The Makeover Mission (12 page)

Now she wanted him to allow her to be accessible while keeping her
safe. Impossible. It wouldn't work. There was no way.

So why couldn't he ignore the way she'd looked when she'd reached
for that bloody wilted flower? There was a softness about her face, a smile in
her eyes, the kind of look that the children automatically responded to and
that made grown men want to slay dragons. Or do whatever was within their power
to see that look again. Even if it meant twice as much work for his men and
thrice as much for him.

"Damn," he uttered the word aloud, but softly and
without heat. She looked so relaxed at last that he hated to disturb her. He
was glad someone could relax because it sure as hell wouldn't be him or his
team. Not until they got one stubborn, independent-minded woman who looked soft
as fluff and smelled like sin, out of Vendari and back to where she belonged.

Trains on one-way tracks were hard to change. But research
librarians did not give up if they didn't find what they wanted in the first
place they looked.

"You're treating me like a subordinate. Again." She
opened her eyes, glad to see the signs of strain on his face lessening. "Isn't
there a way we can compromise?"

"I won't compromise with your life."

She told herself he'd say the same thing, feel the same way with
any of his responsibilities, but that didn't seem to stop the warmth spreading
through her at his words.

She closed her eyes again, feeling the emotional drain of the last
few hours. "I have great faith in your ability to find a solution to our
dilemma, Major."

He made a sound that might have been a snort. His tone was dry as
he remarked, "Now you have faith in me?"

"Of course." She couldn't help the yawn. "The king
said you fixed problems. This is your area of expertise."

Lucius didn't know if he wanted to lose his legendary sense of
control, or applaud the woman before him for neatly boxing him into a corner, a
very tight corner.

She sat before him, her eyes closed, creating half moons of dark
lashes against her satin skin, her breathing even and deep, while he churned
inside like an ocean beneath a typhoon's wind.

Part of it was residual fear. The minute she'd broken pattern and
approached the crowd he'd aged ten years. Logically he knew she didn't have a
clue what she was up against. Why should she? Librarians from the midwest
didn't have to fear crowds and the threats so easily hidden in their midst. But
logic had nothing to do with the riot of emotions erupting within him when
she'd made her instinctive move toward the small child.

He'd heard it in her voice. That need to make another feel good,
to make sure they were acknowledged, that their gesture did not go unrecognized.
It was a move worthy of a country's ruler, and Tarkioff would be blessed if he
had such a mate at his side.

That was part of the problem. She was
not
Elena Rostov. Her
role was
not
to make the future queen beloved by the people, it was to
make sure there was going to be a future queen. And to do that she needed to
stay alive. He had to make sure she stayed alive.

But there was more than that, and he knew it. Not that he liked
accepting it, his job was challenging enough without emotions clouding issues,
but damn if he was going to let her get hurt—at all—in this mission. She'd had
no choice but to be a part, and he couldn't go back and fix that, though in his
final report he was going to make darn good and sure heads would roll because
of it. But he could do everything in his power to make sure she came out in one
piece. If she let him do his job.

Now she wanted him to allow her to be accessible while keeping her
safe. Impossible. It wouldn't work. There was no way.

So why couldn't he ignore the way she'd looked when she'd reached
for that bloody wilted flower? There was a softness about her face, a smile in
her eyes, the kind of look that the children automatically responded to and
that made grown men want to slay dragons. Or do whatever was within their power
to see that look again. Even if it meant twice as much work for his men and
thrice as much for him.

"Damn," he uttered the word aloud, but softly and
without heat. She looked so relaxed at last that he hated to disturb her. He
was glad someone could relax because it sure as hell wouldn't be him or his
team. Not until they got one stubborn, independent-minded woman who looked soft
as fluff and smelled like sin, out of Vendari and back to where she belonged.

Punching in the number of his second-in-command on his cell phone
he wondered if she had raised this much trouble in the library.

Jane opened her eyes slowly, aware that the limo had stopped, but
not sure why or where she was. The feeling increased as she glanced across to
the opposite seat, her gaze locking with McConneghy's.

Maybe she felt so disoriented because she'd fallen asleep in front
of him—a move that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. It was an
instinctive response, an age-old one, a silent admission that she'd been
willing to let her guard down, had been helpless while he was there, just
across the car, watching her while she'd been unaware.

She couldn't believe she'd done that. Or that it implied a measure
of trust and sense of security she wasn't aware she possessed around him. He'd
said he'd protect her, but that was his job and she accepted it as that—nothing
more. She knew instinctively that around a man like him, a woman's best defense
was constant wariness. And she'd dozed off like a lamb with a wolf on guard.

"Where are we?" she asked, sitting up straighter,
wishing there was more of her skirt to pull over her knees.

"We're at the Ministry of Industry and Commerce. You're
expected inside in a few minutes."

"I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep."

"You needed it." He sounded so cool, so controlled, she
must have dreamed their earlier argument, the emotions reflected in his face.
The man before her would never have unwittingly exposed so much of his soul.

"Do you want a glass of juice or something before we head
inside?" he asked.

She glanced at the small bar to one side of where they sat.
"No, nothing."

He sat still, his gaze steady, his posture relaxed, but she wasn't
fooled for a moment. There was a lot going on behind those gray eyes.

