[Montacroix Royal Family Series 01] - Guarded Moments (2 page)

The words sparked an image in Caine's mind of the headline on that tabloid at the checkout stand. "Batten Down the Hatches. America Prepares for Hurricane Chantal." Hell, Caine thought darkly as comprehension dawned, after eighteen months of providing personal security for the president of the United States, he was being demoted to the role of executive baby-sitter.

"'Certain foreign governments' meaning Montacroix." Ominous storm clouds swirled in his gray eyes—a warning signal Sebring ignored.

"You always were an astute young man, Caine. As it happens, Chantal Giraudeau will be touring our country with the royal Montacroix art exhibit. My wife, who is quite an expert on such things, assures me that it's an extraordinary collection of modern European art. There are also several works by youngsters who are the beneficiaries of Chantal's favorite charity, the Rescue the Children Fund, for which she'll be seeking donations. I'm told that as a special drawing card, the exhibit also includes several works by the princess herself."

Caine wasn't surprised. The princess could probably paint like a baboon with a fistful of crayons and still get her work exhibited. Who in the hell would be brave enough to turn her down when her daddy owned not only the gallery, but the entire country, as well? "She'll be touring the country? For how long?"

"Chantal is scheduled to be here for three weeks."

"I assume she'll be accompanied by her own security force," Caine said with a studied calm he was a long way from feeling.

Sebring sighed. Caine waited.

"Chantal is a lovely young woman," the director said finally. "Unfortunately, she is also incredibly strong willed." Before he could elaborate, the disembodied voice of his secretary came over the intercom, telling him that the White House was calling. "Just one moment," he said to Caine as he picked up the receiver. "Director Sebring here…Of course I'll hold for the president."

Caine listened as his superior assured the nation's chief executive that the princess would be well protected during her tour. Then, as the topic of conversation shifted to the president's upcoming trip to Mexico—the trip Caine would not be taking—he glanced down at clippings he held. A cover photo from
People
magazine was on the top of the pile.

The photograph had been taken during a ski trip in the Montacroix Alps. Her face, surrounded by a hood of lush Russian lynx, was undeniably exquisite, possessing high, slanted cheekbones any
Vogue
model would kill for. The color of burnt sugar, her eyes were both sultry and mischievous at the same time; the teasing smile she directed at the camera was designed to turn the most stalwart of men to putty.

She was beautiful, he admitted reluctantly, recalling the old adage about pretty is as pretty does. From what he had read about Chantal Giraudeau through the years, it was obvious that the princess's beauty was only skin-deep.

As James Sebring discussed motorcade security with the president, Caine scanned the rest of the photos. There were several shots of Princess Chantal on the beach at Monaco, scantily clad in a piece of string that would have gotten her arrested in all forty-eight of the contiguous United States, along with Hawaii and Alaska. There was another of Chantal wearing a strapless, midnight-blue velvet evening gown designed to display her lush curves to advantage. Diamonds twinkled at her throat and ears, and a diamond the size of Rhode Island gleamed from the ring finger of her left hand.

There were a series of photos taken during her time on the Montacroix Olympic dressage team, seated astride a horse, a little velvet cap perched jauntily atop her sleek dark hair. It seemed this woman couldn't take a bad picture.

Of all the complimentary photographs, the one that captured his attention the longest was one of Chantal laughing merrily, her head thrown back as she frolicked through an alpine meadow, clad in a full-skirted, enticingly low-necked, flower-sprigged dress that made her look like a half-wild shepherdess. As he stared down at the photo, Caine felt a vague sexual pull. He ignored it.

"I'm sorry for the interruption," Sebring's voice cut into his thoughts. "Now, where were we?"

"I believe we were discussing the princess's strong will."

"Yes. Over the past six months, the princess has experienced an unsettling number of accidents," the director continued. "Only last week, she drove her Ferrari into a tree on the family's estate."

"Perhaps the princess ought to try driving at something less than the speed of sound," Caine suggested dryly.

"Prince Eduard believes that the brakes had been tampered with."

"Does he have any proof?" Caine asked, his interest captured.

"Only a suspicious leak in the brake fluid line. Along with the sudden disappearance of the royal mechanic."

"While it's admittedly an interesting coincidence, it certainly doesn't prove that someone made an attempt on her life," Caine felt obliged to point out.

"There are other things."

"Such as?"

"Such as a dangerous incident of some roof tiles almost striking her on the head. And a mismarked ski trail that led her out onto a glacier. If the Swiss Olympic team hadn't been in the area, she could well have frozen to death, skied off the edge of the mountain or perished in one of the area's frequent avalanches."

He handed Came another file. "Everything you need to know about the princess and her upcoming tour is in here. You'll have a week to acquaint yourself with the data before she arrives. To tell you the truth, after reading those documents regarding her recent series of accidents, I'm afraid I find myself agreeing with her father."

"It's natural for a father to worry about a daughter. Especially one as headstrong as the princess is reputed to be."

Sebring shook his head. "Many years ago, when I was a young agent, I had the privilege of being assigned to guard Prince Eduard during his frequent visits to this country. Although the prince is admittedly an emotional man, he is also highly intelligent and incisive. Chantal is in grave danger, Caine, even if she does refuse to accept that fact."

"Are you saying she won't be traveling with her own security?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"No disrespect intended, sir," Caine argued carefully, "but if she won't even accept her own security people, what makes you think she'll accept a Presidential Security agent hovering over her all the time she's in this country?"

"Therein lies the problem," the director admitted. "Chantal would hit the roof if she discovered that her father had gone against her wishes. You're just going to have to make certain she doesn't find out who you really are."

