Bait (3 page)

She ducked in and out of several more residential areas, switching streets and doubling back. When she felt she'd lost the van, she turned onto a dead-­end street and backed into an open carport, turning off the ignition quickly. Yes, they would see a black Corolla if they made it this far. Black Corollas were ubiquitous in the D.C. area. They would only be able to see her front license plate if they were dumb enough to drive into the dead end. She ducked down, pulling a small telescoping mirror from her glove box. Angling it over the dash, she waited.

Her mind wandered back to Gabe Morgan, and how he would react when he found out he would be forced not only to work with her again, but to protect her. The first time they'd met, he'd done everything but tell her outright that she had no place in Azakistan, where she had been sent to recruit an asset. The rumors about her very first mission had washed through the Delta Force detachment on al-­Zadr Air Force Base almost before she'd walked through the doors of their Tactical Operations Center. The stories shouldn't still hurt a year after the incident, but they did.

Thirty minutes later, she stretched stiff muscles and started the car again, mirth tugging at her lips. She'd lost the gray van. Score one for field officers, zero for recruits. She'd report the incident per standard operating procedure, then pop down to the surveillance center and have a chat and a laugh with her old instructor. Yawning, she drove out of the maze of houses and headed home, keeping a sharp eye out for other suspicious vehicles. Once she turned onto her own street, she relaxed.

The part of her mind not involved in countersurveillance considered the problem of Gabe Morgan. Convincing him that she would be an asset on this mission would be difficult. She didn't kid herself that she would be in charge. Delta Force teams took orders from JSOC—­the Joint Special Operations Command—­not from the CIA.

The gray van hurtled out of nowhere, sliding sideways across the pavement and rocking to a halt only feet away from the hood of her car. Reacting on instinct, Christina twisted the wheel hard to the left as she slammed on the brake. The rear of her car protested the abrupt change in direction as it skidded. Her defensive driving training coming to the fore, she did not wait to find out what the van's occupants had in mind. She rammed the accelerator, rocketing sideways and forward, missing being T-­boned by millimeters as the van leapt forward to block her path again. It whipped around to follow her as she slipped past, giving her a good look at the driver. Well into his forties, he was too old to be a recruit. He had round, wide features and dark hair. The other remained in shadow. What the hell was going on? This was no surveillance exercise.

Barely a breath ahead of them, she mashed the accelerator into the floor. In moments, both cars shot along the street at breakneck speeds. A sharp turn in the road ahead of her gave Christina a slight edge. She slewed around the corner, trying to take them out of her neighborhood. No way would she endanger civilians.

She dodged around the fast-­moving UPS truck in front of her and flashed her brake lights twice before decelerating sharply. As expected, the truck driver stood on his brakes, shouting curses she understood only too clearly through her rearview mirror.

“Sorry, dude,” she muttered. “Not your lucky day.”

The gray van, unable to slow fast enough, tried to swerve around the truck, only to hit a curve. It shot off the road, across a driveway, and hit a brick-­encased mailbox. Through a squeal of brakes and mangled metal, the gray van came to a shuddering halt.

Christina pulled over, reversed along the shoulder, and parked in front of the truck, which had also stopped. The UPS driver, a paunchy, sweaty middle-­aged man, jumped out of the truck and started toward her. He glowered.

“This accident was your fault,” he said, “and I'm going to make sure the police know it.”

She ignored him, her whole attention on the van, her shaking hand gripping the semiautomatic pistol under her shirt. “Hands where I can see them,” she yelled. “Get out slowly, hands in the air.”

The truck driver gaped at her. “Are you some sort of cop?”

She spared him an irritated glance. “Sir, get back in your truck.”

The van's engine revved. It jumped backward, crunching over broken brick, and wrestled itself back onto the road. Christina drew her weapon. The van paused a moment, then roared away.

The balding truck driver's eyes bugged out. “What's going on? Who were those guys?”

She turned to sprint to her car. The van disappeared around a corner up ahead.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm going after them. Wait here for the police.” Who would never come, because Christina wasn't going to call them. She was too anxious to find out who those men were, and what they wanted. She dashed to her car.

