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The Makeover Mission
Mary Buckham


When Jane Richards woke up bound and blindfolded, she just knew it had to be a mistake.She was a small-town librarian, after all. Who'd want to kidnap her? Little did she know that her striking resemblance to Elena, the queen of Vendari, would result in her being whisked away to parts unknown and coerced into acting as Elena's double. Jane's only ally was the majorly sexy Major Lucius McConneghy. But could she trust him? Lucius had sworn to protect Jane no matter what. But with death threats aimed at the real Elena, keeping Jane out of trouble wouldn't be easy.At first Lucius's promise was professional, but as the mission progressed - and his attraction to the surprisingly brave Jane became impossible to ignore - he couldn't prevent it from becoming personal….






Where was the legendary McConneghy control? The ability to shut off all emotions to get the mission accomplished?


Shot to hell the moment he saw this doe-eyed young woman, her look pleading with him to save her.

As if he were some angel of mercy. Hell, he was the reason she was here. And the sooner she knew it, and accepted what her role was, the better it would be for all concerned.

So far, this mission had been a disaster. If they’d had more time, they could have foregone the crudeness of a kidnapping. Avoided the emotional and physical costs the woman before him was already paying.

But if there was one thing he had accepted after years of service, there was no going back and correcting past mistakes. There was only going forward and minimizing future ones. Someone always paid. In this case—her.

Jane Richards was his responsibility now. And he would do everything in his power to keep her alive. Everything.




Dear Reader,

The weather’s hot, and so are all six of this month’s Silhouette Intimate Moments books. We have a real focus on miniseries this time around, starting with the last in Ruth Langan’s DEVIL’S COVE quartet, Retribution. Mix a hero looking to heal his battered soul, a heroine who gives him a reason to smile again and a whole lot of danger, and you’ve got a recipe for irresistible reading.

Linda Turner’s back—after way too long—with the first of her new miniseries, TURNING POINTS. A beautiful photographer who caught the wrong person in her lens has no choice but to ask the cops—make that one particular cop—for help, and now both her life and her heart are in danger of being lost. FAMILY SECRETS: THE NEXT GENERATION continues with Marie Ferrarella’s Immovable Objects, featuring a heroine who walks the line between legal, illegal—and love. Dangerous Deception from Kylie Brant continues THE TREMAINE TRADITION of mixing suspense and romance—not to mention sensuality—in doses no reader will want to resist. And don’t miss our standalone titles, either. Cindy Dees introduces you to A Gentleman and A Soldier in a military reunion romance that will have your heart pounding and your fingers turning the pages as fast as they can. Finally, welcome Mary Buckham, whose debut novel, The Makeover Mission, takes a plain Jane and turns her into a princess—literally. Problem is, this princess is in danger, and now so is Jane.

Enjoy them all—and come back next month for the best in romantic excitement, only from Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,






Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor




The Makeover Mission

Mary Buckham










MARY BUCKHAM


has always believed in make-believe. As a child she roped, cajoled and bullied her brothers and sisters, along with any unsuspecting neighbor child, into elaborate story productions put on in her backyard or basement. Swashbuckling pirates, damsels in distress, and heroes and heroines—this was Mary’s role—who saved the day. As an adult, Mary made sure her five children had a trunk of dress-up clothes and plenty of space to create their own make-believe worlds. She married her Prince Charming, one who doesn’t mind that she talks with imaginary people and who learned to cook as a self-preservation measure. She lives in a picturesque Pacific Northwest seaport community filled with writers, artists and musicians, all constantly proving that the power of make-believe can make magic happen. Mary loves hearing from readers, writers and everyone in between. You can reach her via her Web site, www.marybuckham.com.


I think one’s first dedication page is the hardest to write, because there are so many to thank for their support, encouragement and help over the years.

For my mom, Joy Arsenault, and my mother-in-law, Marilyn Buckham, and Allie Burnell, who all believed. For Sandi Harbert, who was there from the first lines written. For critique partners and fellow writers, friends and believers and, especially, my husband, Jim, and my children—Lizzie, Michael, Brittany, Devon and Tyler— I couldn’t have done this without any of you. Thanks!




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14




Chapter 1


“Tell the major she’s awake.”

Jane Richards snapped her head back, paying for the movement with a pounding that felt like a band of fire across her temples.

Who was the major? And where was she?

She blinked, straining to see into the darkness. Nothing. Something shielded her eyes. What? Why?

Panic tightened her throat.

She attempted to rip off whatever covered her eyes. But her hands wouldn’t budge. They were strapped to the blunt edges of what felt like armrests.

Blindfolded and trapped.

But why? Where?

“Who are you?” The words were hers, but the voice didn’t sound like her own. It sounded weak and scared.

No one answered.

The air around her felt clammy. The darkness seemed uniform throughout. There were no traffic sounds beyond thin windows, no voices through walls. The only noise permeating the silence came from behind her. The sound of someone breathing. Slow, even breaths. The sound from a child’s nightmare. The sound from a woman’s worst fears.

But it was real. And it was happening to her.

She wanted to scream. The temptation to struggle against the bonds trapping her was stronger. It must be a nightmare. It had to be. People like her did not end up in dark rooms with their hands tied to the arms of chairs.

“Who are you? Why am I here?” Her voice shook; her whole body mimicked it.

No answer. The breathing continued. Evenly paced and controlled.

She had to keep calm, to regain control. Isn’t that what they’d told her during library fire drills? The person who panics is the person who’s lost. And she was ready to panic in a big way.

Jane squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to hold back the tidal wave of terror pulsating through her system. She wiggled her hands, wondering what held her in place. Tape? She could feel adhesive tugging at her bare skin with each twist of her wrists.

The fear wanted to paralyze her. If she let it, it would. She flexed her hands, the tug of the tape holding strong. Her legs too were bound. Helpless.

Scream? If she shouted would anyone hear her? Could she alert someone before the breather stopped her? Did she have any other choice?

She might have only one chance. She had to make it good. She opened her mouth to scream.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The voice stopped her cold. It was male. Rough-edged and deep.

Poised on the brink of shouting, she paused. Listening. Straining against the darkness to locate the speaker. His voice had sounded in front of her, not behind. Had the breather moved? Or was there someone new in the room?

But she hadn’t heard movement. Had she?

Her jaw relaxed, but not because the fear lessened. If anything it had increased. The voice was that of the hunter and she was the prey.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” She sounded like a tape recorder stuck on one line and felt the rise of laughter bubbling through her. Hysteria? Possibly, not that she had much experience with the emotion. Hysteria happened to others. Not to her.

“Turn the light on, Elderman.” The voice spoke again, ignoring her question as the sound of footsteps moved closer. Leather soles slapped against a hard floor behind and then in front of her. What sounded like at least two others stepped closer, making her want to cringe. To flee. But she couldn’t. Not with her hands and legs bound.

Before she prepared herself, a light blazed forth. Not strong as much as startling behind the muffled darkness of the blindfold. She knew she was spotlighted before these strangers.

She pulled back, jerking her head with the movement, setting off the cannons pounding double-time in her head. There was no place to run, no place to hide.

She might have gasped, or flinched, because the deep voice demanded. “How much did you give her?”

“She didn’t come easily, sir.” Another male voice replied from behind her.

“I asked how much you gave her.”

The man’s voice radiated cold assurance, unrelenting authority. Jane wanted to hide from that voice. There was no doubt that voice could order men into battle and expect to be obeyed. But what did they want with her?

“Thompson handled the dosage, sir.”

“Then he’ll be dealt with.”

This new voice jogged a fuzzy memory.

Someone had grabbed her arm from behind in the parking garage of her apartment building. The very unexpectedness of it had caused her to turn, to catch the shadow of a masked face. She felt another grab her other arm. Then the pain of a scratch near her elbow. A scratch or a poke. She’d called out. Swung away, striking the nearest man with her purse. He’d muttered an oath, or what sounded like an oath, but already things were blurring.

She’d felt herself falling. She thought she’d screamed again and knew she’d lashed out, her foot connecting with a shin, her hand tearing cloth. The jabbing sensation to her arm came again. Then the darkness.

“You were at my apartment,” she whispered the words aloud, feeling anger slide in where moments ago there was only fear. “I want to know what you’re doing. Why I’m here.”

“Enough.” Another man spoke, this one with a guttural accent she couldn’t place. Eastern European maybe. That and an imperious tone to his voice; a man used to getting his way. A different kind of power than the first voice. “I cannot see what she looks like with that thing around her face.”

“That thing is for your protection, sir.” The first voice spoke, and in spite of the salutation there was no deference in his tone. “For your protection and hers.”

“We are running out of time. She looks like Elena but I must be sure.”

Who was Elena? And who was the first voice protecting? He’d said “her” but surely that didn’t mean her. Why would someone drug and kidnap a person then worry about protecting them? Nothing made sense.

Before she could demand answers, someone bent down next to her. She could smell the scent of soap and feel the warmth of a hand brush against her shoulder.

She flinched, pressing as far back as the unyielding chair would allow, straining against the tape, but it was useless. There was nowhere to go.

A hand slid down her hair. A gentle touch, soothing somehow, though that made no sense. The human contact should have frightened her, but it didn’t. She felt fingers tugging at the knotted fabric covering her eyes. The material bunched, catching strands of her hair before it loosened.

“You won’t be hurt.” The dark voice came like a caress in the darkness. “Do exactly what I say and you won’t be hurt.”

Now she knew it was hysteria bubbling through her. The need to laugh aloud. The wanting to believe the voice when logic told her it’d be a fool’s mistake.

“Why—”

“Shhh. The less movement you make the less your head will hurt.”

The words sounded tinged with regret, as if he understood the pain slamming through her temples, the terror surging through her system. Maybe he was sorry for his part in it.

