The Makeover Mission

“Yes.”

“She was hurt?”

“No. But it has caused her great distress. I have been told she is under a doctor’s care.”

“So the wedding is postponed?”

“No. It will go on. We’re working on the logistics now.”

She just bet he was. But before she could press the point he moved to the opposite chair and said, “The plane will be landing soon. There are some clothes in the back room. All are appropriate to what Elena would wear, and, as you’re the same size, should fit you without a problem.”

Jane bit her lip, wondering what would have happened if she’d chosen option B. Would this man have stripped her from her serviceable cotton skirt and oxford blouse, something very appropriate for midsummer in Sioux Falls, but obviously out of place in Vendari? She didn’t want to think such thoughts, nor feel the flash of heat warming her cheeks.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No. No, nothing.” Leave it to Mister in Charge to see her blush. She turned to glance at him, catching the wariness in his gaze. “But wearing the proper clothes is not going to turn me into a king’s fiancée.”

For a moment she thought she saw the glimmer of a smile, quickly banked. “No, but it’s not going to hurt. Why don’t you change now? Then I’ll give you some background on Elena.”

Like an automaton, she rose, surprised her legs didn’t buckle beneath her. Her stomach felt as if she’d been riding tilt-a-whirls all morning and the headache Gray-eyes had alluded to earlier was all but bringing tears to her eyes.

Yet, in spite of, or maybe because of, feeling the major’s gaze monitoring her every move, she marched toward the door he indicated, her head held high, her posture rigid. She might feel like a rag doll without its stuffing but it’d be a cold day in July before she’d let him know it.

Lucius waited until she crossed into the bedroom before he let out the breath of air backed up in his lungs. He had to give Jane Richards credit; she was showing a degree of determination and bravery he rarely saw except in battle-seasoned troops.

For a second there he’d thought she was going to cave. She looked whiter than the clouds out the far windows, and about as steady as quicksand. But she’d pulled herself together, never indicating by as much as a peep that she needed or wanted help. Yeah, the woman had guts.

Brains and nerve, it was a powerful combination as far as he was concerned. In another woman, at another time, he’d be mighty drawn to such attributes. But he couldn’t here. Here he had a mission to accomplish and, if it went anything like it had gone so far, he was going to have his hands full keeping Jane Richards alive.

Not that he wanted her to know that. She had enough to deal with, and more to come. With a pang of conscience he couldn’t afford, he wondered: If she had really known what she was up against, would she have chosen to be drugged and unaware?

“How does this look?”

He hadn’t heard the door behind him open, an unusual occurrence that clued him into how deep his thoughts had been. But when he turned he found himself pausing, amending his earlier assessment. This woman not only had brains and guts, she had beauty, too.

A strapless, ruby-red sundress cupped and molded curves he’d never guessed lay hidden beneath the librarian’s plain garb. She’d let her hair fall loose, undone from the pins holding it back earlier, creating a waterfall of darkness against her pale shoulders. A waterfall a man could ache to run his fingers through.

Any other man except him. He had a job to do. End of story.

Yet this double-punch-to-the-solar-plexus kind of beauty wasn’t going to make his job one iota easier.

“Well?” She fanned the skirt away from her. Its color only served to highlight the combination of sultry beauty and innocence that looked nothing like Elena Rostov. Nothing at all.

“Do I look enough like her to pass?”

“You’ll do.” He heard the dryness of his response, hoped he alone understood its curtness before he saw the quick flash of emotion in her eyes as she lowered her gaze.

“There’s a blue dress that might work better—”

“I said you’ll do.”

He was acting like an idiot, a rude idiot, but he was finding it hard to recover his sense of equilibrium. Damn hard.

“Sit down.” He waited until she complied, her shoulders a little more slumped than even seconds ago, and called himself a fool. She needed his support, not the sharp edge of a temper.

“The dress looks very nice on you.”

As far as compliments went the words didn’t seem like a lot. But he noted that her hands stopped pleating the skirt between her fingers and stilled. Her eyebrows arched, as if he’d taken her by surprise. A clue that he’d come across like a real jerk before if it took so little to reassure her.

“Tell me about Elena.” She spoke first, saving him from wondering where to start. “Won’t my speaking English be a problem?”

“No, English is widely spoken throughout Vendari. That and the fact the king insists on bringing Vendari into the new century. He requires English to be the primary language spoken. Having been raised in a boarding school in Switzerland, Elena’s two most fluent languages are English and French.”

“But the general population? What if someone asks me something in their native language? Won’t they expect me to respond?”

“No. It’s widely known that Elena does not speak any of the three local dialects. She has, on numerous occasions, let it be known that she believes clinging to the old customs is barbaric. English is the only language she will respond to. She follows the king’s lead on this issue.”

“Well, good. At least the part about the language. But it sounds like she didn’t grow up in Vendari.”

“No, she didn’t. She left the country before her fifth birthday, coming back only for short visits.”

“How old is she?”

“She turned twenty-three two months ago.”

“So she’s a year younger than I am.”

“Yes.”

“And how does she feel about this marriage?” He thought he detected a note of compassion in her voice. “Surely she can’t know the king well if she has hardly been in Vendari?”

“If you’re asking if this is a love match, it isn’t.”

“Oh.” Did she have to sound wistful?

“Ms. Rostov knows exactly what she’s getting out of the deal, so don’t waste any pity there.”

Her eyebrows arched again, making him feel like someone who routinely stole candy from children.

“We don’t have much time and a lot to cover,” he said.

“Of course.” Damn, if she didn’t sound like a prissy librarian catching him chewing gum behind the stacks. He resisted the urge to squirm. Barely.

“We’ll be landing at Dubruchek’s only airport where one of the king’s limos will pick us up.”

“Will the king be there?”

“No. He’s involved in a series of high-level meetings that will occupy most of his time for the next couple of days.”