“But who's going to fill out the police report?” the truck driver wailed as she banged her car door shut.

Those few seconds had cost her. When she turned the corner, the van was nowhere in sight. She searched the area, crossing and recrossing roads until she finally had to admit defeat. Slamming her palms against the steering wheel, she let loose a stream of expletives that would have even Gabe Morgan's ears turning red.

 

Chapter Two

P
RINC
ESS
V
ÉRONIQUE
WAS
elegant, charming, and refined. All of the things Christina wasn't. She could be described as dogged. Intuitive. Maybe even gutsy. But elegant?

“I'm not sure how Jay expects me to pull this off,” she muttered. And yet, hadn't she been blending in most of her life? Flitting from personality to personality as easily as a bird shed feathers? It was part of why she'd been recruited to the CIA.

Concordia was a small country, nestled just to the south of Belgium and west of Luxembourg. The flight to its capital city had been long, but peaceful enough. She'd spent the time studying the materials Jay had given her on Princess Véronique and her household staff, the details of the attempt on her life, and the layout of the castle in which she lived. Fourteen hours later, she'd been met by Trevor and his team and smuggled into the princess's apartments inside the royal
palais
.

The palace itself had been designed to impress. Inside, the ceilings soared fifty feet, enough to accommodate the double staircase. The first floor consisted of offices and living space for household staff. The west flight of stairs led to the winter residence of the Comtesse and Comte de Defois-­Angonne, Princess Véronique's aunt and her husband. The apartments for the crown princess were located in the east wing.

“Don't worry,” the princess said, her musical French accent lilting across the room. She set her wineglass on the sideboard, crossed the length of an enormous reproduction of Peter Paul Rubens's
The Apotheosis of Henri
IV
, and joined Christina near the windows. “I have every confidence in your abilities.”

“That makes one of us.” Christina blew out a breath. “Being in front of the cameras is not exactly my forte.”

“What does this mean?”

“It means I'm used to operating behind the scenes. In the shadows. Where no one sees me.” Thinking she'd be a natural at it because of her chameleon-­like abilities, she'd taken an acting class in high school. It had been a disaster. She couldn't remember her lines or stay in character while she unconsciously tried to blend. Acting meant pretending to be Lady Macbeth or Juliet. Blending was different. When she blended, she fed off the personalities around her and became just like them.

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Trevor said. He stretched, lacing his fingers over his head. His long torso dwarfed the fragile-­looking chair, a gilt frame with white cushions sporting elaborate embroidery. “I know you can do this, Christina.”

Christina frowned unhappily, looking up at the massive crystal chandelier as she watched Princess Véronique stroll closer to the high windows, framed by burgundy draperies and topped by elaborate pelmets. The windows overlooked a man-­made lake, complete with black swans. “You're about the only one. Jay would have kept me at a desk forever if not for you contacting the CIA.”

The princess glided back to the sofa and seated herself, crossing one elegant leg over the other. ­“People see what they wish to see.” She glanced at the man sitting across from her. “M'sieur Carswell, do you not agree?”

“Call me Trevor, please, Your Royal Highness. And yes, that's been my experience. Also, we're going to limit your public appearances, Christina.”

“You,” Christina said, “are going straight to a safe house.”

The princess clicked her tongue. “After our princess lessons,
non
?”

Trevor made a sound of assent. “You'll have round-­the-­clock guards, Your Highness. I'm sorry, but you'll be all but under house arrest.”

“I understand.” The princess inclined her head in acquiescence.

Christina surveyed the sitting room. It was opulent and formal. Delicate settees, spindly-­legged chairs, tapestries, and huge formal portraits on the walls. The sitting room was larger than her entire apartment. She shook her head. It was a different lifestyle, that was for sure. “Your home is beautiful.”

Princess Véronique glanced around, as though seeing it for the first time. “Yes, I suppose so. I find myself wishing for something simpler.”

“Why don't you redecorate? It's your home, right?” she asked.

Véronique's smile was small. “We are not a wealthy country, Christina. The expense cannot be spared merely for my whims.”

