McKinnon's Royal Mission (8 page)

But all he said was, “Yeah. It’s a little complicated because Walker is also my boss. But they’re good friends. And their daughter is my goddaughter.” He smiled to himself, and for the first time Mara realized he was a man who could be emotionally vulnerable. “They even named her after me. Can you believe it? Alyssa Tracy Walker.” There it was again—that curious combination of pride and humility. But Mara didn’t have time to consider what it might mean because Special Agent McKinnon said, “Come on, Keira’s expecting us.”

They rang the doorbell, which was almost immediately answered by a lovely woman with red-gold curls, warm brown eyes and a dusting of freckles. “Trace!” she said with a welcoming smile. She looked toward Mara and started to speak, but Special Agent McKinnon interrupted her.

“Keira, I’d like you to meet Her Serene Highness, Princess Mara Theodora of Zakhar. Princess, this is Keira Walker, my former partner.”

Keira held her hand out to Mara. “Very pleased to meet you finally,” she said with a warm smile. “Alec and Liam have told me a lot about you.” She shot a look at her former partner that Mara didn’t understand before she added, “And it’s Dr. Marianescu, right? I was so impressed when my brothers told me. There aren’t enough women going into math, science and technology careers, even after all this time. And it had to be especially difficult for you, under the circumstances. What I mean is—”

“Can you continue this after we get inside?” Special Agent McKinnon asked drily.

Keira laughed, stepped back, and pushed the door wide. “Sorry about that,” she apologized. “Trace knows that once I get started on this subject I can go on for hours.”

As they walked in an angry wail came from upstairs. “Oh, dear,” Keira said ruefully. “Alyssa’s awake already. I was hoping she’d sleep a little longer. Excuse me for a minute, but please make yourselves at home.” She started for the stairway, but before she’d taken four steps a tall, rangy man with blond hair and blue eyes walked down the stairs and into the living room, cuddling a one-year-old baby girl in the crook of his arm.

“I’ve got her,” he told his wife unnecessarily, smiling at the baby in his arms. He raised that smile to Mara and held out his hand. “You must be the princess.”

“Yes,” Keira said, “but that’s just an inherited title. She’s also Dr. Marianescu, and
that
title she earned.”

Mara beamed at Keira, whose words indicated she understood. “Yes, but will you not call me Mara?” she asked both Keira and her husband as she shook his hand. “Alec and Liam call me Dr. Marianescu, but that is because they are pretending to be my students when they guard me at school.”

“Of course,” Keira answered promptly. “Mara, this is my husband, Cody. And that bundle of inexhaustible energy is our daughter, Alyssa.”

Mara looked at the little girl, whose copper-colored curls and angelic face seemed to combine the best of her mother and father. She wasn’t crying anymore, and when she saw the tall dark-haired man at Mara’s side she gurgled excitedly and clapped her hands together. “Dace!” she babbled, holding out her arms to him. “Dace!”

Mara saw Special Agent McKinnon throw a startled glance at Keira, who told him with an understanding grin, “Oh yes, she’s talking now. Her vocabulary consists of about ten words, including Mama, Dada, Gamma—that’s my mother,” she explained to Mara. “Dace—that’s you, Trace,” she told Special Agent McKinnon. “And bat—that’s bath, which is her very favorite thing in the world.”

Special Agent McKinnon walked over and took Alyssa from her father’s arms. “Come to Trace, baby,” he told her, and she went to him willingly, then smiled contentedly and snuggled against his shoulder.

Mara went very still, feeling as if the world was somehow out of kilter. She glanced from one man to the other, their open love for the little girl reflected on the faces of both men. Special Agent McKinnon—
no,
she thought.
I cannot think of him as anyone but Trace. Not here. Not holding Alyssa. Here he is a man. Just a warm, loving man, like Andre.
Trace was talking to Alyssa in a soft voice, teasing her and tickling her tummy as she gurgled with laughter again and again.

“He spoils her rotten,” Keira told Mara in an aside, but her voice held amused indulgence. “She turned one a couple of months ago, and you should have seen what he gave her for a birthday present.”