For the space of one deep breath she would have believed there were only the two of them in the room. The fear began to subside. Until the cloth gave way and slid from her eyes.

The harshness of the light felt like a thousand suns instead of the gritty wattage of a single bulb directly overhead. Two soldiers garbed in rumpled camouflage gear flanked her and a man in a pressed uniform of white and blue faced her. And next to her, instead of a dark voice, she found herself staring into a pair of gray eyes, as cold as a frozen lake, as unreadable as the ocean deep.

If she had thought she wanted to run and hide before, it was nothing compared to what she felt now. Those eyes pinning her as effectively as the straps around her wrists, searched her gaze until she felt stripped bare, exposed and more vulnerable than she’d ever felt before.

“It is true then. She is Elena.” The uniform spoke, startling her with his words. Yet, in spite of his gold epaulets and row of medals marching across his chest, no one could doubt who held the power in this room. And it wasn’t him.

She found herself licking suddenly dry lips, felt the blip in her heart rhythm when the movement caught the attention of the man kneeling before her, compelling his gaze to shift to her lips, then back to her face. His expression remained enigmatic, except for the briefest tightening of his facial muscles.

He wasn’t handsome. Far from it, with unforgiving lines and a square jaw. His hair looked dark, black maybe, with a hint of gray near the temples. Not softening in its effect. There was nothing soft about this face. Not with the lines radiating from the corners of those glacial eyes, bracketing his mouth and dug deep along what looked like a scar near his right temple. His skin was tanned, like a man who lived beneath tropical rays.

It was a strong face, one as compelling as his eyes.

Jane held no doubt it could be implacable and hard when he chose. But she thought it wasn’t inherently cruel or vicious, which, for the first time since she’d awakened, gave her hope.

He rose beside her, his gaze still locked with hers, as if silently assessing and measuring, though he spoke to the uniform. “There are enough similarities that she could easily pass as Elena, especially from a distance.”

“Then she will do,” came the immediate, and dismissive response. The uniform’s accent had deepened. “It has taken too long as it is.”

Who was Elena? What did it matter if she looked like her? Who were these men?

“There are still a number of obstacles,” the man they referred to as the major said, leaving no doubt Jane was one of them, before he continued, “There will be repercussions. Too much has already been badly handled.”

“That, then, is what you are here for.” Gold epaulets flashed and the uniform shifted. “I have heard you were the best. Fix the problems and we will be on our way.”

“It’s not that easy—”

“I do not wish for excuses, Major McConneghy. I want only solutions.”

Jane watched the other man’s gaze darken and shift and was thankful he was no longer looking at her. Even the uniform seemed to realize he’d taken the wrong tone with the man he called McConneghy as he stepped back and waved a hand before him. “My fear is for Elena. This is a terrible strain on her.”

“I understand.” The reply indicated understanding would only be extended so far and not an inch further. “But a shoddy operation is worse than no operation. I’ll take care of the details here.”

“Well then…” the uniform glanced around the room. “I shall be on my way and expect to see you in Dubruchek tomorrow.”

Jane did not feel relief when he turned on a booted heel and marched from the room. In spite of his commands and imperial words, it was Gray-eyes who worried her.

His stillness permeated the room, as if he were weighing options and gauging consequences. The two soldiers kept their gazes on him, their attention as ramrod straight as their stances.

“Elderman.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell Winters to ready the plane.”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier closest to the door saluted and disappeared.

Two down, two to go, Jane thought, not finding an ounce of comfort in the realization as long as one of those two was Major Gray-eyes.

She watched him, every cell in her body waiting, hoping against hope that now that the others had left he would turn toward her, tell her it was all a big mistake and unstrap the tape. But then optimism had always been one of her weaknesses.

“I won’t say anything to anyone if you’ll let me go.” She heard the plea in her own voice.

“It’s too late.” The man said it as if with regret, then nodded to the soldier behind her. His gaze shifted to hers, right before he crouched beside her once again, his hand covering her own clenched fist, his eyes steady on hers. “Just do exactly as I say and I promise you’ll be safe.”

She believed his words, maybe because of the intensity of the gaze riveted to hers, until movement out of the corner of her eye snagged her attention.

The other man, the soldier who had been slightly behind her, moved. He stepped forward, far enough into the light that she could make out his face. One that looked too young to be dressed in fatigues. A soldier-boy she thought, then caught sight of what was in his right hand.

Light flashed off a sliver of metal. A sharp, lethal-looking slice of silver. One attached to a hypodermic syringe.

“No. No, please no.” The words were automatic. And useless. As useless as struggling against the bonds holding her. But she could no more stop either reaction than the pounding of her heart. “No, I won’t tell. I won’t—”

“It will be all right.” Gray-eyes spoke, his words like an anchor in the swirl of terror surging through her. Yet he was one of them. More than that, he led them.

Her gaze snapped to his. “Please, don’t let him do this. Please…I won’t—”

She could feel the other man’s hand pin her arm even as Gray-eyes raised his free hand, holding her chin so she could not look toward the needle.

“You’ll be safe. This is the best way. The only way.”

She tried to pull her chin away but he wouldn’t let her. Cold dampness touched her lower arm. The pierce of a needle slid beneath her skin. And yet he held her. There would be bruises tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow.

He spoke again, gently murmured nonsense words. Words that in another place might have been of comfort, or compassion.

But this man held no compassion. If he did she wouldn’t be there, feeling helpless. Defenseless. Terrified.

The needle receded. The fear didn’t. But it took only a heartbeat to feel it muted. Her struggles slowed. Became exaggerated. Even more useless.

“Shhh. It won’t be long now.” Silence, then more words. “You’ll be safe. Remember that, you’ll be safe.”

She heard what he said. And knew he lied. His words lied. The emotion in his gaze lied.

The cottony feeling thickened, but not enough to douse the realization that he was still lying. She’d never be safe around this man. Never.

And then the darkness descended.



Lucius McConneghy watched the flutter of the woman’s dark eyelashes as they slowly closed, creating half circles against the paleness of her skin. She was fighting the drug Versed but it was pointless. Between the earlier dosage and the fear accelerating through her system it’d be a matter of minutes at the most, then they could move out.

“Check on the vehicle.” He barked orders to Corporal Tennison, aware they sounded harsher than they needed to be. Where was the legendary McConneghy control? The ability to shut off all emotions to get the mission accomplished?

Shot to hell, he mused, watching the younger man snap to attention and all but run from the room. Shot to hell the moment he saw this doe-eyed young woman, her look pleading with him to save her.

As if he were some bleeding angel of mercy. Hell, he was the reason she was here. And the sooner she knew it, and accepted what her role was, the better it would be for all concerned.

He felt the scramble of her pulse lessen beneath his hand. Her head lolled forward, the curtain of her midnight-black hair shielding all but the curve of her chin, the paleness of her complexion. One that had turned sheet-white when she realized what Tennison was doing to her with the hypodermic. Then her gaze had consigned him to a hell with no return. Not that he blamed her.

But that was his job. Make the tough choices, get the mission accomplished. Maybe he was getting old, or stale, since the thought sat heavy on him. But he meant what he’d said. So far this mission had been a disaster. If they’d had more time, they could have foregone the crudeness of a kidnapping. Avoided the emotional and physical costs the woman before him already was paying.

But if there was one thing he had accepted after years of service, there was no going back and correcting past mistakes. There was only going forward, and minimizing future ones. Someone always paid. In this case—her.

Jane Richards was his responsibility now. And he’d do everything in his power to keep her alive. Everything.

“I will keep you safe,” he whispered aloud to the woman who couldn’t hear him. He squeezed her hand, knowing it was a useless gesture, surprised that he was compelled to do it at all.




Chapter 2


“Here, drink this.” The voice was close to her. A male voice, like hot caramel over cold ice cream. One she thought she should know.

“Open your eyes and drink this.”

She didn’t want to open her eyes. Then there’d be no going back, no pretending she was safe and in Sioux Falls. But there was no avoiding it. The voice wouldn’t let her.

Slowly, as if they had been glued shut, she pried her eyes open. Then shut them quickly.

Gray-eyes. Mesmerizing, compelling, lying Gray-eyes. Like the crash of a wave—it all came back to her. Her apartment building. A cramped, airless room. A man with medals strung across his chest and another man—Gray-eyes—telling her one thing, holding her still while yet another shot her full of who knew what.

“You can’t ignore it. Better to face things head-on.”

Easy for him to say, she wanted to snarl, surprised at the clean edge of her anger. It felt good. Better than the terror she remembered so vividly. The helplessness and confusion in the small room. The willingness to trust a man who said one thing and did another. This man.

She opened her eyes again. Cowering was for cowards. While Jane thought she was a lot of things—shy, unprepossessing, ordinary—she didn’t like thinking of herself as a coward.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

The demand she heard in her voice pleased her. For a second she thought he might have felt the same way. A glimmer of a smile touched his lips, until he pushed forward a glass. It looked as if he’d been holding it, waiting for her. “Drink this. Then we’ll talk.”

She raised herself to a reclining position, balancing on her elbow and reaching for the glass, aware her hand shook as she grasped its cool surface. Even under ordinary circumstances it would have been difficult to appear unmoved when a man like this hovered next to her, close enough that she could smell the scent of his skin and feel the heat his body radiated. An awareness out of place with the man who had kidnapped her.

She willed herself to look away, to break the contact of his gaze pinning hers, and caught herself wondering what was in the glass he insisted she drink. More drugs? Something to keep her quiet and compliant? Until what? Or when?

“It’s just water.”

“Then you take a drink first.” She thrust it back into his hands, surprised she dared such a thing, even more surprised when he accepted it and took a long, slow draught, his gaze never leaving hers over the edge of the glass.