She glanced out the window, still feeling disoriented. "I've
forgotten who I'm supposed to be meeting." It wasn't quite true, but as
long as they were discussing logistics she could have a few minutes to regain
her sense of composure, what little she ever had around this man.

"It's a consortium of agricultural interests, farmers, land
policy makers, mining interests."

"A few tree huggers?" She didn't know why she asked, but
was secretly thrilled when he smiled, even if it looked a little tired and
haggard. It happened so rarely.

"Tree-huggers only exist in a climate of free speech and
civil liberties."

How could she have forgotten so soon? A country scarred by
back-to-back attempted coups was still a child struggling with ideas and
concepts she had always taken for granted.

She brushed a strand of hair from her face, aware of McConneghy's
gaze following her movement, sensitive to the conflicting feelings it aroused.
"I'm supposed to smile and wave again?"

"Yes. Though it'll be a smaller group, more smiling, less
waving."

"Got it." She swallowed, surprised to find she wasn't as
frightened this time as she had been earlier. She'd done this once already and
McConneghy had been there the whole time, at her side, lending her silent
support when she needed it most.

"Ready?" he asked, the expression in his eyes telling
her they'd wait where they were, in the safety and obscurity of the car, for as
long as she needed.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

"Good. I'll lead. You'll follow."

That she could do. And he didn't think she could take orders.

A little over two hours later she found she'd survived. More than
that, she'd
actually enjoyed herself. That and the fact that, at the
very end, when she was getting her hand squeezed by a number of dignitaries who
all looked alike, McConneghy had taken her aside, gesturing to a line of
ordinary-looking people waiting to meet her.

"A compromise?" she asked, touched that he'd actually
listened, and maybe even understood, a little.

"A compromise." He nodded toward where a half dozen men
stood, controlling the line by the positioning of their bodies. "Watch
them. They're here to protect you."

Risking themselves, she realized, even as she stepped forward to
accept the first handshake from a man who looked as if he'd spent every day
toiling in the fields, his skin weathered, his hands roughened by calluses. One
after another they came, their smiles tentative, their manner wary. And yet
they came, judging her silently. Not her, but their future queen, Jane thought,
greeting them all, until her hand felt like putty and her legs quaked.

It was McConneghy who came to her rescue. Again.

"Time to go," he murmured as she smiled into the face of
a woman who must have been a hundred if she was a day.

"Did I meet everyone on Vendari?" she asked as he
escorted her out of the hall and into the blazing afternoon sun.

He gave her a skeptical glance as he opened the limo door.
"Rethinking your position?"

"No." She laughed, surprised at how good it felt to sink
into the leather seats. "Not at all. I just hadn't realized how much work
is involved in shaking hands. I always thought dignitaries and movie stars were
spoiled and lazy."

"And now?" He'd opened a bottle of orange juice, poured
it into a crystal glass and handed it to her; its taste was ambrosia on her
tongue.

"And now I take back every petty, envious, unjustified
thought I had about them."

"You did a good job back there."

The words both surprised her and pleased her, she realized,
shoving away the feeling that it was much like being a child seeking approval.
A feeling she knew only too well. Instead she changed the subject.

"Thank you for making it possible for me to meet those
people."

This time he was the one who looked surprised.

"You mean for Elena to meet them."

She knew the smile on her face wavered, but she kept it there, even
as she turned her gaze away. It was silly that his words should hurt,
especially following a compliment she knew was sincere. But they did. It was as
though he was reminding her she was a fake. None of this was real and she was
only doing a job.

"You never told me how long I'd be here," she found
herself remarking, knowing she'd meant to ask the question earlier, surprised
at the conflicting feelings it aroused in her. On the one hand she'd be able to
get back to her real life, the one where she belonged, not walking around in
silks and pretending she was somebody important. On the other hand it would
mean never seeing Lucius McConneghy again, a man, who by all rights, she should
despise. But the anger wouldn't come, nor the bitterness. No matter how hard
she tried.

"The wedding is back on schedule. It will happen three weeks
from yesterday."

"Three weeks?" The words came out as a squeak. "I'm
supposed to keep this up for three weeks?"

"You've had no problem with it so far."

"It's been one day." She knew she sounded slightly
hysterical. She felt that, but darn if she could pinpoint exactly why.
"There's no way I can fool Elena's real family for long and they're bound
to show up here sooner or later."

"I told you when we first arrived, it's being taken care
of."

"How?"

"Pavlov Rostov is having some difficulty with his overseas
investments. They're requiring him to handle them personally."

"Oh." What more could she say? If she'd had doubts about
the power behind the obscure government agency he worked for before, there were
none now. "You can manipulate something like that?"

One of his brows arched. "I'd prefer another term than
manipulate."

"You know what I mean. Why do you bother with this elaborate
hoax? Why don't you just dictate to Tarkioff and Rostov what they will and
won't do and be done with it?"

"We don't work that way." He gave her a long,
all-too-seeing look. "We've also sidestepped the real issue here."

She felt like a petulant, unreasonable child being called to task.
"The real issue is that three weeks is too long. I can't possibly not make
a mistake in that time."

"That's a double negative."

She wanted to toss her juice over his head. "That's reality.
There's no way I can go on pretending I'm somebody I'm not for three
weeks."

"You're doing fine so far."

"You're not listening to me." She wondered if he was
taught obstinacy or if it just came naturally. "We're talking about three
weeks of dinners, and functions and…" She waved her free hand, "…and
things."