Mara didn’t say anything, but a variety of emotions churned through her. Wistfulness and honest bewilderment ended up on top. “She is a beautiful child,” she told Keira. “But your husband—did he not wish for a son?”

Keira glanced at her sharply, a frown starting to form. But then she seemed to see beneath the surface of the question into Mara’s wounded heart. “No,” she said gently. “In fact, before Alyssa was born Cody refused to let them tell us if we were having a boy or a girl. He said, ‘Not knowing now will make it all the sweeter...later.’”

She smiled at Mara, woman to woman. “And when I gave birth to Alyssa, Cody was right there in the delivery room—she was born into her father’s eager, waiting hands. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen him cry, but they were tears of joy, not disappointment.”

“Oh.” Mara couldn’t think of anything else to say. She needed time alone to consider this. To analyze it in detail the way she would a complex equation. Because if what Keira was saying was the truth, if it was right and natural for fathers to cherish their daughters the way they cherished their sons, then...

* * *

Trace watched Keira and the princess take Alyssa upstairs to change her diaper. Keira had demurred at first, but Mara had insisted. “Please,” she had asked in her pretty, faintly accented voice. And when she’d added, “I have never been around babies, but I would like to learn,” Keira had smiled and accepted the offer of help.

After they left, Cody pulled Trace into the kitchen. “Spill it,” he demanded, almost before the swinging door closed behind them.

Trace hesitated. “Not sure what you mean.”

“C’mon, McKinnon,” Cody said. “Something happened.”

“It’s all in my report.”

“Don’t give me that. I know you. Maybe the State Department bought that report about what happened on Mount Evans, but I don’t. And don’t give me that poker-faced look, either,” Cody added drily. “Keira’s been giving me the high sign practically since the minute you and the princess walked in. So is there a problem? Something I need to know about the princess...and you?”

Trace’s jaw tightened. “Not a thing,” he told his boss, trying to convince himself at the same time. “There’s not a single, solitary thing you need to know.”

Cody’s expression hardened as he became more the boss than the friend. “You’d tell me if there was, right?”

“Right.” Trace almost believed it. Almost.

* * *

That night as Mara lay in her bed she relived her visit with the Walkers and their daughter, Alyssa. And Trace. He was Trace to her now. She would never think of him as Special Agent McKinnon again. Because when he was with his friends, when he held his goddaughter in his arms, he was so much like her brother, Andre, her heart ached.

She tucked a hand beneath her cheek.
But it is not as a brother you see him,
a little voice inside her head tormented her.
He is a man who makes you understand what it is to be a woman.

Mara remembered the way Trace had held Alyssa, remembered the expression on his face as he gazed at the little girl. Remembered also the look on Alyssa’s face as she smiled up at him and cuddled in his arms. She adored her “Dace” as she called him, and he could not have loved the little girl more if he had been her fath—

Father.
But fathers didn’t love their daughters. Did they? Or was her own father the aberration? She had known for years that her father wasn’t just indifferent to her, he actually hated her, and she’d known why. And except for her brother, it was reinforced by the attitude of the majority of men—particularly those in power—all around her. But why had she accepted her father’s hatred? Why had she accepted his assessment that she had no value, that she was a worthless addition to his family?

Andre had never felt that way about her. She was special in her brother’s eyes. He had protected her, fought for her, loved her. And she had made him proud of her when she obtained her PhD, something she might never have achieved without his assistance.

She smiled softly to herself. She would never forget the mingled love and pride on Andre’s face as she’d accepted her Oxford diploma and the trappings of her new status in a ceremony that dated back centuries. Then her smile faded. Why had that not been enough for her? Why had she looked in vain for her father beside her brother? Why had there been a gaping hole in her heart as she realized that even in this, her supreme moment, she had failed to win her father’s love?
The fault was not in me,
she realized with a sense of shock.
The fault lay in my father. Andre was right all along. It was not anything I did or did not do.

Her thoughts returned to today.
Keira said her husband cried tears of joy when Alyssa was born. That is how a father should feel. That is what my father should have felt at my birth. He did not. I could have brought him great joy, just as Alyssa has brought to her father. But he chose to turn away from me, chose to hate me instead. That was his loss. Not mine. All these years wasted seeking his approval. Seeking his love.