“It will help with the dry mouth.” He pressed it back into her hands. Obviously this man had dealt with drugged women before. Not a comforting thought. “Later, if you want, I’ll get you some aspirin for your headache.”

Yes, he definitely knew the aftereffects. Just who was this guy? And what did he want with her?

She watched him rise to his feet and cross to a chair several feet away. Only then did she sip from the glass, thankful for the cool sensation soothing her too-dry throat, yet wary as to why he was being so solicitous. He remained quiet until she had finished most of the water and placed the glass on a coffee table before her.

It was only then that she sat up and looked around her. Looked around and felt the flip-flop of her stomach. They were no longer in the small, cramped room. It looked like a plane, but not the passenger kind.

Instead it looked like a living room, with carpeted floors, two butternut-brown leather chairs on both sides of the couch she was sitting on, end tables and a series of oval windows on either side which showed nothing but blue, blue sky. With a feeling of detachment, or maybe it was hysteria again, she was glad to find that here at least she wasn’t tied to anything.

Not that she could make a run for it thousands of feet in the air, she thought, sure it was hysteria making her want to shake her head and close her eyes again.

But Gray-eyes had his own agenda.

“We’re thirty-two thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean,” he remarked, his voice calm and level. “We should be landing in a little over two hours, given our present rate of speed.”

“Landing where?”

“Dubruchek.”

“And Dubruchek is where?” Jane wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shaking.

“Dubruchek is the capital city of Vendari. A small, very important mountain country in the Balkans.”

“Important to whom?”

“To a lot of people.” He shifted in his seat, leaning forward, his fingers splayed across his knees as if they were discussing the weather. It was then she saw the gun peeping out from a shoulder holster he wore and knew, like a swift kick to the head, that this was not a dream. It was a nightmare.

“I know this is all very confusing.”

That was an understatement if she’d ever heard one. But something in his look told her he’d have little patience for pithy comments.

“Vendari is a monarchy sandwiched between two larger, and unstable countries, which makes it of strategic importance to the United States.”

Great, she wakes up to a strange man and a throbbing head only to get a geography lesson.

He continued. “It’s a monarchy with its own history of bloodshed and violence. Its last king, Zhitomir Vassilivich Tarkioff, was assassinated twenty years ago.”

“And this means what?”

“Since then they’ve undergone two attempted coups.” He was ignoring her. “Again, not without bloodshed.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

His gaze asked for patience, his voice gave nothing away.

“Today Vendari is ruled by King Viktor Stanislaus Tarkioff.”

“The man with the medals?” It was a wild guess, but obviously right on target as she saw his glance narrow, his hands tighten minutely.

“Yes, the man with the medals.”

“And what is his relationship to Elena?”

Instead of answering directly, Gray-eyes leaned back in his seat, his gaze shifting to scan the horizon out the row of small windows, his expression blank.

She thought he might have sighed before he turned to face her again. “Elena Illanya Rostov is the king’s fiancée.”

If she thought pushing for answers was going to make things clearer, she was wrong. She was more confused now than when they had started this bizarre conversation.

“I don’t get it.” Ignoring the pain it caused, she shook her head, and tightened the grip of her hands wrapped around her arms. “Why does it matter that I look like this Elena Ro…Ros…”

“Rostov.”

“Why does it matter that I look like her?”

“Take my word for it that it does. That’s all.”

Obviously she wasn’t going to get any more information. At least for now. He rose from his seat, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of pressed khaki pants, uneasy about something. He walked away and she guessed it did not bode well for her.



Lucius glanced out the window, seeing nothing, buying time, even seconds worth of time. How had things unraveled so quickly? Had it been only minutes ago that he was thankful Jane Richards wasn’t in hysterics or fighting him tooth and nail? Not that he’d blame either reaction. But he wasn’t getting that.

His limited research had informed him she’d taken a job as a librarian straight out of college, was dependable and conscientious in her habits, didn’t even have an outstanding parking ticket to her name and, if a bit boring, could be expected to behave in a rational manner.

What they had neglected to discover was that she was also a woman who had a quick and ready intelligence. One able to control herself under the most extreme circumstances, and one who was unlikely to accept pat and pretty answers about what was going on.

Things were going to hell in a hand basket.

“You’re not answering my question.” She sounded almost prissy.

If he didn’t think it would get him into hot water he’d smile at her tone. Didn’t she realize he was the one in the position of dictating—not her?

He turned to face her, wondering if he was doing it for her sake—or his own. “Elena Rostov plays a very pivotal part in the politics of Vendari. She’s the daughter of one of the king’s leading rivals for power.”

“So her marriage to the king consolidates power in the country.”

“Exactly.”

“I still don’t see why it’s important that I look like her.”

“Because early last month there was an assassination attempt against her.”

Silence hung in the air. McConneghy could tell to the second when she grasped what he was saying.

“If Elena dies, the country could be plunged back into civil war?”

“Not could. Would. There’s no doubt about it. Her family has a distant contention to the throne. If she’s killed it will be seen as an attempt to discredit her family’s future ties to the royal family.”

“So you’re trying to make sure that the marriage goes through.”

“Once Elena and the king are married, her value as a political pawn is decreased.”

“Because?”

“Before her marriage Elena is seen as much as a daughter to her father, Pavlov Rostov, as a fiancée to the king. After the marriage—”

“After the marriage, if she’s killed, the king or his family will no longer be the prime suspects.”

He’d definitely have to watch himself around this one, he thought, admiration—and wariness—increasing.

“So where do I come in?”

Seconds ticked past while he grappled for the right words. As if there could be “right words” in a situation like this. “We need a stand-in for Elena. Until the wedding.”

“A what?” She rose to her feet now, facing him across the cabin, all color drained from her face.

“We need a volunteer to take Elena’s place until the wedding.”

“A volunteer?”

“Just until the wedding.”

“To do what?”

It was getting sticky. “To take over her official duties. To portray her in public.”

The silence thickened until he could have sworn he heard the pilots breathing in the cockpit.

“Portray her in public?”

“Just routine. At this time she has no real duties, but she’s appearing among the people before the wedding so that they feel a part of the process.”

“You want a guinea pig.” Her voice rose an octave. So she wasn’t as calm as he might originally have thought. “No. No, make that a target. A sacrificial lamb.”

He could lie to her. Tell her he’d do everything in his power to protect her, which he planned to do, anyway. But there was something in her gaze that made him hesitate. He could appreciate someone who wanted the truth—the unvarnished truth—rather than platitudes.

“That’s exactly what we need.”

She swayed. He moved to prevent her crumpling to the floor, but at the last second she raised her hands, warding him off. He told himself he deserved her lack of trust. But that didn’t mean he liked it.

She lowered herself to the couch, perching on the very edge of the leather cushions, her fingers curled into the fabric as if she was holding on for dear life. When she glanced at him he saw the confusion, the disbelief in her gaze. If he’d felt like pond scum before, he felt like bottom sludge now.

“Who are you?”

It was a fair question, just not one he had expected so soon. “My name’s McConneghy. Lucius McConneghy.”

“Major McConneghy.”

Yes, he’d definitely have to watch himself around her.

“Major Lucius McConneghy.”

“Which branch of the military?”

This is where things started to really get sticky. “It’s an obscure bureau tucked in a back corner of the Pentagon.”

“But it’s one that allows you to abduct and drug unsuspecting civilians in broad daylight and transfer them, against their will, to small eastern European countries?”

“Something like that.”

“Aren’t there laws against that type of thing? Or do you think yourself above the law?”

He tried to ignore the disdain in her voice, but couldn’t. Then he wondered why it didn’t just slide off his back as it should.

“There are times when laws have to be bent.”

“Semantics.”

“Reality.”

She was glaring at him now. No longer looking as though she’d crumple and fold, for which he was grateful.

“There are people who’re going to notice I’m gone.”

He heard the hope and knew he had no choice but to crush it. Hope might cause her to take unacceptable risks, putting both her life and the lives of his team at risk. So why did it feel as if he was destroying a child’s vision of Santa Claus? Sometimes he hated his job.

“The library has been notified there’s an illness in your family. That you’ll be away for some time.”

“You know I work at a library?” She shook her head, obviously not comprehending the means available to someone like him to meet a strategic objective.

“Of course you know.” She slid back against the cushions, her shoulders slumped, her voice less forceful. “What else have you taken care of?”

“We’ve canceled your speaking engagement for the grant-writing seminar, asked your landlady to look after your cat until you return and have arranged to have your bills automatically paid, courtesy of Uncle Sam.”

If he thought he would interject a little levity into the situation he was dead wrong. Her gaze, when she raised it to his, was as bleak as any he’d ever seen. And that was saying a lot.

“I have friends—”

“Not a lot I’m afraid. And they’ve received word that you’re off to visit an elderly sick aunt. Aunt Dorothy.”

“I don’t have an aunt Dorothy.”

“We know it. Fortunately, from our perspective, you do not have many close friends.” He watched her shoulders slump more and felt like a heel. But she had to know where she stood. “In fact, very few know you outside of your work. Your parents are both dead. No siblings. No lovers.”

She blushed, keeping her gaze averted as she mumbled, “So you’ve made me disappear with no one the wiser?”

“Yes.”

“And what if I don’t want to play stand-in for this Elena? What if I refuse?”

“You have no choice.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

Time to play hardball. He sat back in the chair, making sure he enunciated each word clearly. There’d be no doubt here. Neither one of them could afford it. “You can agree to play the part of Ms. Rostov, attending functions, being seen in public, doing what any young woman would do on the eve of her marriage—”

“Or?”

“Or Elena Rostov can be devastated from her recent ordeal and need to be kept under sedation until she’s feeling better.”

“You’d drug me? Again?”

He couldn’t be swayed by the despair he heard in her voice, nor the silent appeal he read in her gaze.

