. No matches had come up on any database.
Now she needed to give her full focus to this mission.
To ensure the secrecy of their plan, the princess’s living quarters had been declared off limits to all but the most discreet servants and cleaning staff. Véronique sent her chef on vacation and replaced her with an Italian woman. Trevor had explained the dangers of having Princess Véronique and Lord Brumley in close proximity; Julian had conceded only when Trevor pointed out that Véronique might be in danger simply by being at his side.
The princess had insisted that her private secretary, the longest serving and most trusted member of her household, be brought in on the charade in order to help Christina. She now sat unobtrusively off to the side, in a narrow red velvet chair with an oval back.
“Christina, we’ve rearranged your schedule to include only those appearances where we can control the environment,” Trevor went on. “Also where you won’t run into anyone who knows the princess well. At least, that’s what we’re trying to do. There’s one exception to that; and, I’m sorry, but this appearance will be in two weeks’ time.”
“What is it?” Christina swallowed the dismayed noise that wanted to crawl from her throat. It didn’t matter that she’d been a field agent for only a year. She could do this. She would do this.
The princess tapped a long, manicured nail against the arm of the davenport. “It is the sixtieth wedding anniversary of my grandaunt and -uncle, the Viscount and Viscountess of Nabourg. Because my father will be in Somalia on a humanitarian mission and my mother will address the Chamber of Representatives on the plight of our most rural farmers, it was decided that I should represent the royal family. To be truthful, it seems that every member of my family must be elsewhere. What is the American idiom? I drew the shorter straw.”
Trevor chuckled. “Amazing how that happens.”
“Won’t they recognize me?” Christina stumbled over the words, more alarmed than she ought to be. Her continued career with the CIA rested on the success of this mission; Jay had made that abundantly clear.
Princess Véronique suppressed a smile and rolled her eyes. “Lord Hugh is eighty-five and nearly blind. Lady Adela reminisces about her youth in Andorra to the exclusion of all else. Together, they can be rather tiresome. My contact with them over the years has been limited to mandatory appearances such as this one. As I am not close to them or their friends, it is doubtful any guests at this ball will know me intimately.” She frowned. “The news of the assassination attempt will cause some stir, as will your bodyguard.”
“That works in our favor, actually,” Christina said, calm again, feeling foolish about her nerves. “If I mess up, people will assume the attack shook me up. They’ll cut me some slack. I’ll downplay it as much as possible, though.”
Deni Van Praet, private secretary to the princess of Concordia, rose abruptly from her seat to poke at Christina’s bare shoulder. “We must cover that, yes?” Her ramrod posture and carefully styled hair fit into the environment perfectly.
Twisting her head to glance at her right arm, she pulled the sleeveless shirt up to see the two-inch jagged scar. It had faded from its original angry red, a souvenir from her aborted mission in Iraq last year. It was a brutal reminder of how close she had come to dying that day.
“Yes.”
Behind her, Trevor was outlining his plan for investigating the threats against Véronique. “I’ll need you to make me a list. Divide it into personal friends, acquaintances, and anyone who might hold a grudge or be angry with you. Don’t dismiss anyone, don’t assume it can’t be this or that person. When it comes to death threats, it could be a total stranger, a psychotic who has fixated on you for whatever reason. An assassination attempt is more serious. Someone’s already made the decision to end your life. Maybe he blames you for his circumstances; but it could just as easily be someone you know. It will take some time to do the background checks on all of them. We’ll use the time while you teach Christina.”
“Should you require it, you have at your disposal, of course, the full resources of our Department of Security,” Véronique said.
Trevor shook his head. “While the British government appreciates your generosity, we’re assuming the threat can come from anywhere. We can’t risk it.”
“Then I will let you get to it, and I will work on that list.” The princess rose. Trevor got up as well, recognizing the dismissal for what it was. She turned her luminous eyes Christina’s way. “Will you help me?”
“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” she murmured. Her body was already softening, her posture changing. She rose just as Véronique had, shoulders back, chin down, fingers touching but not intertwined.
“Please, Christina. You will call me Ronnie, yes? It is my nickname, one my friends use.”
“Thank you. I’m very honored.”
Trevor moved to the door. “I’ll be in and out. If you need anything, or if anything occurs to you, call me immediately.” His gaze included both of them. “Christina, when you’re out and about, you’ll have Morgan with you at all times, but you’ll still get in touch with me if you see something that raises the hair on the back of your neck. Right?”
“I will.” She followed him to the entryway. “Trevor?”
His expression softened as he looked down at her. “It’s good to see you again.”
Her shiver of unease vanished. Trevor had her back. The two of them had become friends a year ago, though at the time she’d thought she wanted more. Trevor had gently reminded her of the adrenal effects of a near-death experience, and told her to call him if she still felt the same way about him in a month. She hadn’t picked up the phone.
A blush unexpectedly rose in her cheeks. “Sorry,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “I didn’t expect you to dial me. I value our friendship, Christina.”
Curious, she canted a look up at him. “Are you seeing anyone now?”
To her surprise, a troubled look closed down his face. “No.”