“But . . .” She shut her mouth. She wasn't here for that.

Now that she'd arrived in Parvenière, her encounter with the gray van seemed surreal. Jay Spicer had promised to call her if the local police found the van or the men, but he wasn't optimistic. The license plate had been stolen from a hapless teenager's aging Buick. The sketch artist had done a reasonable job, but Christina had gotten barely a glimpse of the men. No matches had come up on any database.

Now she needed to give her full focus to this mission.

To ensure the secrecy of their plan, the princess's living quarters had been declared off limits to all but the most discreet servants and cleaning staff. Véronique sent her chef on vacation and replaced her with an Italian woman. Trevor had explained the dangers of having Princess Véronique and Lord Brumley in close proximity; Julian had conceded only when Trevor pointed out that Véronique might be in danger simply by being at his side.

The princess had insisted that her private secretary, the longest serving and most trusted member of her household, be brought in on the charade in order to help Christina. She now sat unobtrusively off to the side, in a narrow red velvet chair with an oval back.

“Christina, we've rearranged your schedule to include only those appearances where we can control the environment,” Trevor went on. “Also where you won't run into anyone who knows the princess well. At least, that's what we're trying to do. There's one exception to that; and, I'm sorry, but this appearance will be in two weeks' time.”

“What is it?” Christina swallowed the dismayed noise that wanted to crawl from her throat. It didn't matter that she'd been a field agent for only a year. She could do this. She
would
do this.

The princess tapped a long, manicured nail against the arm of the davenport. “It is the sixtieth wedding anniversary of my grandaunt and -­uncle, the Viscount and Viscountess of Nabourg. Because my father will be in Somalia on a humanitarian mission and my mother will address the Chamber of Representatives on the plight of our most rural farmers, it was decided that I should represent the royal family. To be truthful, it seems that every member of my family must be elsewhere. What is the American idiom? I drew the shorter straw.”

Trevor chuckled. “Amazing how that happens.”

“Won't they recognize me?” Christina stumbled over the words, more alarmed than she ought to be. Her continued career with the CIA rested on the success of this mission; Jay had made that abundantly clear.

Princess Véronique suppressed a smile and rolled her eyes. “Lord Hugh is eighty-­five and nearly blind. Lady Adela reminisces about her youth in Andorra to the exclusion of all else. Together, they can be rather tiresome. My contact with them over the years has been limited to mandatory appearances such as this one. As I am not close to them or their friends, it is doubtful any guests at this ball will know me intimately.” She frowned. “The news of the assassination attempt will cause some stir, as will your bodyguard.”

“That works in our favor, actually,” Christina said, calm again, feeling foolish about her nerves. “If I mess up, ­people will assume the attack shook me up. They'll cut me some slack. I'll downplay it as much as possible, though.”

Deni Van Praet, private secretary to the princess of Concordia, rose abruptly from her seat to poke at Christina's bare shoulder. “We must cover that, yes?” Her ramrod posture and carefully styled hair fit into the environment perfectly.

Twisting her head to glance at her right arm, she pulled the sleeveless shirt up to see the two-­inch jagged scar. It had faded from its original angry red, a souvenir from her aborted mission in Iraq last year. It was a brutal reminder of how close she had come to dying that day.

“Yes.”

Behind her, Trevor was outlining his plan for investigating the threats against Véronique. “I'll need you to make me a list. Divide it into personal friends, acquaintances, and anyone who might hold a grudge or be angry with you. Don't dismiss anyone, don't assume it can't be this or that person. When it comes to death threats, it could be a total stranger, a psychotic who has fixated on you for whatever reason. An assassination attempt is more serious. Someone's already made the decision to end your life. Maybe he blames you for his circumstances; but it could just as easily be someone you know. It will take some time to do the background checks on all of them. We'll use the time while you teach Christina.”

“Should you require it, you have at your disposal, of course, the full resources of our Department of Security,” Véronique said.

Trevor shook his head. “While the British government appreciates your generosity, we're assuming the threat can come from anywhere. We can't risk it.”