“Yes, if we had to, we’d drug you. It’s up to you.”

“Even if it meant that, being drugged, I’d have no chance at all against someone trying to kill me?”

She caught on quick.

“You’ll have all the protection we’re able to—”

“Enough.” She shot to her feet, pacing to the far side of the plane as if she wanted to put as much distance as possible between them.

“I might not have a lot of experience in this sort of thing, but I’m not a total idiot, either. If you were so sure you could provide total protection you’d have no problem with Elena continuing as she has been.”

No, this woman was definitely not slow on the uptake.

“I could lie to you.”

She speared him a withering glance. Who’d have thought dark eyes could hold such fire?

He changed his tactics, if not his tone. “Do you want me to tell you what we’re asking doesn’t hold risks?”

“It’d be a lie. And you’re not asking.”

“You have a choice here.”

“Not much of one. You’ve made darn good and sure of that.”

“We didn’t create the situation, Ms. Richards.”

“But you brought me into it. Against my will. Without my knowledge.” She paused, gulping air before she added. “And now you have the audacity to tell me I have a choice.”

Yeah, the lady saw too clearly what she was up against.

He rose to his feet and glanced at his watch. “It might be best if you thought of it as a service to your country. A vital service. We’ll be landing within an hour. I have some things to see to in the cockpit.” Which was an out-and-out lie, but right then the only thing he could think to give to her was space and a little time. A very little time. “I’ll need your decision when I return.”

He didn’t wait for her answer. As she had pointed out, there wasn’t much to choose between. But for her sake, and the sake of the mission, he hoped she’d make the right choice. If she didn’t, well he’d deal with that if and when the need came.



Jane watched Gray-eyes, or Major McConneghy, or whatever he wanted to call himself walk silently from the cabin space and disappear through a metal door marked Private. She waited until she heard the click of the door being closed before she gave in to what she’d wanted to do since she’d opened her eyes. With a small oath her co-workers from the library never would have suspected she knew, she sank into the nearest chair, her legs no longer capable of holding her. Her head slipped into her hands, despair finally overcoming her outrage, her fear, her confusion.

How dare some nameless government agency snatch her from her sane, comfortable world and force her to become a target in some obscure country’s game of survival? And force was the operative word. Even the major didn’t pretend there was much of an option. For that at least she was thankful. Not that she was willing to give the man points for anything else.

It didn’t take a high IQ to know he was the brains behind this crazy scheme. That he was the puppet master, pulling strings and disrupting lives with as much compassion as a sponge soaked in vinegar.

She glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was a little after ten in the morning. Which morning she wasn’t sure, but she did know exactly what she’d be doing if some grim-lipped major hadn’t changed everything.

She’d have been at work for a little over an hour. If it was Wednesday, the weekly staff meeting would just be finishing and she’d be rotating from the main circulation desk to the information desk. She’d handle questions, from the obvious to the esoteric, feeling as if, in her small way, she was helping others.

So what if she didn’t have a large social life outside of the library? Or really any, to speak of. The stark facts the major laid out before her were pretty bleak. No family, no friends, no life. How did he phrase it? No lovers. But it still was her life. She should be the one in control of it.

She should not be sitting in a private plane being whisked half way across the world to some country she’d never heard of, to risk her life for people she didn’t know, to pretend she was something she wasn’t, and possibly to die in the process.

With a groan, she fought against the temptation to curl up into the chair where she sat and bury her head even deeper in her hands. But that wasn’t going to solve anything. It’d be better to figure out how to tell Major Gray-eyes to take his not-so-brilliant idea and bury it.

But she already knew what would happen then. He’d hold her tight, tell her everything would be all right, while he shot another dose of whatever through her system, rendering her completely vulnerable.

He was right. There was a choice, a small one, but the only one as far as she could see. And while her elderly parents had raised her to be mild-mannered, they’d never raised her to be a fool. And maybe, if she kept her wits about her she might even be able to figure a way out of this nightmare. A service? Yeah, right. She knew about service, had spent a lifetime fulfilling duties and obligations to others. This did not feel like service. This felt like suicide.

She was still sitting in the chair, gazing out the far windows when she heard him return. He said nothing, just walked over and stood near her, obviously not expecting her to look at him. The man could give lessons in patience to a stone, she thought peevishly, aware of the sigh slipping from her.

“You’ve made your decision.”

He didn’t even have the grace to make it a question. “You know there’s only one choice. I’ll pretend I’m Elena—a functioning Elena, not a drugged target.”

“Good.”

“But I want to know how long this…this farce is going to last?”

He shrugged. Not a reassuring sign she thought, before his gaze slid from hers. “Until the wedding.”

“Which is when?”

“There’s some question about it at this time. Elena, the real Elena has not been well since—”

“The attack?”

“Yes.”

“She was hurt?”

“No. But it has caused her great distress. I have been told she is under a doctor’s care.”

“So the wedding is postponed?”

“No. It will go on. We’re working on the logistics now.”

She just bet he was. But before she could press the point he moved to the opposite chair and said, “The plane will be landing soon. There are some clothes in the back room. All are appropriate to what Elena would wear, and, as you’re the same size, should fit you without a problem.”

Jane bit her lip, wondering what would have happened if she’d chosen option B. Would this man have stripped her from her serviceable cotton skirt and oxford blouse, something very appropriate for midsummer in Sioux Falls, but obviously out of place in Vendari? She didn’t want to think such thoughts, nor feel the flash of heat warming her cheeks.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No. No, nothing.” Leave it to Mister in Charge to see her blush. She turned to glance at him, catching the wariness in his gaze. “But wearing the proper clothes is not going to turn me into a king’s fiancée.”

For a moment she thought she saw the glimmer of a smile, quickly banked. “No, but it’s not going to hurt. Why don’t you change now? Then I’ll give you some background on Elena.”

Like an automaton, she rose, surprised her legs didn’t buckle beneath her. Her stomach felt as if she’d been riding tilt-a-whirls all morning and the headache Gray-eyes had alluded to earlier was all but bringing tears to her eyes.

Yet, in spite of, or maybe because of, feeling the major’s gaze monitoring her every move, she marched toward the door he indicated, her head held high, her posture rigid. She might feel like a rag doll without its stuffing but it’d be a cold day in July before she’d let him know it.



Lucius waited until she crossed into the bedroom before he let out the breath of air backed up in his lungs. He had to give Jane Richards credit; she was showing a degree of determination and bravery he rarely saw except in battle-seasoned troops.

For a second there he’d thought she was going to cave. She looked whiter than the clouds out the far windows, and about as steady as quicksand. But she’d pulled herself together, never indicating by as much as a peep that she needed or wanted help. Yeah, the woman had guts.

Brains and nerve, it was a powerful combination as far as he was concerned. In another woman, at another time, he’d be mighty drawn to such attributes. But he couldn’t here. Here he had a mission to accomplish and, if it went anything like it had gone so far, he was going to have his hands full keeping Jane Richards alive.

Not that he wanted her to know that. She had enough to deal with, and more to come. With a pang of conscience he couldn’t afford, he wondered: If she had really known what she was up against, would she have chosen to be drugged and unaware?

“How does this look?”

He hadn’t heard the door behind him open, an unusual occurrence that clued him into how deep his thoughts had been. But when he turned he found himself pausing, amending his earlier assessment. This woman not only had brains and guts, she had beauty, too.

A strapless, ruby-red sundress cupped and molded curves he’d never guessed lay hidden beneath the librarian’s plain garb. She’d let her hair fall loose, undone from the pins holding it back earlier, creating a waterfall of darkness against her pale shoulders. A waterfall a man could ache to run his fingers through.

Any other man except him. He had a job to do. End of story.

Yet this double-punch-to-the-solar-plexus kind of beauty wasn’t going to make his job one iota easier.

“Well?” She fanned the skirt away from her. Its color only served to highlight the combination of sultry beauty and innocence that looked nothing like Elena Rostov. Nothing at all.

“Do I look enough like her to pass?”

“You’ll do.” He heard the dryness of his response, hoped he alone understood its curtness before he saw the quick flash of emotion in her eyes as she lowered her gaze.

“There’s a blue dress that might work better—”

“I said you’ll do.”

He was acting like an idiot, a rude idiot, but he was finding it hard to recover his sense of equilibrium. Damn hard.

“Sit down.” He waited until she complied, her shoulders a little more slumped than even seconds ago, and called himself a fool. She needed his support, not the sharp edge of a temper.

“The dress looks very nice on you.”

As far as compliments went the words didn’t seem like a lot. But he noted that her hands stopped pleating the skirt between her fingers and stilled. Her eyebrows arched, as if he’d taken her by surprise. A clue that he’d come across like a real jerk before if it took so little to reassure her.

“Tell me about Elena.” She spoke first, saving him from wondering where to start. “Won’t my speaking English be a problem?”

“No, English is widely spoken throughout Vendari. That and the fact the king insists on bringing Vendari into the new century. He requires English to be the primary language spoken. Having been raised in a boarding school in Switzerland, Elena’s two most fluent languages are English and French.”

“But the general population? What if someone asks me something in their native language? Won’t they expect me to respond?”

“No. It’s widely known that Elena does not speak any of the three local dialects. She has, on numerous occasions, let it be known that she believes clinging to the old customs is barbaric. English is the only language she will respond to. She follows the king’s lead on this issue.”

“Well, good. At least the part about the language. But it sounds like she didn’t grow up in Vendari.”

“No, she didn’t. She left the country before her fifth birthday, coming back only for short visits.”

“How old is she?”

“She turned twenty-three two months ago.”

“So she’s a year younger than I am.”

“Yes.”

“And how does she feel about this marriage?” He thought he detected a note of compassion in her voice. “Surely she can’t know the king well if she has hardly been in Vendari?”