Christina’s brows furrowed. “Bad breakup?”
Trevor glanced up at the ceiling. “It’s rather complicated.”
“Shelby Gibson?”
Trevor stilled. “How could you possibly know that?”
She put a hand on his forearm. “Heather told me about Shelby visiting you in the hospital when we were in Azakistan six months ago.”
He winced.
“She was just scared, Trev. I only met her briefly, but Heather thinks she cares more than she lets on.”
His mouth hardened. “She dumped me while I was lying in a hospital bed, Christina. Broken wrist, broken ribs, gunshot to the shoulder. Nothing life-threatening, but her timing was shite.”
“I’m sorry.”
Trevor forced a smile. “I am, too. Now go learn how to be a princess.” Eyes sad, he touched her cheek and left.
Christina ran her nails through her hair, fluffing and settling the curls. Poor Trevor. He was courageous, handsome, and a true gentleman. Unbidden, an image of Gabe superimposed itself over Trevor. Her breath caught in her throat.
She so wasn’t going there. Gabe might be equally brave, and as gorgeous as a fallen angel, but he was no gentleman. She peeked into the main living area. Ronnie and Deni Van Praet sat close together on a settee. Deni held the princess’s hand.
Christina wandered into her bedroom and flipped open her laptop. She turned on her video-chat program. Heather Langstrom answered on the third ring.
“Long time, no chat. How’re things in D.C.?”
&nb
sp; “I’m not there at the moment. I’m on assignment.”
“Where?” Heather’s cheerful face dimmed. “Can you say?”
“Sorry, but no. Some of your guys are coming here, though.” Heather would have no trouble reading between the lines, Christina knew. They had become friends since they had worked together in Azakistan six months before. Christina had been invited to be a bridesmaid for Heather and Jace’s wedding next spring.
“Ah. I’m prepping the info for them. They’re not due for another couple of weeks, though. Do you need them sooner?”
“No. I have my own prep to do. They would just be underfoot.”
“I can see something’s wrong. What is it?”
Christina took in some air. Where to start? With the thing pressing hardest in her mind. “This bodyguard thing. You know who’s been assigned to me.”
While they were on an unsecured line, neither would mention specifics about this mission. Heather nodded. “It’s going to be a learning experience for both of you.”
She dropped her gaze to the floor. “He doesn’t like me.”
Heather chuckled. “He doesn’t like anybody who works for your parent organization.”
“Why?”
Heather propped her head on her hand. “You’d better ask him directly. Anyway, I don’t think that’s going to end up being your problem.”
“What do you mean?” She slumped back against the back of the chair.
Heather’s expression turned from concerned to knowing. “I seem to recall sparks literally flying between the two of you in Azakistan.” Her eyes twinkled.
Christina shot her a look of horror. “I can’t stand him. He’s arrogant and bossy and . . . and . . .” And really good-looking. His blond hair was overlong, curling around his face in a way that made her itch to push it back with her fingertips. Last time she saw him, he’d sported a ridiculously sexy two-day growth. His irises were ringed with dark brown, but the centers were a tawny gold. It was his nose, broken at some point in his life, that kept him from being too beautiful.
She sighed. “And he doesn’t trust me,” she finished lamely.
Heather stood. “You’ll learn to trust each other. Hey, I gotta run. Briefing in five minutes.”
Christina shut the laptop with another sigh. She and Gabe would be together virtually all the time. She groaned, dread twisting in her gut.
FOR THE NEXT two weeks, Christina applied herself to learning how to stand, walk, eat, and think like a crown princess. She began to wear Ronnie’s clothes, speak in her lilting French dialect, copy her mannerisms. Ronnie’s private secretary, whose duties had much more to do with being a staff liaison and advisor than any kind of note-taker, began to style her hair and help with her makeup.
The princess sat as heir to the throne, but Concordia was a constitutional monarchy with a parliamentary democracy. The prime minister held most of the power. She studied the significant members of Parliament, influential entrepreneurs, and foreign heads of state, and pored over the de Savoie family tree, memorizing members of Ronnie’s family and ancestors that went back eight generations.
“Just focus on the important ones,” Ronnie said. “Crazy Queen Bernedetta, who used tea leaves to determine the course Parliament would take. Prince Roland, who was nearly blind and walked right off the cliff at Cap de la Nau in Spain. The Marquis de Plages, who kidnapped his wife from a British household in 1528 and nearly sent the two countries to war.”
Christina chuckled. “A colorful family history.”
“And now, demoiselle, we must dress,” Deni said. “Your bodyguard shall arrive shortly.”
Ugh. Christina had been trying to forget that fact. “Do I have time for a workout first?”
Ronnie’s living space mercifully included a room large enough to contain a wide variety of modern workout gear, and a large center floor that Ronnie used for kickboxing. Everything in it was first-rate. It made up for not stepping outside in two weeks.
“Perhaps after?” Deni suggested.
“All right.” She followed Ronnie into the master bedroom. They sat side-by-side on the four-poster bed, the forest green bedspread soft beneath them, while Deni disappeared into the walk-in closet. She came back out and held up a garment bag with something of a flourish.
