Bait (4 page)

Christina shot her a look of horror. “I can't stand him. He's arrogant and bossy and . . . and . . .” And really good-­looking. His blond hair was overlong, curling around his face in a way that made her itch to push it back with her fingertips. Last time she saw him, he'd sported a ridiculously sexy two-­day growth. His irises were ringed with dark brown, but the centers were a tawny gold. It was his nose, broken at some point in his life, that kept him from being too beautiful.

She sighed. “And he doesn't trust me,” she finished lamely.

Heather stood. “You'll learn to trust each other. Hey, I gotta run. Briefing in five minutes.”

Christina shut the laptop with another sigh. She and Gabe would be together virtually all the time. She groaned, dread twisting in her gut.

F
OR
THE
NEXT
two weeks, Christina applied herself to learning how to stand, walk, eat, and think like a crown princess. She began to wear Ronnie's clothes, speak in her lilting French dialect, copy her mannerisms. Ronnie's private secretary, whose duties had much more to do with being a staff liaison and advisor than any kind of note-­taker, began to style her hair and help with her makeup.

The princess sat as heir to the throne, but Concordia was a constitutional monarchy with a parliamentary democracy. The prime minister held most of the power. She studied the significant members of Parliament, influential entrepreneurs, and foreign heads of state, and pored over the de Savoie family tree, memorizing members of Ronnie's family and ancestors that went back eight generations.

“Just focus on the important ones,” Ronnie said. “Crazy Queen Bernedetta, who used tea leaves to determine the course Parliament would take. Prince Roland, who was nearly blind and walked right off the cliff at Cap de la Nau in Spain. The Marquis de Plages, who kidnapped his wife from a British household in 1528 and nearly sent the two countries to war.”

Christina chuckled. “A colorful family history.”

“And now, demoiselle, we must dress,” Deni said. “Your bodyguard shall arrive shortly.”

Ugh. Christina had been trying to forget that fact. “Do I have time for a workout first?”

Ronnie's living space mercifully included a room large enough to contain a wide variety of modern workout gear, and a large center floor that Ronnie used for kickboxing. Everything in it was first-­rate. It made up for not stepping outside in two weeks.

“Perhaps after?” Deni suggested.

“All right.” She followed Ronnie into the master bedroom. They sat side-­by-­side on the four-­poster bed, the forest green bedspread soft beneath them, while Deni disappeared into the walk-­in closet. She came back out and held up a garment bag with something of a flourish.

“Come. We dress, okay?”

“Sure.”

The older woman's gray eyes glittered with both intelligence and wisdom. Her red hair was swept into a sleek, sophisticated style. A face lined with experience projected an air of calm authority. She opened the garment bag.

“Voila!”

Bemused, Christina changed into the pantsuit. It was clearly expensive. The silky material clung to her breasts and hips. The top was a brilliant blue, with pads to widen her shoulders, which were narrower than Ronnie's. The black pants were belted and flared widely at the bottom, which meant she was forced to wear the ridiculously high heels that the princess favored. Deni then styled her hair and watched carefully as Christina put in the contacts that turned her brown eyes green, and did her makeup.

“I don't understand. It's just Gabe Morgan, not the king coming to visit. It's
not
the king, is it?” she asked, only half-­joking.

“No, miss. You will see.”

Uncertain, Christina waited in the sitting room while Deni disappeared into the princess's room. Her confusion vanished at the first sight of Ronnie. Gone was the casual woman. In her place was Princess Véronique de Savoie, dressed in an exact copy of the pantsuit Christina was wearing. Their hairstyles were identical, as was the eye shadow that brought out the green in their eyes. And Christina understood. If she could fool Gabe, who had already met her, she stood a good chance of fooling the public.

They stood together by the tall windows, Ronnie on the right, and Christina on the left.

 

Chapter Three

H
E
HESITATED
OUTSI
DE
the door to the princess's private apartments. The guard who escorted him canted a curious eye his way. Gabe blew out a breath. Shit. This was a job, just a job, like any other. Just focus on the objective, and not the woman he'd be working beside. She was the cheese in his trap; nothing more, nothing less.