“If you’re asking if this is a love match, it isn’t.”

“Oh.” Did she have to sound wistful?

“Ms. Rostov knows exactly what she’s getting out of the deal, so don’t waste any pity there.”

Her eyebrows arched again, making him feel like someone who routinely stole candy from children.

“We don’t have much time and a lot to cover,” he said.

“Of course.” Damn, if she didn’t sound like a prissy librarian catching him chewing gum behind the stacks. He resisted the urge to squirm. Barely.

“We’ll be landing at Dubruchek’s only airport where one of the king’s limos will pick us up.”

“Will the king be there?”

“No. He’s involved in a series of high-level meetings that will occupy most of his time for the next couple of days.”

He could have sworn she looked relieved at the news.

“Will I have to…to interact with him much?”

“You are his fiancée.”

“I’m a hostage pretending that I’m a political pawn entering a loveless marriage,” she threw back, blowing a stream of air that made the midnight-black strands of hair dance around her face. “I just want to know how far I’m going to have to take this farce.”

“No, you will not be expected to sleep with the king if that is what you’re asking, Ms. Richards.” Now it was his turn to sound prissy and her look told him as much.

She released the breath she’d obviously been holding.

“We don’t know the principals behind the last attempt on Ms. Rostov’s life and, until we do, we have to assume any number of individuals close to the king may be involved.”

“But you do have some suspects?”

Too many to count, he silently acknowledged, including some bad customers he’d tangled with in the past. But that was his problem, not hers.

“There are suspects.” Instead of replying with specifics he nodded his head, scanning a sheaf of papers he had extracted from a file. “You’ll want to be on your guard. At all times. Trust no one. No one. Am I clear?”

When she didn’t answer immediately he raised his head, catching the speculative look in her dark eyes.

“Is there a problem?”

She shrugged and looked away. “I’m assuming that includes trusting you.”

“Especially me.”

He let his words hover between them, laser-sharp and lethal. There was no point in pretending otherwise. There was too much at risk for both of them.

He watched her swallow, hard, before she pasted a shaky smile on her lips and leaned forward. “I’ll keep your advice uppermost in mind.”

He could like her at that moment. Admit, if only to himself, he admired the flashes of fire she probably wasn’t even aware she possessed. But there was no room for such thoughts or feelings.

Instead he glanced at the papers and continued as if the last seconds hadn’t occurred. “Elena Rostov is the only daughter of Pavlov Rostov. Her mother died when she was still a baby and she’s been raised almost exclusively in Switzerland.”

“Will her family know I’m impersonating her?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Surely you can’t believe her family wants her killed?”

“We can’t take that chance. It’s a known fact that Pavlov Rostov would gain a lot of sympathy if his daughter is killed.”

“But—”

He rose to his feet. “Have no doubt about the matter, Ms. Richards. We have taken care to protect you from coming too close to the Rostov family. As for others, make no mistake, there are a lot of individuals who would benefit by Ms. Rostov’s death.”

“You mean my death.” She looked at him then, her gaze holding him as effectively as any set of restraints. “I think you’ve been honest, at least as honest as you think you can be. Let’s not pretty up the picture at this point.”

“All right.” He set down the file he’d been clutching. “You’re in a very precarious position.”

He thought she mumbled something about an understatement but couldn’t be sure.

“It’s my job to make sure you’re safe and I’m very good at my job.” He wished she didn’t look quite so skeptical at his statement. “I’m going to be right at your side as much as possible while you’re in Vendari. If there’s an attempt on your life, they’ll have to go through me to do it.”

When she gave no response, not that there was a need for one, he glanced behind her shoulders and caught sight of the granite-studded mountains of Vendari out the plane windows.

Their time was up. Ready or not.

“Buckle up, Ms. Richards. We’ll be in Dubruchek in a few moments.” He heard the command in his tone and wished it could be otherwise. But wishes wouldn’t keep Jane Richards alive.




Chapter 3


Jane’s hands shook as she buckled her seat belt. How was she possibly going to get through this? Nothing in her life had prepared her for international politics, mysterious missions or heroics. Especially heroics.

She came from the heartland of America, the backbone, not the front lines. She could get through her monthly grant-writing workshop, giving a little talk that would have her sweating and wishing for oblivion. And once she’d given the welcoming speech for a visiting library dignitary, which had her stomach in knots for weeks.

Now this total stranger, of wary glances and few words, wanted her to impersonate someone who, judging by her taste in clothes alone, was more sophisticated than Jane could ever hope to be.

As if he read her thoughts, or the panic she felt welling from her very toes, the major glanced her way.

“Breathe,” he ordered, as if that alone would make a difference. “The temperature in Dubruchek should be around eighty degrees.”

She didn’t need a tour guide. She needed a miracle. But his gaze on her remained calm, his voice low and level.

“The country is land-locked by mountains, keeping it cool in the summer months. Many think it resembles Switzerland.”

Great, she was going to die in paradise. Was she supposed to take consolation in that?

“Because of the mountains, and except for Dubruchek and the smaller city of Dracula, most of the locals live in small farming villages.”

“Dracula?”

He shrugged as if he didn’t hear the terror in her single word. “It was a poor choice I agree, but the town’s founders were told it was a well-known name in English literature.”

“I guess it could have been worse. Something like Frankenstein definitely would have kept away tourist dollars.”

“Most likely.” He offered her a crooked smile that softened the harshness of his face. Making it charming, almost, though she didn’t think he’d be flattered by the observation. But it was a smile.

A first, she realized, surprised to find that something as small as that was helping. The panic was still there, but so was something else. Not camaraderie, exactly. Major McConneghy didn’t look like the type to indulge in camaraderie. A knowledge that she wasn’t going alone into the unknown. Unwilling, maybe, but not alone.

“We’re here.”

She felt the thud of wheels hit the tarmac, heard the whine of engines reversing themselves.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

He paused in the act of unbuckling, his movements economical, unhurried. Nothing like what she was feeling, fear freezing everything.

“Of course you can do it.” He stood, moving toward where she still sat, petrified in her seat. He knelt beside her, unbuckling her seat belt as if she were a small child, extending his open palm to help her to her feet.

She placed her hand in his. An automatic response, she told herself, until she felt the heat of his fingers close around hers, comforting and commanding at the same time.

“When the door opens you’ll step forward—”

Her breath hitched but he continued, pulling her to her feet.

“I’ll be right beside you. If there are reporters nearby you’ll wave and act as if everything is fine.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

He gave her a look that reminded her of her maiden aunt Gertrude. The one who didn’t like sticky-fingered, skinned-kneed little kids.

“We’ll walk down the stairs and directly to the waiting limo.”

He propelled her forward, giving her no choice but to move, his hand no longer holding hers but tight around her bare arm. She swore it would leave a brand there, but wasn’t sure she could blame it all on him, not when she was dragging her feet as much as he was tugging her forward.

“What if there are reporters and they want to talk?”

“They’ve been informed you’re still a little shaken.”

“I won’t have to act that part.”

“—and that there’ll be a formal news conference.”

When her knees started to buckle at that piece of information he only held on tighter and added, “Later.”

“But what if—”

“You’ll be fine. Just smile and wave.”

“But—”

The man obviously didn’t take terror as a reason not to keep plunging forward. Already the sounds of a ramp being adjusted into place sounded from the other side.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” Major Gray-eyes all but breathed against her ear, his words meant for her alone. “You’ve made your choice.”

As if she’d been slapped with cold water she felt her panic recede. Anger replaced it. She’d had no choice. Not really, and the look she gave her abductor told him as much. Right before she shrugged off his hold, straightened her shoulders and told herself that nothing, no one, especially not a gray-eyed dictator standing almost on top of her, was going to know the cost of the next few minutes.

When the door slid open, and a rush of fresh mountain air washed against her, she stepped forward. The sunlight blinded her, the air chilled her skin, creating a ridge of goose bumps along her arms. She wanted to choke. Or cry. And made herself do neither.

Just as he’d said, there was a crowd of people beyond a barricade of orange cones and yellow flapping tape. She raised a hand to her eyes to cut the glare and scan the rest of the tarmac.

A stretch limo waited at the far end of a blue-carpeted runway that began at the base of the stairs where she stood.

Once, long, long ago, when she had watched a television special about a Hollywood star, she’d wondered what it would be like to ride in a car the length of a city block. Now she was about to find out—if an assassin’s bullet didn’t stop her first.

“Don’t think about it.” The major spoke behind her. Either a remarkably astute man or a compassionate one. But that would make him human and she didn’t want to think of him that way. Not when he was the reason she was in this mess in the first place. “Smile and wave.”

She did. Ignoring that her arm felt like a lead weight and her jaw muscles ached after only a few seconds.

The major took her arm; from a distance it probably looked as if he was assisting, not forcing her to take the first step down the metal stairs. First one, then another.

“I can walk by myself,” she muttered between stiff lips locked in a smile. “You don’t have to worry I’ll run away.”

“There’s nowhere to run.”

Oh, the man was just a font of cheerful news.

“Pause before we enter the limo and give the reporters one last photo op.”

She did as he asked, no, demanded, and was never as thankful as when she slid into the cool leather interior of the vehicle and heard the door slam shut behind her.

So far, so good, Lucius thought, watching the color seep back into Jane’s face as she leaned against the limo’s luxurious seats, her eyes closed, her breathing less shallow than it had been only moments ago. He’d give her a minute, but couldn’t afford much more than that.

He watched her eyes flutter open and asked, “Feeling better now?”

“No.”

He wouldn’t smile. Not at her acerbic response, or the brutal honesty of it.

“Fine, we’ll start, anyway.”

“Don’t let the grass grow under your feet do you, Major?”

“Can’t afford to.”