It hurt terribly to realize now just how much of her life had been wasted pursuing something that could never be. It hurt even more to realize she’d allowed her father to control her emotionally, had allowed him to make her fear rejection so much she’d come to expect it and steel herself against it, afraid to risk her heart with any man other than Andre. Even though her father had been dead for more than two years he was still controlling her through that fear. But no longer.

Chapter 7

Y
ou have been a coward long enough,
Mara told herself with sudden conviction. Not a physical coward—she’d never balked at taking a fence when she was riding, and had been thrown more than once. She’d always picked herself up, dusted herself off and climbed back into the saddle, determined not to let fear control her. But that same dauntless courage had failed her time and again when dealing with her father.

Not anymore,
she vowed.
He is dead, and he will not control me anymore.

Mara felt like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, struggling to free herself from the confining cocoon that had bound her for years to a false conclusion—that her father hadn’t loved her because somehow she was unworthy of love. Yes, Andre loved her, but her brother had always been a perfect, God-like being in her eyes, so far above mere mortals that she had discounted his love for her as the exception. Andre’s love was like God’s love—immutable. It was her father’s lack of love she’d always struggled to overcome. Her father’s assessment of her as worthless she’d always fought to disprove.

If that wasn’t true...if her father had been wrong...if she could be loved for who she was...not as a princess, but as a woman, loved by a man...

A picture of a man rose in her mind—a tall, handsome man with dark hair and bluer-than-blue eyes, with a smile that made her heart ache and her body tingle. A man who handled a gun and a baby with the same easy competence. A man who made her keenly aware of herself as a woman, with a woman’s body, a woman’s heart, a woman’s emotional needs. A man who looked and was dangerous, but who also paradoxically made her feel safe.

Trace.

Mara turned over restlessly, the silk sheets rustling.
Trace.
He already filled her thoughts, day and night. He even filled her dreams. But until now she had accepted his dislike for her as just something that
was
, the way she’d accepted her father’s hatred.

If she could pick one man to love her, she would pick Trace. Not because he was drop-dead gorgeous, although he was. Not because he had a body that rivaled Michelangelo’s David, although he did. Not even because he made her feel safe, although that was true, too. She would pick him to love her because there was a deep well of love within him he kept hidden from most of the world, love such as the overwhelming love he showed Alyssa, a child not his own. If Trace loved a woman, there would be nothing held back. Nothing he would not do for her. Nothing he would not share.

Could she win his love? Was it possible? She’d never been able to win her father’s love, but now she knew it was because he had no love to give—his love had died with her mother. But Trace wasn’t like that. There was love in him to be won...by the right woman. And if she was worthy of being loved, why not try?

Determination grew in Mara, the same determination she’d once dedicated only to riding and mathematics.
Yes,
she told herself with a new confidence. Keira had understood—Mara had
earned
the title of Dr. Marianescu by dedication and hard, grueling work. She could
earn
Trace’s love the same way.

Starting tomorrow she would map out a plan of campaign. Starting tomorrow she would put that campaign into action. But now...just for tonight...she would let herself dream of him. She would let herself imagine what it would be like to be loved by him in every way a man could love a woman.

She needed to visualize the goal in order to achieve it, just as she’d done when she’d learned to ride. Just as she’d done when she achieved her PhD. And she desperately wanted to achieve this new goal of earning Trace’s love...because she was fast falling for him.

* * *

The next morning Mara woke early. She propped herself up against the pillows and set her mind to work planning her campaign. She briefly considered getting a complete makeover—turning herself into the glamorous woman her mother had been. She could probably do it. She knew she resembled her mother closely enough that it was possible to achieve that polished, beautiful veneer, but she discarded the idea almost immediately. If she changed herself in obvious ways, not only would she be uncomfortable with herself, she might draw unwelcome attention from others, especially the paparazzi. And besides, Trace would see it for the ploy it was. A man with a face and body like his probably had all kinds of women angling for his attention.