The guard gleamed with spit and polish, imposing in his red wool coat with double rows of gold buttons. The gold braid tied at his throat and fastened at his right shoulder, and the red sash draped from the opposite shoulder to hip, proclaimed him a member of the Household Guard. He'd taken Gabe past the tourists crowding the public portions of the palace, up the right staircase, and through thirty-­foot-­high doors into the residential wing.

Gabe banged on the princess's door knocker three times. An older woman opened the door and gestured Gabe inside, rattling off a spate of French he didn't understand. The guard grunted something in return and left.

The woman said, “I am Dame Van Praet, Princess Véronique's private secretary.”

The woman could teach his men a thing or two about spit and polish. Hair smoothed back and perfectly coiffed. Flawless makeup. Tallish for a woman at around five foot seven, but she still only came up to his shoulder. Chunky gold earrings and a clearly expensive tailored light blue suit. The skirt ended three inches above her knees. Nice legs, even if she looked sixtyish. The secretary's mouth tightened and she actually managed to look down her nose at Gabe. Impressive.

“If you require anything, please come to me and I will provide it.” Her voice was stiff. Clearly, this was not a woman used to being checked out. He knew who she was, of course. Her role, her family history, her political leanings. Still, his inner devil got the best of him. His lips twitched.

“If we need any fancy stationery or envelopes, I'll be sure to let you know.” He started past her.

The woman planted herself squarely in his way. “I am not an administrative secretary,” she said, voice frosty. “I am Deni Van Praet, Edle von Naamveld, Dame of the Order of Sint-­Godelieve, Private Secretary to Her Royal Highness Véronique, Princesse de Savoie, Duchesse d'Ardes, Markiezin of Ardvaleen.”

Doubly impressive. She'd managed to spit all that out without a single pause. Gabe kept his face blank and his chuckles to himself.

The woman sighed. “Think of me as kind of a chief of staff, then. You have those in America, yes? I manage Her Highness's appearances, her correspondence, her speeches, and photographs. I am communication liaison between the princess's household and the other royal households. Also between the princess and the many charities and institutions for which she is patroness. I act as a national and international political and social advisor.” Her eyes snapped. “I do
not
take dictation.”

Gabe felt a flush stain his cheeks. Well, and hadn't she put him in his place? What would she have said if he told her she had great gams?

“My apologies, Dame Deni. I actually do know who and what you are. Your thirty-­two years of ser­vice to the royal family has been exemplary. You are a vital part of the princess's success, and everyone knows it.”

She huffed, but after a moment amusement flickered in her eyes. “You are having a jest with me, then?”

“Yes, ma'am. I apologize.”

She eyed him for a moment, then threw back her head and laughed. “Few dare nowadays. It is refreshing.”

Deni led the way into the apartment, and he stepped inside the richest, most opulent home he'd ever seen. Apartment? The term became meaningless as he took in the forty-­foot ceiling, the gray stone laced with golden tones stretching from the foyer to the entrance of what he assumed was supposed to be a sitting room, which was all curlicues of gold in faux columns and velvet-­looking furniture. Totally outside his comfort zone. Still, he was here to disappear into the background. That he did exceptionally well.

He walked into the sitting room and experienced a jolt of unreality. A twin set of beautiful women stood by the floor-­to-­ceiling windows. One was the Crown Princess Véronique de Savoie; the other was plain Christina. So, this was a test. He strode across the floor and stopped a few feet away from them, scanning each face closely. There were minor physical differences between them—­but which was which?

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” he said to the woman on his left. A hint of surprise and even satisfaction flashed through her eyes. He turned to the other woman, who wore an identical expression. “And Your Highness.”

“Please, monsieur, address me simply as Ronnie. It will make things much easier,
non
?” The first one held out an elegant hand. He took it, wondering what he was supposed to do with it. Kiss the knuckles like he was some servant? In the end, he merely shook it gently and released her fingers. The princess on his right offered her hand as well.