She took a deep breath and glanced out the window. Except for the way her fingers smoothed and re-smoothed the folds of her dress he’d have thought her totally under control. If she managed to keep her composure, and if his team had made progress on who was behind the attempt on Elena Rostov’s life, and if there were no more attempts until they could eliminate the threat, they just might make it through this mission. But that was an awful lot of ifs.

“When we reach where we’re going you’ll be taken to your quarters.”

“Where we’re going?”

“There’s a small villa outside of town where we’ll remain as long as we can.”

“Doing what?”

“Teaching you to be Elena.” He noted her puzzled look and added, “It’s wiser to ease you into your position. Cover the basics. The way Elena talks, the way she walks, who her friends are and what foods she’ll eat or not eat.”

He thought he could hear the air sigh from her lungs.

“And you didn’t think I should know there was going to be a reprieve, even a short one, before you throw me to the wolves?”

“Listen very carefully, Miss Richards.” He leaned forward, watching her eyes widen with his movement. “There is no reprieve. The mission has begun and you are the mission. From now on you will think, act and believe you are Elena Rostov. Your life depends on it.”

She glanced at him but said nothing.

He continued. “You’re Elena now.” He glanced toward the smoked glass separating their seat from the driver and armed guard up front. “It’s imperative that you talk about yourself as such.”

“All right,” she took a deep breath and looked as if she was holding back her temper. “What would I normally do when I arrive at wherever we’re going? Is that better?”

He ignored the sarcasm. “You’ve been known to ask for a review.”

“A what?”

“You like to have the household servants line up so you can review them.”

“I see. A queen to her subjects.”

He ducked his head to hide a grin, aware he couldn’t have described the process much more succinctly. “Yes, something like that.”

“That’s the most archaic—” she caught herself, flattened her fingers against her skirt and started again. “Then won’t the household know something is up when Ele—I mean, when I don’t do that this time?”

“We’re using the excuse that you’re tired from your long flight and justifiably concerned about security.”

“Where am I supposed to be flying in from?”

Another good question.

“You’ve been in Switzerland and France, visiting old school friends.”

“And recovering from my ordeal.”

“Exactly.”

“How many people know about this scam you’re running?”

“I prefer to think of it as a mission.”

“I bet you do.”

“Only the king, his head of state security, Eustace Tarkioff—”

“I thought the king’s name was Tarkioff?”

“Eustace is his brother.”

“Ah, nepotism at work.”

“As I was saying, only they, my team and myself know of our mission.”

“And me.”

“And you.”

She turned away from him again, her fingers taking up their pattern among the dress folds.

“Look, Miss Richards—” he began.

“Elena. My name is Elena. Remember?”

So maybe he shouldn’t be trying to offer comfort. Not when she sounded as hard as week-old ice. But he knew from first-hand experience what bravado often hid.

“All right, Elena. I know this is difficult.”

“Try downright impossible.”

“You did fine back there.” He nodded to indicate the airport they’d left behind. “You’ll do fine again.”

Her glance held fire as she replied. “I’ll do fine until I don’t recognize someone I should know, or say the wrong thing to the wrong person or pick up the wrong fork to eat with. There are a million ways I can slip up and we both know it.”

He’d be lying through his teeth if he refuted her words and he knew they both realized it, especially when she spoke again, her words pitched low, as if in speaking them aloud they might come true.

“The problem is you can’t be with me twenty-four hours a day and I can’t use the excuse of still being in shock for more than a day or two. You’ve got yourself a librarian here. That’s all. Not someone who’s been to a private school, who’s traveled through Europe, someone who—” she glanced down at the dress she wore, “who wears clothes that show more skin than I do in my swimsuit. I’m going to mess up here—sooner or later.”

She glanced away, her hands curled into tight balls of misery. “And when I do, some nameless, faceless person is going to notice and the whole thing is going to come crashing down around my head. If I haven’t been killed in the meantime.”

“That’s why we’re taking what time we can to prep you for the mission.”

“And how long will I have?” she asked.

“A week at the most.”

“And if I don’t have my…” she mumbled around the word, “…my role, or part or whatever you call it… What if I don’t have it down in this week or so?”

There were times, in the course of a number of missions, when Lucius had felt that he wasn’t going to pull through; that the end was just around the next crumbling wall, behind the next bend in the road. But never had he felt the frustration of helplessness so keenly. Every word Jane Richards spoke was on target and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to make the problems go away.

He set the sheaf of papers he’d been holding onto the seat next to him. “There’s still option two.”

She glanced at him with contempt. Not that he blamed her. “You mean the one where I’m drugged and helpless?”

“The one where, if something bad was going to happen, you’d never know about it.”

He thought she might have sniffed, but her eyes were dry as she replied, “No, thanks, Major. I’d rather be led to my execution with my eyes open.”

“We’re doing everything in our power—everything in my power—to protect you.”

She looked away, wishing she could believe him. She believed he was serious in his declaration, but right now that didn’t feel like a hill of beans. But maybe with a little time? She watched small, closely spaced stucco buildings give way to open yards and smaller homes.

Who was she kidding? A week wasn’t going to make a lot of difference. What was the old saying? Silk purse out of a sow’s ear. This whole scheme was ludicrous. No one in their right mind was going to mistake a midwestern librarian for a future queen. No one.

“If you’re ready, I’ll continue.” His voice slashed through her thoughts. But this time he wasn’t a mind reader. She’d never be ready. Never.

Her parents hadn’t raised her to rock the boat, but neither had they raised her to back down when the going got rough. And this definitely qualified as rough.

“Fine, finish your briefing, Major.” She glanced out the window as the limo slowed. “If I’m not mistaken that big, pink building on the hill must be the villa.”

His gaze followed hers. “It is.”

“Then you don’t have much time to tell me what I need to know.”

Jane waited, sensing the major wasn’t happy with her response, maybe with her whole attitude, but she didn’t care. And that in itself scared her.

She had always been aware of and sensitive to the needs of those around her. She’d had little choice in the matter. The only daughter of a couple who had long before given up on ever having children, her arrival into their lives was not a blessing as much as a shock. A little like a Christmas gift delivered too late and the wrong size.

Her earliest memories had been of needing to be quiet to let her father prepare for one of the college English classes he taught, or to wait for her mother to finish editing a manuscript. Her parents were both studious, quiet people who had taught Jane, and taught her well, not to cause problems.

But right then she didn’t feel accommodating or tolerant of others’ needs. Not one bit, and she guessed that the major sensed it, too.

“We’ll talk later. At the villa,” he announced before leaning forward to push one of the buttons lining the arm of his chair. “Stefan, I’d like you to drive to the side entrance rather than through the main gates.”

“Yes, sir,” came the quick response.

“Slipping me in through the side door?” Jane heard herself ask in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. Did hysteria come masked as sarcasm?

“I’m trying to make this as easy for you as possible.”

She found herself wanting to believe him.

“You’ll have a maid who’ll help you unpack your luggage.”

Great. She didn’t even know she had luggage.

“I’ll give you about an hour before I come for you.”

So she had a little over sixty minutes to pull herself together, she thought, watching as the limo slid smoothly beneath an arched entryway, into a cobblestone courtyard that might have been charming except for the barbed wire and glass spikes sprouting along the top of every wall and the absence of anything that might have served as a hiding space. Not even a pot of flowers broke the starkness.

The limo stopped too soon for her. But, between the look the major shot her and the actions of a uniformed man opening her door, it looked as if she wasn’t going to be allowed to linger.

Let the show begin, she thought, sliding forward to step into the bright, unadorned courtyard.

Less than ten minutes later she found herself in a bedroom the size of her whole apartment back in Sioux Falls. Cream-colored. Silken upholstery. A bed large enough to host a slumber party dead center in the room.

It was a fairy-tale room: tasteful, ultimately feminine and so quiet Jane was tempted to tiptoe across its polished wood floors.

“Mademoiselle Rostov, welcome home.” A young woman’s voice interrupted her perusal. “It is good to have you back.”

Jane spotted a woman standing in the doorway of an adjoining room the size of a small bedroom and froze. The woman could not have been too many years younger than Jane, but she carried herself with a quiet maturity. Maturity or wariness, Jane wondered, noting that the woman’s gaze did not rise from staring at the floor, nor did the welcoming words extend to her expression. If anything she looked as though she was waiting to be rebuked.

So, Major McConneghy, Jane thought silently, what am I supposed to do now? Never having had anyone wait on her, she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to know this woman, or treat her with the same degree of familiarity as one addressed a waiter in a restaurant.

With a pithy thought regarding the major’s ancestors, she decided that when in doubt, do what felt right.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded like sandpaper, “I don’t recall your name.”

The woman started before quickly glancing up. “It’s Ekaterina, mademoiselle. Ekaterina Tabruz.”

Well, either Elena should have known this woman’s name, in which case Jane had already blown things, or the king’s fiancée would never have bothered to ask. Either way it was too late to go backwards.

“Thank you, Ekaterina. It seems as if I’ve heard so many names lately that they become jumbled in my memory.” That at least was the truth. Or part of it.

“Would mademoiselle wish me to draw her a bath or turn down the bed covers for a rest?”

This having-a-maid thing was going to take some getting used to, she realized, feeling too restive for either suggestion but not wanting to cause too much suspicion on Ekaterina’s part as to why her mistress was acting out of the norm.

“Actually, Ekaterina, what I’d like is to ask a few questions.” At the other woman’s immediate look of wariness, she added, “I’m feeling very disoriented and am sure you can help me.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.” Ekaterina bowed her head and folded her hands together in front of her. Not an auspicious sign for a friendly chat, Jane thought as she wandered toward the far side of the room and a set of French doors.

Opening the doors she immediately felt better, as the pine-and cedar-scented breeze drifted in. The cries of birds beyond the fortified walls sounded like a National Geographic soundtrack.