“Come. We dress, okay?”
“Sure.”
The older woman’s gray eyes glittered with both intelligence and wisdom. Her red hair was swept into a sleek, sophisticated style. A face lined with experience projected an air of calm authority. She opened the garment bag.
“Voila!”
Bemused, Christina changed into the pantsuit. It was clearly expensive. The silky material clung to her breasts and hips. The top was a brilliant blue, with pads to widen her shoulders, which were narrower than Ronnie’s. The black pants were belted and flared widely at the bottom, which meant she was forced to wear the ridiculously high heels that the princess favored. Deni then styled her hair and watched carefully as Christina put in the contacts that turned her brown eyes green, and did her makeup.
“I don’t understand. It’s just Gabe Morgan, not the king coming to visit. It’s not the king, is it?” she asked, only half-joking.
“No, miss. You will see.”
Uncertain, Christina waited in the sitting room while Deni disappeared into the princess’s room. Her confusion vanished at the first sight of Ronnie. Gone was the casual woman. In her place was Princess Véronique de Savoie, dressed in an exact copy of the pantsuit Christina was wearing. Their hairstyles were identical, as was the eye shadow that brought out the green in their eyes. And Christina understood. If she could fool Gabe, who had already met her, she stood a good chance of fooling the public.
They stood together by the tall windows, Ronnie on the right, and Christina on the left.
Chapter Three
HE HESITATED OUTSIDE the door to the princess’s private apartments. The guard who escorted him canted a curious eye his way. Gabe blew out a breath. Shit. This was a job, just a job, like any other. Just focus on the objective, and not the woman he’d be working beside. She was the cheese in his trap; nothing more, nothing less.
The guard gleamed with spit and polish, imposing in his red wool coat with double rows of gold buttons. The gold braid tied at his throat and fastened at his right shoulder, and the red sash draped from the opposite shoulder to hip, proclaimed him a member of the Household Guard. He’d taken Gabe past the tourists crowding the public portions of the palace, up the right staircase, and through thirty-foot-high doors into the residential wing.
Gabe banged on the princess’s door knocker three times. An older woman opened the door and gestured Gabe inside, rattling off a spate of French he didn’t understand. The guard grunted something in return and left.
The woman said, “I am Dame Van Praet, Princess Véronique’s private secretary.”
The woman could teach his men a thing or two about spit and polish. Hair smoothed back and perfectly coiffed. Flawless makeup. Tallish for a woman at around five foot seven, but she still only came up to his shoulder. Chunky gold earrings and a clearly expensive tailored light blue suit. The skirt ended three inches above her knees. Nice legs, even if she looked sixtyish. The secretary’s mouth tightened and she actually managed to look down her nose at Gabe. Impressive.
“If you require anything, please come to me and I will provide it.” Her voice was stiff. Clearly, this was not a woman used to being checked out. He knew who she was, of course. Her role, her family history, her political leanings. Still, his inner devil got the best of him. His lips twitched.
“If we need any fancy stationery or envelopes, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He started past her.
The woman planted herself squarely in his way. “I am not an administrative secretary,” she said, voice frosty. “I am Deni Van Praet, Edle von Naamv
eld, Dame of the Order of Sint-Godelieve, Private Secretary to Her Royal Highness Véronique, Princesse de Savoie, Duchesse d’Ardes, Markiezin of Ardvaleen.”
Doubly impressive. She’d managed to spit all that out without a single pause. Gabe kept his face blank and his chuckles to himself.
The woman sighed. “Think of me as kind of a chief of staff, then. You have those in America, yes? I manage Her Highness’s appearances, her correspondence, her speeches, and photographs. I am communication liaison between the princess’s household and the other royal households. Also between the princess and the many charities and institutions for which she is patroness. I act as a national and international political and social advisor.” Her eyes snapped. “I do not take dictation.”
Gabe felt a flush stain his cheeks. Well, and hadn’t she put him in his place? What would she have said if he told her she had great gams?
“My apologies, Dame Deni. I actually do know who and what you are. Your thirty-two years of service to the royal family has been exemplary. You are a vital part of the princess’s success, and everyone knows it.”
She huffed, but after a moment amusement flickered in her eyes. “You are having a jest with me, then?”
“Yes, ma’am. I apologize.”
She eyed him for a moment, then threw back her head and laughed. “Few dare nowadays. It is refreshing.”
Deni led the way into the apartment, and he stepped inside the richest, most opulent home he’d ever seen. Apartment? The term became meaningless as he took in the forty-foot ceiling, the gray stone laced with golden tones stretching from the foyer to the entrance of what he assumed was supposed to be a sitting room, which was all curlicues of gold in faux columns and velvet-looking furniture. Totally outside his comfort zone. Still, he was here to disappear into the background. That he did exceptionally well.
He walked into the sitting room and experienced a jolt of unreality. A twin set of beautiful women stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows. One was the Crown Princess Véronique de Savoie; the other was plain Christina. So, this was a test. He strode across the floor and stopped a few feet away from them, scanning each face closely. There were minor physical differences between them—but which was which?