“We are grateful for your experience and willingness to aid us in this difficult time,” she said. Surely, this was Christina? “My fiancé has been terribly concerned.”

“
Oui
. Perhaps you know of him? Lord Brumley, Baron of Daversporth? He sits as a member of the House of Lords,” said the one on the left.

Would the real Princess Véronique expect him to know a member of the British aristocracy? Mistake number one for Christina. Unless the princess was merely being polite? She'd said “know of him,” not “know him.” Maybe Lord Brumley had been in the news? Now that he thought about it, maybe he did remember hearing the name, in conjunction with a foreign aid package. Maybe.

Damn it! He'd worked with Christina. He should be able to tell them apart, but he couldn't. Their stance, facial expressions, hand gestures, and accents were all identical.

“Parliament is in session, so we are unlikely to see him,” the other one said. “He will be no hindrance to our little ruse.”

“That makes things easier.” Well, he had a fifty-­fifty shot. Gabe inclined his head to the woman on his left. “Some members of my team will be arriving shortly to take you to the safe house. They'll turn you over to Trevor's team, who are waiting for you. You have to do what they tell you, when they tell you. It's the only way I can guarantee your safety. Do you think you can do that?”

She glanced across at the other princess. “We put ourselves in your capable hands, Monsieur Morgan.”

He must have chosen correctly. Whew. “Christina.” He spoke to the woman on the right. “At the same time that my team takes the princess out the back, you and I are going to leave through the front. Very visible, very public. We'll leave in half an hour.”

The one he thought was Ronnie gave a tiny cough. “I'll be ready.”

Shit and double shit. He kept his face blank as he faced her. “Good. After two weeks cooped up here, I'm sure you'd like some fresh air.”

Christina relaxed. “I'd love some. Ronnie, you must be antsy, too.”

“I am not accustomed to being shut inside, it is true. However, I put myself in your care.” Ronnie gave the same tiny cough Christina had given moments before. He wasn't even sure he was talking to the right woman. Damn! Christina was good.

Nevertheless, he had no intention of letting her inexperience risk his men. He wished he knew more about what had happened last year in Iraq. Scuttlebutt pointed to an error on her part that had almost cost her team their lives. That didn't sit well with him.

The door knocker banged, exactly once. Gabe swung toward the door, waving off Deni Van Praet.

“That'll be my team.”

Nevertheless, he peeked out the peephole, then put his back to the wall next to the door before he pulled it open. Tag and Mace entered to the left and right, eyes already searching, focusing, cataloguing. Alex followed, scanning the hallway behind him until he closed the door. Gabe waited until they joined him near the sofas. The three soldiers dwarfed the dainty furniture.

“Your Highness—­Ronnie—­this is John McTaggert, Thomas Beckett—­also known as Mace—­and Alex Wood,” he said. “They're going to take you to the safe house, where Trevor and his SAS team will take over. You'll have round-­the-­clock guards. No one will get close to you.”

“Thank you, Gabriel. Your attention to detail is most appreciated.”

Christina hugged the princess, startling him. What she said next surprised him even more.

“You're in good hands,” she said. Good. She'd grasped what he was capable of.

Princess Véronique nodded, looking uncertain.

“No, really,” Christina said. “I've worked with Trevor before. You'll be safe.”

Displeasure shot through Gabe's gut. She hadn't meant him. She'd meant fucking Trevor Carswell. Her next words nettled him even more.

“I trust him with my life.”

C
HRISTINA
GR
IMACED
. G
ABE
glared at her from the other side of the room. Why? She'd fooled him. As much as he'd tried to downplay it, he hadn't been able to tell them apart. Satisfaction flooded her. Maybe that's why he looked like a bear.

Being with him day after day in forced intimacy with only Deni to act as a chaperone should stop her thirst to trace the muscles on his shoulders with her lips. That, and his apparent disdain.