There was a small balcony, ringed by an elaborate wrought-iron railing and, Jane noted with a quick glance down its length, obviously connected to a room just beyond hers.

“Whose room is next door?” she asked the silent Ekaterina.

“It is the major’s, mademoiselle.”

“Major McConneghy’s?” Not that the news should have surprised her, but it did.

“Yes. He asked specifically that you be given this room. For the security. If you wish to choose another room at the villa you must ask it of the major.”

Like that was going to happen.

She tried a different tactic. “The villa seems different?”

“Different?” The maid’s face looked confused, until she nodded. “Ah, I understand.”

Jane was glad somebody did, because it sure wasn’t her.

“They said it was made to look like a Swiss home but maybe not so. I can show you around the rooms to see more if the major allows it.”

Jane breathed a silent sigh of relief. So she had not previously been at the villa. Which was good news. Too bad Mister I’ll-Protect-You forgot to mention this little detail. He had given her explicit instructions about the location of everything, but they all seemed to be jumbling in her head. If she hadn’t been here before it meant she could ask questions about the layout and not be expected to know how to find her way back through the labyrinth of halls and stairways she’d traveled earlier. At last, something was going her way.

“Who else is in residence in the villa?” She remained standing at the open doorway, listening to the sound of a heavy vehicle driving over the cobblestones below her.

“Only you and the major.”

She wasn’t sure why that news made her feel both safe and uneasy at the same time. Strategically she could see why it made sense, but there was something intimate about the isolation that made her hesitate. An awareness that deep in the darkness of the night it would only be she and Gray-eyes, a wall away from each other, a world away from the rest of the universe.

“Does mademoiselle wish me to tell the major she wants different rooms?” Ekaterina asked.

“No. That won’t be necessary.” Somehow she knew anywhere in the villa would be too close to the major. Jane kept her own concerns from her tone until she turned and noticed a door in the wall. “And where does that lead?” she asked, though she’d already guessed the answer.

“To the major’s room.”

She walked toward it, aware there was now even less separating her sleeping quarters from the enigmatic major’s. Sort of like a lamb lying next to the lion’s cage, only with removable bars, she thought, reaching for the door handle and turning it.

“It’s locked.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken the words aloud until Ekaterina replied, “Yes, the lock is on the major’s side.”

“And do I have a lock on this side?”

The young woman shrugged. “I know of no key, but I will check if you wish.”

“There’s no need.”

Jane whirled at the sound of the dark voice behind her, felt the triple-time pounding of her heart before she registered it was McConneghy who had spoken. He dominated the now-open doorway connecting the two rooms, either in response to her rattling of the door handle, or on his own agenda.

“Speak of the devil, Major,” she said, aware of the intensity of his gaze on hers, and of how his presence dominated the room even though he remained on the threshold. “I was just wondering about a key for this door. I know I would feel much more secure.” She made sure he heard the stress on the last word. “If I knew where it was.”

“I have it.” He nodded to the maid. “You may leave us now and finish unpacking mademoiselle’s luggage while we’re at dinner.”

Jane waited until Ekaterina closed the door behind her before she spoke. “That’s pretty presumptuous and arrogant—” she began, only to be cut off as McConneghy strode into the room, closing the door as he moved.

“It’s a security issue.” He ignored where she stood as he walked through the room, looking high and low. “I need to have access to protect you. You don’t.”

“Don’t what?” She could feel the anger start to simmer inside her. Never a fan of high-handed tactics, she was even less inclined to ignore them after the day she’d already been though.

He peered beneath the lampshade on the bedside table and picked up the phone receiver. “You don’t need to access my room, thus you don’t need a key.”

“I don’t want a key to access your room,” she wanted to choke on the words. “I want one to make sure you don’t access mine.”

He spared her a glance. Quick, appraising and heated.

“I can assure you the only reason I’d use that key was if your life was in danger.”

And just what did he mean by that two-edged comment? she wanted to know, and was afraid to ask. Especially as he crossed to tower in front of her, the strength and size of him making her feel all the more vulnerable.

She checked the urge to step back and stepped forward instead. Something the old Jane Richards, the one who went to bed a librarian and expected to wake up a librarian, would never have done.

With a finger sharpened by frustration and something more, she stabbed his chest, knowing it was about as effective as howling at the moon. “Listen here, Major, if you think I can’t control my primitive urges—”

“Primitive urges?”

She heard the laughter in his voice and ignored it. Easier to do if she kept her gaze level with his chest. “Yes, primitive urges. If you think I can’t, then you’re beyond idiotic. Not that a man who came up with this whole hare-brained scheme—”

“Mission.”

“Hare-brained mission would know the difference between reality and fantasy.”

“Oh?” His tone snapped her gaze to his. A mistake, a big mistake she realized—too late.

There was something in his look, in the flare of his nostrils, in the tightening of the skin across his cheek bones that warned her they’d strayed far from the point she wanted to make.

The mountain breeze cooling the room only moments ago disappeared. It was the only explanation as to why it suddenly seemed harder to breath, the air thicker, heavier, her skin too sensitive, feeling goose bumps where there should be none, aware of the abrasion of her dress across her nipples.

The shifting of his gaze told her he’d noticed.

“You were saying?” His look dared her to jump deeper into the waters already threatening to take her under.

“I…I can’t remember,” she admitted truthfully, aware it gave him an advantage.

Yet, as if she’d thrown a switch, his expression changed, became banked, distant. He mentally and emotionally retreated from whatever brink they’d both teetered on.

“Everything I do is for your protection and the protection of this mission.” She wondered which of the two protections took priority in his mind. “I give the orders. You obey them. Clear?”

As glass, she wanted to respond, but found the words stuck somewhere in her throat. She nodded instead, too worn out to fight this man on so many levels at the same time. Whatever had just happened between them had been a mistake. Her head relayed the message, his actions rein-forced it, but it wasn’t going to be easy to forget that for a few seconds at least, the world had slipped out of orbit.

“I’ll have your maid show you the way to the dining room for dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, then stopped. “Fine. I’ll have a tray sent up later. Tomorrow she can show you the way to the dining area.”

“It’s all right, I’m sure I can find my own way.”

She heard the sharpness in her tone. It was a tone she’d never have used in her own world. She’d been taught to be better than that, gentler, more willing to please others.

“The maid will show you the way.” Either he didn’t hear her response, or chose to ignore it. Then before she could say more he added, “It’s for your safety.”

That’s right, they wouldn’t want to lose their pigeon at this point, she thought wryly. Her expression must have given her away, for he shrugged his shoulders and turned.

“I’d recommend you retire early this evening. We have a full agenda tomorrow.”

The man could burst bubbles quicker than a pin in a balloon shop. So they were back to dictator and minion. There was no time for a snappy comeback before the connecting door snicked shut behind his silent departure.

At least she had all night to pull herself together. Enough time, she hoped, to resurrect her defenses and to remember, all too vividly, the major’s words from earlier that day. His directive to trust no one. Including himself. Especially him.



Lucius wondered if he’d lost his mind. What else could account for the few moments when he’d stood over Jane and no longer thought of her as a pawn in a dangerous mission? He’d forgotten everything except for the way her dark eyes flashed fire, her ridiculous phrase about primitive urges and the white-hot stab of lust slicing through him like an inferno sweeping across dry timber.

He’d been an operative long enough to know that desire and adrenaline were twin cousins under tense situations. But that knowledge had deserted him without a qualm, to be replaced by other knowledge. The certainty that, if he’d pushed moments ago, he’d not be standing, still breathing heavily, on one side of a two-foot thick wall right now, with her on the other side.

He’d seen it in her gaze, anger giving way to wariness, wariness slipping into desire, a heartbeat away from capitulation. He’d registered the way her breath hitched a notch, her pulse escalated in the hollow of her throat. One step, one minor movement forward and he’d know if she responded with the same lightning quickness he’d observed in her thought process, if she tasted as sweet as she looked.

And it was that thought that had stopped him cold. Days ago he’d never have met Jane Richards, their paths would never have crossed, their destinies never intermingled. But she’d been right earlier when she’d accused him of forcing her into limited choices.

He’d brought her to Vendari, against his better judgment, and thrust her into a mission fraught with danger on all sides. What kind of low-life scum was he that he’d place her in more peril? The kind that came with an emotional price tag.

He was going to do everything in his power to keep her safe, but he couldn’t do that if he led her into a physical relationship based on nothing more than close quarters, fear and dependence on her side, dominance and power on his. Like a lamb to slaughter, he could manipulate her total dependence on him, her vulnerability without him, until she wouldn’t know the difference between her abductor and her angel.

But he would.

Maybe that few minutes was meant as a sign—a warning that for some reason this woman tugged at emotions he’d thought locked and buried away, at least as long as a mission was involved. And now that he knew, knew to tread lightly, he could save them both pain.

The mission came first and, as long as Jane was a key component of the mission, any feelings he might experience around her had either to be kept strictly under control or downright ignored. Not easy, he accepted, crossing into the room he was to occupy during the duration of this stay in Dubruchek. Not easy at all when this librarian from Sioux Falls slipped through his best defenses against personal involvement—with anyone.

But he’d handled difficult, if not impossible, tasks before. He could, and would handle this one. Both of their lives, as well as the lives of his team members depended on it.




Chapter 4


In spite of a night spent tossing and turning, Jane did find herself feeling more refreshed in the morning. She thought she could get used to sleeping between Irish linen sheets every night. But even as the thought materialized it was followed quickly by reality. The reality that this was going to be her first full day of playing Elena Rostov. Or at least trying to.

“Is Major McConneghy awake?” she asked, already guessing the answer. He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would lag around in bed.