No, it had to be something subtle, something that would make him look at her in a new light, but in a way that wouldn’t push him behind that impenetrable barrier.
Surprise is the essence of attack.
Where had she heard that before? She needed to take Trace by surprise, to make him see her as something other than the princess he was guarding.

Mara ran a finger along her bottom lip. What was that English expression? Come up on his blind side? That was all well and good so long as she didn’t do it literally—she’d seen how fast he was at drawing his gun, and she didn’t want him to shoot her.

She chuckled, wishing she could share the joke with someone. Wishing she could share the joke with
Trace
. But that was out of the question. Then an idea occurred to her.
Perfect
, she thought. Andre had taught her the basics years ago, but no one—no one meaning Trace—knew it. Trace would be the ideal teacher. And he wouldn’t be able to say no. Not under the circumstances.

* * *

Trace stared at the princess in disbelief. “You want me to teach you how to what?”

“Shoot,” she said composedly. “I wish to learn how to protect myself.”

“That’s not necessary,” he told her bluntly. “You’ve got three federal bodyguards dancing attendance on you, not to mention the security team you brought from Zakhar.”

“Yes, but I wish to be like Keira,” she told him.

“You’re planning on walking into a bullet?”

The princess was distracted for a minute. “Is that what she did?”

“Yeah,” Trace growled. “Two years ago. No,” he corrected himself, “more than that now. Took her almost a year before she recovered full use of her right arm.”

She looked at Trace with curiosity. “But you were her partner. How is that possible?”

Trace felt himself flushing under his tan. He’d asked himself that same question at the time. And numerous times ever since. Never mind that Keira, Walker, Ryan Callahan and he had been operating as a team, and Callahan had been closest to her at the moment it had all gone down. Never mind that Keira had deliberately stepped in front of Callahan to take a bullet meant for him. She’d still been Trace’s partner then, and he’d blamed himself for not keeping a closer eye on her.

But he couldn’t tell any of that to the princess. That operation was still a closely guarded secret—and there were still trials pending. Not to mention the princess was a foreign national who did
not
have a need to know. “Long story” was all he said.

She considered him for a minute, and he was afraid she was going to ask more questions, but all she said was, “I do not wish to ‘walk into a bullet’ as you say, but I would still like to learn. If you do not think you can teach me...” she added so artlessly that Trace shot her a sharp, narrow-eyed look, suspecting she had something up her sleeve. But she met his look with one of such innocent inquiry he figured he had to be mistaken...until he got her on the shooting range.

* * *

Trace swore under his breath. This was
not
going as planned. He’d brought the princess to his favorite shooting range and made her sit through three hours of gun safety class before he ever let her step outside with a gun in her hand. Sweetly appealing in her jeans and rose-pink sweater that hugged her curves, with her hair piled with seeming carelessness atop her head in a way that let a few curls dance tantalizingly every time she moved her head, she’d listened intently to every word he said. She’d even asked questions that proved she was following what he was saying. He’d shown her different kinds of pistols, talked to her about ammunition, about rimfire versus center-fire and various calibers of bullets. He’d had her load and unload bullets into a clip, and had demonstrated how to load a clip into a pistol and chamber a round. He’d explained what a safety was, and the importance of utilizing it.

But the minute she stepped onto the range with a Smith & Wesson 22-caliber pistol it was as if he’d wasted his breath.
No one can be that incompetent with a gun,
he told himself. Either she hadn’t really been paying attention, or he was a lousy teacher.

“No, Princess, you’re holding it all wrong,” he said with a touch of exasperation. “And
never
point a gun at a man unless you intend to shoot him,” he added when she swung around in his direction. “Even if the safety’s on.” He grabbed her gun hand and forced it downrange.

She removed her headphones, letting them hang around her neck, and stared at him. “Would you have shot him?”

Trace removed his own headphones. “Shot who?”

“The man at the lake. The one who took my photograph,” she explained. “You just said I should never point a gun at a man unless I intend to shoot him.” Her face was solemn. “So would you have shot him?”