"What?" Caine was on his feet, staring down at his superior. An order was an order. Those words that had been drilled into him first by his father, then later, during his plebe year at the academy. But dammit, some orders were just downright insane. And this one had to be the craziest of the bunch.

"As you mentioned, Princess Chantal can be an extremely headstrong young woman," Sebring said. "Her father fears that if she were to learn that she were being guarded, she'd try to slip away in order to display her independence. It's a risk the prince is not prepared to take." His blue eyes turned resolute. "Nor am I."

"So how am I going to stay close to her?" Caine asked, unreasonably frustrated. "And please don't tell me that I have to become this season's fiancé."

Sebring laughed. "Don't worry, my boy, there are limits to the sacrifices you are asked to make for your country. Chantal will be told that you're a deputy under secretary of state, assigned to make her tour more comfortable. I'm also assigning Drew Tremayne to act as her driver."

Drew was also a Presidential Security agent, and Caine's best friend. Under normal circumstances he would have looked forward to working with him on a special assignment. But baby-sitting? Behind his impassive features, Caine was seething. A damned flunky, he considered grimly. Subject to a spoiled brat's every whim. This assignment was beginning to make getting shot look like a cakewalk.

"So," the director said as he pushed himself out of his black leather chair, "will you accept the assignment, Caine?"

Did he have a choice? "Of course I'll accept, sir," Caine said evenly. "With pleasure."

Rubbing his hands together as if he'd never expected any other outcome, James Sebring chuckled. "You've always been a rotten liar, Caine." Throwing a friendly arm around the younger man's shoulders, he walked him to the door.

"The Montacroix ambassador will be hosting a reception for the princess the night of her arrival in this country," he said. "Although you'll ostensibly be attending as her escort, your prime responsibility is to keep her safe."

"I'm sure everything will go smoothly, sir."

Caine was damn well going to make certain it did. Maybe the princess was accustomed to throwing her weight around in Montacroix, but this was America. Here the product of years of European royal inbreeding didn't rank one iota higher than the offspring of a naval aviator from Waco, Texas, and a Back Bay debutante turned Harvard literature professor.

"Spoken like a man who hasn't met Chantal yet." Sebring chuckled again. "By the time you finish this tour, Caine, you may have earned a second medal for your mother to hang on the living room wall."

Although Caine had always thrived on challenges, the director's parting words were somewhat unsettling. As he left the building, his thoughts were not on the appealing warmth of the sun. Nor were they on the crowds of tourists chattering excitedly in a multitude of foreign tongues as they took in the plethora of monuments and government buildings.

No, Caine's thoughts—as black and stormy as they were—were all directed toward one exotic and dangerously appealing package of trouble. Trouble that was headed his way.

Across the Atlantic, in a century-old palace, Chantal Giraudeau was engaged in a battle royal. Although she was physically weaker than her attacker, she was no less aggressive, advancing in lightning-swift lunges, retreating just in time to avoid the cold steel of her opponent's foil. A deadly silence hung over the combatants, laced with an electric excitement that was almost palpable.

Despite his size, the man's fencing style was smooth, almost graceful, and even with his face hidden behind the wire mesh of his mask, Chantal could sense his self-confidence. A confidence, she admitted furiously, he was entitled to. He wasn't even breathing hard, while her own heart was pounding a million miles a minute. Beads of perspiration glistened above her full upper lip as he deftly parried her attack without missing a beat.

She managed to parry his riposte, trying to remember to stick to the basics. No flash. No showing off. Just simple—hopefully deceptive—plays that might lull her attacker into a false sense of security. Changing the mood, she began relying more heavily on defense: retreating, forcing him to close the gap. Slowing the pace allowed her to get a much-needed second wind.

"It isn't going to work, you know," the man chided from behind his mask.

Chantal retreated as he moved forward in a lazy, supremely confident offense. "What?"

"Attempting to throw me off by changing tactics. You forget—I know you. Perhaps better than you know yourself. You're not the type of woman to resort to purely defensive measures for very long." There was a sudden clash of metal as his blade found hers.

Damning him for being right, Chantal struggled to ignore his softly spoken words. "I hadn't realized I was so predictable," she snapped, parrying quickly, determined to prevent him from claiming victory.

He laughed at that. A deep, rich laugh, thick with an easy masculine arrogance she found even more infuriating than his accusation. "More so than you like the world to believe,
ma chère
."

Her stamina was fading. Chantal knew that if she was to win, she would have to make her move soon. Other-wise, his superior strength and speed would prove her downfall. Although it took an effort, she refused to allow him to draw her into a verbal battle, saving her energies for the field of combat.

She knew that by continuing her defensive measures, there was a chance her opponent would make a mistake. Even the most skilled fencers were capable of misjudging distance or underestimating their opponent. But this was not a man who made mistakes, nor was he apt to underestimate anyone. Especially not her; of all the men who had passed through her life, this man had remained. As he had maddeningly pointed out, he knew her well.

Putting aside her careful techniques, Chantal suddenly went on the attack, lunging toward him with a flash of gleaming steel, the tip of her foil headed toward his chest. Taken by surprise, he could not muster a defense, and the hit landed unanswered against his white jacket.

"Witch," he said, pulling off his mask in order to shoot her a mock glare.

As Chantal took off her own mask, she realized that her head was drenched. Damn. She'd have to wash her hair again before the bon voyage party at the royal gallery. "You're just angry because I finally beat you," she pointed out with a saucy grin, and at that moment she was worlds away from the pouty, sex-kitten teenager who had threatened to set European movie screens on fire.

"You cheated."

"I did not." She tossed her damp hair over her shoulder. "Admit it, Burke. I outsmarted you."