“It's an honor to meet you,” Mace said, then followed with a spate of French. He took Ronnie's hand and bowed over it, actually brushing his lips across the back of her knuckles. Ronnie laughed, a lilting, musical sound Christina had been trying to mimic for days now. She responded to Mace, and they exchanged a rush of information. To Christina, Mace's Cajun accent sounded nothing like Ronnie's French one, but they seemed to enjoy one another.

Slipping off the high heels, she stifled the urge to fling them across the room, and instead set them neatly near the sofa. She slouched against one end of it and crossed her arms under her breasts.

Alex Wood greeted the princess as well, but his body language screamed discomfort. He relaxed as he turned to Christina, looking her over with amazement. “Hey, Wonder Woman. Good to see you again.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

He grinned at her. “Azakistan? Six months ago? You were the only one who could get pics of the terrorists we took down. Thanks.”

Six months ago, on the day of President Henry Cooper's visit to al-­Zadr Air Force Base, a malevolent man named Zaahir al-­Farouk had recruited several fanatics to help him detonate a poisonous mixture of chlorine and phosgene gas in the center of a public swimming area on the US base outside of Ma'ar ye zhad, Azakistan. Christina had talked her asset into providing photos of her brother and the other members of Zaahir's terrorist cell for the Delta Force team, including Tag, Mace and Gabe, who had gone up to the parade grounds to search for them. In the end, though, it had been Trevor, Heather, and the commander of the Delta Force team, Jace Reed, who killed Zaahir al-­Farouk and prevented hundreds of deaths. Her role, though pivotal, had been rather small. Nevertheless, she smiled back at Alex. “It was a group effort.”

With his light goatee and lowered eyebrows, Tag appeared to be scowling, but she knew it was his default expression and meant nothing. He prowled across the room to the windows, standing slightly to one side as he peered out.

Alex eased up next to her. “Yeah, but you were the cutest part of the group.” His ridiculously long lashes enhanced his boy-­next-­door good looks as he lowered his head to gaze into her eyes. “Today, you could knock me over with a feather.” He reached out a single finger to touch a dangling earring. “Pretty.”

Christina should have felt flattered, she supposed. It wasn't her, though. It was the princess's clothes, jewelry, hair. Her normal brown curls had been straightened and lightened, streaked with a rich red, and conditioned to within an inch of its life. The cut and style would have cost more than her car payment. She touched the strands. It felt nice to be pampered for a change. And to be flirted with. Of course, the last time she'd seen Alex, he'd been mooning over one of his unit's support staff. It was hard to take him seriously.

She glanced across at Gabe, and found him frowning in her direction. He jabbed a finger at Alex, then crooked it toward himself. Alex immediately left her side to go to his team leader. Christina pushed herself off the sofa's arm and wandered into the bedroom, determined not to notice how well Gabe fit into the black suit he wore.

Deni finished packing the last suitcase and closed it with a snap. “We are ready, Your Royal Highness.”

Ronnie nodded, pressing a hand to her abdomen. “I should not be afraid, but I find I am.”

Christina covered the other woman's hand with her own and squeezed. “You'll be safe, I promise. We'll find this guy, and get you back to your real life as soon as possible.”

From here on out until the end of the mission, Christina would eat, talk, and dress like a princess. The only time she would be able to take it easy would be here, in the princess's apartments. But really, with Gabe Morgan watching her twenty-­four-­seven, would she really be able to de-­stress without half a dozen stiff drinks? Christina grimaced.

Ronnie picked up the shapeless gray sweats Deni laid out for her. “My costume,” she said, eyes bright. “It will be wonderful simply to relax and lounge comfortably.” She shed her sophisticated pantsuit and quickly cleaned her face of makeup, then twisted her hair into a haphazard knot on her head. Nothing could alter the graceful line of her jaw or her elegant collarbone, but she certainly no longer resembled the Crown Princess of Concordia. The two returned to the sitting room.

Deni appeared beside them. She pointed her chin toward Gabe, who had gathered his men and spoke quietly to them. “Your Highness, it is time. Gabriel says the cars are ready.”