The Makeover Mission

He could have sworn she looked relieved at the news.

“Will I have to…to interact with him much?”

“You are his fiancée.”

“I’m a hostage pretending that I’m a political pawn entering a loveless marriage,” she threw back, blowing a stream of air that made the midnight-black strands of hair dance around her face. “I just want to know how far I’m going to have to take this farce.”

“No, you will not be expected to sleep with the king if that is what you’re asking, Ms. Richards.” Now it was his turn to sound prissy and her look told him as much.

She released the breath she’d obviously been holding.

“We don’t know the principals behind the last attempt on Ms. Rostov’s life and, until we do, we have to assume any number of individuals close to the king may be involved.”

“But you do have some suspects?”

Too many to count, he silently acknowledged, including some bad customers he’d tangled with in the past. But that was his problem, not hers.

“There are suspects.” Instead of replying with specifics he nodded his head, scanning a sheaf of papers he had extracted from a file. “You’ll want to be on your guard. At all times. Trust no one. No one. Am I clear?”

When she didn’t answer immediately he raised his head, catching the speculative look in her dark eyes.

“Is there a problem?”

She shrugged and looked away. “I’m assuming that includes trusting you.”

“Especially me.”

He let his words hover between them, laser-sharp and lethal. There was no point in pretending otherwise. There was too much at risk for both of them.

He watched her swallow, hard, before she pasted a shaky smile on her lips and leaned forward. “I’ll keep your advice uppermost in mind.”

He could like her at that moment. Admit, if only to himself, he admired the flashes of fire she probably wasn’t even aware she possessed. But there was no room for such thoughts or feelings.

Instead he glanced at the papers and continued as if the last seconds hadn’t occurred. “Elena Rostov is the only daughter of Pavlov Rostov. Her mother died when she was still a baby and she’s been raised almost exclusively in Switzerland.”

“Will her family know I’m impersonating her?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Surely you can’t believe her family wants her killed?”

“We can’t take that chance. It’s a known fact that Pavlov Rostov would gain a lot of sympathy if his daughter is killed.”

“But—”

He rose to his feet. “Have no doubt about the matter, Ms. Richards. We have taken care to protect you from coming too close to the Rostov family. As for others, make no mistake, there are a lot of individuals who would benefit by Ms. Rostov’s death.”

“You mean my death.” She looked at him then, her gaze holding him as effectively as any set of restraints. “I think you’ve been honest, at least as honest as you think you can be. Let’s not pretty up the picture at this point.”

“All right.” He set down the file he’d been clutching. “You’re in a very precarious position.”

He thought she mumbled something about an understatement but couldn’t be sure.

“It’s my job to make sure you’re safe and I’m very good at my job.” He wished she didn’t look quite so skeptical at his statement. “I’m going to be right at your side as much as possible while you’re in Vendari. If there’s an attempt on your life, they’ll have to go through me to do it.”

When she gave no response, not that there was a need for one, he glanced behind her shoulders and caught sight of the granite-studded mountains of Vendari out the plane windows.

Their time was up. Ready or not.

“Buckle up, Ms. Richards. We’ll be in Dubruchek in a few moments.” He heard the command in his tone and wished it could be otherwise. But wishes wouldn’t keep Jane Richards alive.

Chapter 3

Jane’s hands shook as she buckled her seat belt. How was she possibly going to get through this? Nothing in her life had prepared her for international politics, mysterious missions or heroics. Especially heroics.

She came from the heartland of America, the backbone, not the front lines. She could get through her monthly grant-writing workshop, giving a little talk that would have her sweating and wishing for oblivion. And once she’d given the welcoming speech for a visiting library dignitary, which had her stomach in knots for weeks.

Now this total stranger, of wary glances and few words, wanted her to impersonate someone who, judging by her taste in clothes alone, was more sophisticated than Jane could ever hope to be.

As if he read her thoughts, or the panic she felt welling from her very toes, the major glanced her way.

“Breathe,” he ordered, as if that alone would make a difference. “The temperature in Dubruchek should be around eighty degrees.”

She didn’t need a tour guide. She needed a miracle. But his gaze on her remained calm, his voice low and level.

“The country is land-locked by mountains, keeping it cool in the summer months. Many think it resembles Switzerland.”

Great, she was going to die in paradise. Was she supposed to take consolation in that?

“Because of the mountains, and except for Dubruchek and the smaller city of Dracula, most of the locals live in small farming villages.”

“Dracula?”

He shrugged as if he didn’t hear the terror in her single word. “It was a poor choice I agree, but the town’s founders were told it was a well-known name in English literature.”

“I guess it could have been worse. Something like Frankenstein definitely would have kept away tourist dollars.”

“Most likely.” He offered her a crooked smile that softened the harshness of his face. Making it charming, almost, though she didn’t think he’d be flattered by the observation. But it was a smile.

A first, she realized, surprised to find that something as small as that was helping. The panic was still there, but so was something else. Not camaraderie, exactly. Major McConneghy didn’t look like the type to indulge in camaraderie. A knowledge that she wasn’t going alone into the unknown. Unwilling, maybe, but not alone.

“We’re here.”

She felt the thud of wheels hit the tarmac, heard the whine of engines reversing themselves.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

He paused in the act of unbuckling, his movements economical, unhurried. Nothing like what she was feeling, fear freezing everything.