“Then I will let you get to it, and I will work on that list.” The princess rose. Trevor got up as well, recognizing the dismissal for what it was. She turned her luminous eyes Christina's way. “Will you help me?”

“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” she murmured. Her body was already softening, her posture changing. She rose just as Véronique had, shoulders back, chin down, fingers touching but not intertwined.

“Please
,
Christina. You will call me Ronnie, yes? It is my nickname, one my friends use.”

“Thank you. I'm very honored.”

Trevor moved to the door. “I'll be in and out. If you need anything, or if anything occurs to you, call me immediately.” His gaze included both of them. “Christina, when you're out and about, you'll have Morgan with you at all times, but you'll still get in touch with me if you see something that raises the hair on the back of your neck. Right?”

“I will.” She followed him to the entryway. “Trevor?”

His expression softened as he looked down at her. “It's good to see you again.”

Her shiver of unease vanished. Trevor had her back. The two of them had become friends a year ago, though at the time she'd thought she wanted more. Trevor had gently reminded her of the adrenal effects of a near-­death experience, and told her to call him if she still felt the same way about him in a month. She hadn't picked up the phone.

A blush unexpectedly rose in her cheeks. “Sorry,” she muttered.

He chuckled. “I didn't expect you to dial me. I value our friendship, Christina.”

Curious, she canted a look up at him. “Are you seeing anyone now?”

To her surprise, a troubled look closed down his face. “No.”

Christina's brows furrowed. “Bad breakup?”

Trevor glanced up at the ceiling. “It's rather complicated.”

“Shelby Gibson?”

Trevor stilled. “How could you possibly know that?”

She put a hand on his forearm. “Heather told me about Shelby visiting you in the hospital when we were in Azakistan six months ago.”

He winced.

“She was just scared, Trev. I only met her briefly, but Heather thinks she cares more than she lets on.”

His mouth hardened. “She dumped me while I was lying in a hospital bed, Christina. Broken wrist, broken ribs, gunshot to the shoulder. Nothing life-­threatening, but her timing was shite.”

“I'm sorry.”

Trevor forced a smile. “I am, too. Now go learn how to be a princess.” Eyes sad, he touched her cheek and left.

Christina ran her nails through her hair, fluffing and settling the curls. Poor Trevor. He was courageous, handsome, and a true gentleman. Unbidden, an image of Gabe superimposed itself over Trevor. Her breath caught in her throat.

She
so
wasn't going there. Gabe might be equally brave, and as gorgeous as a fallen angel, but he was no gentleman. She peeked into the main living area. Ronnie and Deni Van Praet sat close together on a settee. Deni held the princess's hand.

Christina wandered into her bedroom and flipped open her laptop. She turned on her video-­chat program. Heather Langstrom answered on the third ring.

“Long time, no chat. How're things in D.C.?”

“I'm not there at the moment. I'm on assignment.”

“Where?” Heather's cheerful face dimmed. “Can you say?”

“Sorry, but no. Some of your guys are coming here, though.” Heather would have no trouble reading between the lines, Christina knew. They had become friends since they had worked together in Azakistan six months before. Christina had been invited to be a bridesmaid for Heather and Jace's wedding next spring.

“Ah. I'm prepping the info for them. They're not due for another ­couple of weeks, though. Do you need them sooner?”

“No. I have my own prep to do. They would just be underfoot.”

“I can see something's wrong. What is it?”

Christina took in some air. Where to start? With the thing pressing hardest in her mind. “This bodyguard thing. You know who's been assigned to me.”

While they were on an unsecured line, neither would mention specifics about this mission. Heather nodded. “It's going to be a learning experience for both of you.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “He doesn't like me.”

Heather chuckled. “He doesn't like anybody who works for your parent organization.”

“Why?”

Heather propped her head on her hand. “You'd better ask him directly. Anyway, I don't think that's going to end up being your problem.”

“What do you mean?” She slumped back against the back of the chair.

Heather's expression turned from concerned to knowing. “I seem to recall sparks literally flying between the two of you in Azakistan.” Her eyes twinkled.