He thought about it for a moment, wondering exactly what she was asking. And why. “If that had been a gun in his hand and not a camera—yes. He would have been dead before he got off a shot. Dead before he hit the ground.”

“But it
was
a camera,” she said stubbornly. “So would you have shot him?”

He shook his head. “But I had to make him think I would. I had to scare the hell out of him so he’d give me the camera.”

“Why?”

“Because I—” He stopped, not wanting to tell her the truth, but not wanting to lie to her either. He remembered her soft cry of dismay when the shutter had clicked, and his protective instincts had kicked in.
Nothing
was going to be allowed to hurt her in any way when he was around to prevent it. No matter what he had to do.

She was still looking up at him, a question in her eyes. “Because it’s my job to protect you,” Trace said finally. And while it was the truth, it was a far cry from the whole truth.

She didn’t say anything, just nodded, as if his answer matched her expectations. She turned back to the gun range and slipped her headphones back on. “Can you not help me?” she asked again in a sweetly helpless way.

Trace sighed and positioned himself behind her for the third time, fitting his right hand around hers. “It’s not that difficult, Princess,” he told her with as much patience as he could muster. He brought her arm up with his and aimed at the target. “You just find your point of aim and shoot.”

This close to her the smell of her delicate perfume was mesmerizing, not to mention what the feel of the back of her body cuddled up against the front of him was doing to his breathing. He quickly disengaged and stepped backwards, slipping his headphones back on. “Now you try it,” he told her with a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “No, take the safety off first.”

She complied. This time she faced the target, aimed, and for the first time, fired. She didn’t hit the target, but she didn’t flinch—and that’s when the suspicion hit him. Despite the noise-canceling headphones she wore, she should have flinched at the sound and kick of the pistol she’d just fired for the first time—most newbies did. Which meant she probably wasn’t a newbie with a gun. So why was she pretending she was? Why had she dragged him out here? Why had she patiently sat through gun safety class? And why had she asked him to demonstrate by positioning her arm time and again?

Then he figured it out, and he wasn’t sure if he should swear or feel complimented. While he was still trying to decide, another question came to him. Should he tell her he knew the truth, or should he let her go on pretending, wasting both their time? She turned to him just then, looking for direction. “Again,” he told her automatically. “Keep trying until you empty the clip.”

Slowly she fired one shot after another, and by the time the clip was empty Trace realized he couldn’t tell her he knew. That expression he’d seen the first day he’d met her came back to him, the same expression he’d seen on Labor Day after he tried to set her at a distance. The patient expectation and acceptance of rejection he’d been shocked and then angry to see told him there was something going on with her he needed to handle with kid gloves.

Friday night Liam had told him he was pretty hard on the princess, and he’d been right. Maybe she was just trying to overcome what she saw as his dislike of her by getting him to see her in a different light. Or maybe she just wanted to practice her feminine wiles on someone she saw as safe. Whatever the reason, if he told her he’d seen through her little charade she’d be embarrassed. And worse, humiliated, just as she’d been on Mount Evans.
She doesn’t deserve that,
he thought protectively.

She turned to him again, her brows raised in a question. “I emptied the clip.”

Silently he reached into his pocket, pulled out the spare clip, and handed it to her. “See if you can change the clip,” he said. “Then try again. Keep trying until you hit the target at least once.”

* * *

The next evening Trace was watching
Monday Night Football
in the guest house living room with half his attention and doing the crossword puzzle with the rest when the phone rang. He muted the sound of the football game and reached for it. “McKinnon.”

“It’s Alec. I’m out here in the stables with the princess, and—”

“What the hell is she doing riding without me?”

“She’s not,” Alec assured him. “She just came out to visit her horses like she does most evenings after dinner, but there’s something wrong with Suleiman and I don’t—”

“Where’s her groom?” Trace asked sharply, then answered his own question. “It’s Monday so he’s off, damn it. Call the vet and get him out here,” Trace told him. “The number’s posted beside the phone. Do you see it?”

“Yeah.”

“Keep the princess calm, if you can. I’ll be right there.” Trace headed for the stables in a hurry.
She loves that horse,
he thought, perturbed.
If anything happens to him...