“The major wakes with the sun.” Ekaterina walked back and forth between the main bedroom and the walk-in closet, her hands busy with dresses, accessories and shoes. “He swims each morning in the pool behind the villa.”

No wonder the man looked like he had abs of steel beneath khaki, she thought. Not that she’d noticed. Much.

“And do you know where he is now?”

“He waits for you in the breakfast room.”

“What?” That was the last thing she wanted. Setting aside her coffee and hopping from the bed she raced toward the bathroom and a shower. It was worse than being late for the weekly staff meeting and she hadn’t done that once in her four years of employment. What must the man think? That she was a sluggard, a lazy-bones, avoiding her duty—or at least what he saw as her duty.

It might not have been an issue, as she normally didn’t take much time to get ready in the morning anyway, but heading to a job as a librarian hadn’t meant much in the way of makeup, finishing her hair and accessorizing her wardrobe. Being Elena might be harder than she had first thought. On the other hand, maybe Elena, being a real princess, was allowed to lie around and do nothing. Oh, why hadn’t she read the National Enquirer more closely?

Sure Major McConneghy would be pounding on the door any minute, Jane tugged on the outfit Ekaterina had laid out for her. It looked like a jogging suit made of washed silk. Maybe that’s what well dressed queens-to-be wore to eat breakfast. No one in their right mind would exercise in such a suit. At least not exercise and sweat.

Remembering all too well the major’s last command to her the night before, she called for Ekaterina to accompany her and all but ran to the dining room.

Skidding around the last corner and coming to a full halt outside a room bright with early-morning sunshine she wondered why the room left little impression on her. Not with the major sitting there. He should have looked out of place amidst its cheeriness, he of the pressed chino pants and casual shirt, every crease in place. But of course, he didn’t. He sat there, an elegant china cup raised partway to his lips, his dark brows arched in a V, his eyes as still as an Arctic lake.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she exhaled, sure she could explain, though it looked as if it might be an uphill job, considering the man’s impenetrable expression.

“You’re not late.” He glanced at his watch and added, “In fact, you’re almost two hours early by Elena time.”

“Elena time?” The question came out a little breathlessly as she scooted into the closest chair, hating the fact she could feel perspiration clinging to the back of her silk shirt. “Just what is Elena time?”

“Simple. It’s always two hours after everyone else has assembled.”

“You mean Ele—” she quickly glanced around the room, noting Ekaterina had already left them before she lowered her voice and continued, “You mean I’m habitually late?”

“No.” He reached for a croissant nestled in a basket. “Being late implies you know when a function is scheduled to begin. Elena time is an orchestrated move guaranteed to let all and sundry know that the most important person has just arrived. It’s a very effective ploy.”

He said it so calmly, she thought. Such slashing, cruel words would have devastated her. But she wasn’t really Elena, she reminded herself, reaching for the carafe of coffee.

“I don’t know if I can do that.” She hadn’t realized she’d voiced her thoughts aloud until the major shot her one of his enigmatic glances.

“We’ll make excuses for such inconsistencies.”

She spread butter on a croissant and shook her head when he offered her some jam. “I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot of explaining to do.”

“We’ll take care of it.”

All too clearly she remembered the king’s cryptic comment from that small, cramped room. “Your job is to fix problems.”

Major McConneghy appeared perfect for his job.

“You’re wearing perfume.”

Leave it to a man like McConneghy to notice, she thought, feeling the heat begin to climb into her face.

“Ekaterina said it’s my favorite.”

“It suits you.” He looked at her over the rim of his cup. “Enticing yet innocent. Though smelling of sunshine and soap also suits you.”

Not sure what he meant by his words, or if she was ready to know, she quickly changed the subject. “What’s on the schedule today?”

“Drills.”

“Drills?”

“A future queen must know how to walk, to talk, to address her superiors and inferiors. There is a lot to learn.”

Jane wanted to groan aloud. Somehow she thought it’d all make more sense by the light of day. But it didn’t.

As if he guessed her thoughts he pitched his voice lower. “The more you learn now, the less likely you’ll make a mistake later.”

Like she needed reminding.

“Fine.” The word came out sharp. “Let’s get started then.”

“First, you eat something.” He spoke as if talking to a child. “We have a long day ahead of us and I won’t have you fainting on me.”

“I’ve never fainted in my life.”

He leaned forward. “You’ve never taken lessons in deportment before, either.”

Jeesh. How hard could it be? she thought, picking up and biting into a ripe plum. Being a queen couldn’t be that much harder than actually working for a living. Could it?

She found out several hours later.

If she’d thought the major was diabolical before, it was nothing to what she felt about him after four straight hours of “drill.” The man was a sadist.

Stand. Sit. Walk straight. Curtsey. Smile. Wave. Stand up straighter. Who’d have thought there was a way to graciously sit in a chair by approaching it backwards. Or three different kinds of waves to use when communicating from far away. Or six kinds of forks to choose from at official state dinners.

Her jaw hurt from smiling. Her fingers cramped from waving and gesturing. Her knees ached from rising and lowering herself into five different kinds of chairs.

And all through it Major Lucius McConneghy just kept saying, “Now do it again.”

She wanted to throttle him.

By the time they took a break for a light lunch she felt as if running a marathon, cold turkey, would be better than being a queen-to-be.

As if he read her thoughts, a talent he was particularly adept at, McConneghy handed her a slice of cheese and said. “This morning was easy compared to what’s coming.”

The man was a font of good news.

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you if you couldn’t say something nice, not to say anything at all?” she snapped back, too tired to care about the tone of her voice.

He actually had the gall to smile. Something that made little butterflies spring to life in her stomach, fluttering around the knots already there.

But he didn’t respond directly. Instead he looked at a clipboard in his hand. “This afternoon the hair stylist will be here. And the manicurist.”

Without thinking Jane’s hands reached for the ends of her hair. “Don’t tell me Elena has one of those short, chic haircuts.”

“You’re Elena and no.” His eyes swept over her in a way that made her want to blush and stammer before his cold, matter-of-fact voice added. “There won’t be much change.”

“How are you explaining the need to…” she waved her hands before her. “The need to fix me?”

“These are not Elena’s regular people,” he replied. “We couldn’t risk them noting the differences.”

The man thought of everything.

“Come on,” he motioned before she’d even finished her last bite, one she didn’t even taste over the exhaustion she felt. “Let’s get going again.”

“Sadist,” she mumbled to herself.

At least she thought no one had heard, until he speared her with one of those penetrating gray-eyed glares. “Sadism would be to let you walk into a situation without any preparation. I’d prefer to think of this as protecting you.”

She mulled over his words the rest of the afternoon, keeping her own opinions to herself. It was too much effort to voice them, anyway. Maybe it was still shock, or jet lag, or her mind’s inclination to retreat from something so out of her control, but by the time Major McConneghy called an end to the day she was ready to sink to her knees right then and there. The only thing that kept her upright and functional was the realization that he was waiting for her to do just that.

It was in the way he watched her, the way he said little but implied much with his body language. But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She’d fall apart later, in the privacy of her room. Or so she promised herself as she picked at a dinner served in the ballroom they were using as a training area.

“If you don’t eat, you won’t keep up your strength,” he said to her when she waved off the second course.

“And if I eat I’ll lose it all over your spit-and-polished shoes,” she replied, wondering what had happened to the Jane who got along with everyone, who never uttered a rude word or spoke back.

All of a sudden a question that had been bothering her resurfaced. She leaned forward and asked, “Exactly where is the other Elena? The real one, I mean.”

For a moment she thought he might not answer. Not that she learned all that much when he finally did. “That’s need-to-know information.”

She sat back as if he’d slapped her. “And I obviously don’t need to know.”

“Exactly.”

Well, she might not be experienced in the ways of the world, but she could translate do-not-enter signs as well as the next person. Choking down another slice of her rare roast beef, she set the rest aside, sure it would lodge in her throat. Why should it hurt that he wanted her to risk her life for this missing Elena, but didn’t trust her to share all but the barest information?

“All I can tell you is that she’s recovering, away from Vendari. It’ll be safer for you if you don’t know any more details.”

His words caught her off guard and she found herself glancing up, surprised by the understanding she saw in his gaze, not trusting that it was really meant for her.

Then the implication of his words set in. If she was killed outright it wouldn’t make a speck of difference if she knew the whereabouts of the real Elena. But if she was kidnapped—again—then she could be tortured in an attempt to get her to reveal information she didn’t know.

Swallowing hard she pushed away the rest of her meal. Her stomach felt as if she’d taken a dive off a very high tower, knowing the ground was coming up, hard and fast.

“You can’t keep skipping your meals and expect to function at top form.”

Major Miss-Nothing obviously thought he could control everything. Including her stomach. She had to remember her role here. She was part of a scheme—or mission, or whatever—and that was all. Not a person who was scared right down to the soles of her feet. Not a woman who might want to be comforted instead of admonished.

She kept her voice calm when she knew it wanted to quiver as she lifted her gaze to the man across from her.

“I will do what I need to do to get through this masquerade.”

“Mission.”

“And you’ll do what you need to do. But—” she saw she had his attention by the way the lines bracketing his eyes deepened, the color of them intensifying. “—if you criticize everything I won’t be able to function at all.”

He weighed her words. “That wasn’t a criticism.”

“I think you’re used to dealing with subordinates. I’m not, nor will I be treated like one.”

The old Jane would never have dared to confront another, especially one who glared at her with ice in his eyes. But a small part of her exalted.

Silence spun between them. She vowed not to give in, not on this. A man like McConneghy would eat her alive if she let him. And while that challenged her at one level, or at least evoked some pretty heated images she had no business dwelling on, she needed some sense of control. Everything else had been taken from her—her sense of security, her identity, her freedom of choice, but she refused to be treated like a non-thinking, non-feeling robot.




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