by Mary Buckham
Ex-Ambassador’s Daughter Marries Man Of Mystery.
CIA-Head Daughter Wed To Man With Dubious Past.
Socialite Says I Do In Private Affair—Family Absent.
Vaughn’s private hope—that a hotshot celebrity breaking up with hubby number whatever would push all other news to a back page—was not realized. In fact, judging by the scope and sheer number of headlines, Vaughn suspected Ling Mai had asked everyone who could string a sentence together to write a juicy tidbit about the surprise wedding.
So much for being invisible. And to think she’d wanted to become an agent to quietly go about making a difference.
What a joke. Too bad she couldn’t laugh at the absurdity of it all. Even now, sitting here with the warm afternoon sun spilling over the umbrella-shaded table, Vaughn battled the cold dread tightening her stomach.
The click of a Nikon not far away made her cringe and Stone frown. He grumbled beneath his breath. “At least in India we won’t be front-page gossip.”
As if paparazzi only hung out in New York. They should be so lucky. No point in stating the obvious, or at least the obvious to someone from her background.
Speaking of which, what was her family going to say?
That was the million-dollar question roping her stomach into Gordian knots, while even now a smile remained plastered on her face, her mimosa untouched.
In spite of the last-minute notice, Vaughn had managed to snag a vintage Prada oyster-and-sage floor-length gown to wear with a pair of antique diamond and jade earrings from her aunt Francine. Once news of the nuptials got out, no doubt it’d be the last Vaughn heard from anyone in her family. Tacky, tasteless and inappropriate would be the headlines, according to Vaughn’s mother.
And Vaughn couldn’t blame her. Not when her mother could not be told the truth behind the wedding-with-a-total-stranger scenario.
“You look worried.” It was Stone across from her, startling Vaughn out of her musings.
“Not at all.” She grabbed her tall glass and held it as if it were the last lifeline thrown from the Titanic. “Not worried.” She smoothed a strand of hair back into her loose chignon, aware that her hand trembled slightly. “Just surprised that we need to go to these lengths. Couldn’t a fake marriage certificate have worked just as well?”
“Not for the daughter of a former ambassador and the current CIA director. Your Russian friend would wonder why there had been no notice of your wedding in the press and would have suspected something was not as it should be.”
He was right, as usual, but that didn’t make Vaughn any less apprehensive. Becoming an undercover operative was one thing; getting married, even if it wasn’t for real, was another. Especially when the guy she was getting hitched to was M. T. Stone, looking calm, controlled and sexy as hell as he lounged in the wire chair across from her.
And getting married in a very, very public glare put her front and center back into the world she’d been trying so hard to leave behind.
Another camera clicked. Her smile remained cemented in place.
“There is still time to turn back.” Stone’s words whispered against her while the blare of New York cabs and street voices bustled past.
“No.” Vaughn shook her head, unsure of so much except this: she was committed to her new life, to her new calling, and if marrying M. T. Stone was the price she paid, then she’d pay it, eyes wide open. “I’m fine with this.”
“Relax.” Stone slid one hand along the table, covering hers with his. It took every ounce of her willpower not to jump, for more than one reason. But any lingering paparazzi, and there were a few, would have a field day with the intimacy. She could already hear the cameras shifting into hyperdrive. “I’m not the enemy here.”
Yeah, right, like she was about to believe that statement for even a heartbeat.
If Stone guessed her thoughts, he ignored them. He scooted his chair toward her in a gesture that, coming from another, might have been protective, shielding her from the press and stares of the other diners closest to them.
“My first mission I shook like a rabbit caught in headlights,” he said, sipping from his own glass of champagne, his gaze locked with hers over the rim.
What was he up to now? Another test?
“You being nice, Stone?” She was sure only he could hear her words. “Because if you are, don’t bother. I don’t need it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m not scared and I’m not backing down.” She raised her chin a notch.
“Never expected you to.” He actually gave her a grin, a sexy, lopsided grin scrambling a few nerve endings. No doubt because she had sipped more champagne and orange juice than she should have on an empty stomach. One sip being too many with that kind of smile.
“What are you up to, Stone?” Men with potent smiles should have warning labels tattooed on them.
He raised one hand, lightly brushing the pad of his thumb ever so gently against her cheekbone, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Have I told you that you look beautiful today?”
Had she heard him right, or had he lost it? Or had she stepped into the rabbit’s hole for wanting to believe his words, the dark depths of his eyes?
Fortunately her cell phone rang, saving her from some totally inappropriate response.
She cleared her throat before answering, “Hello?”
“Vaughn.” Her father’s voice slapped against her. Everything in the restaurant and the street nearby receded, even Stone, sitting so close his sleeve brushed her bare arm.
“Hello, Father.”
Maybe it was her imagination, but Stone stiffened at her side and moved closer. Or maybe it was only herself, bracing for what would come next.
“Tell me it isn’t true.”
“You’ll need to be more specific—”
“Enough, Vaughn. This wedding. I just heard, through official channels.”
“Oh, that.” She glanced at Stone, but didn’t really see him, only the expanse of his white shirt against a broad chest. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is true.”
“Of all the—”
“Shall I give your congratulations to Stone, Father? He’s sitting right here.”
No point in only one of them being mauled to death, but of course her father wouldn’t take the bait.
“What am I going to tell your mother?”
Vaughn sucked in a lungful of New York air. “I’ll explain everything to Mother later. When I can.”
“That’s not good enough and you know it.”
Salt poured into a wound.
Of all the people on the face of the planet, Vaughn expected a modicum of understanding from her father. But why should she have expected it now, when he had never understood her needs before? Still, her heart squeezed.
“Father.” She used her most level voice, the one her mother had taught her in many a social drawing room. “This is not the best time to discuss this.”
Not with an unsecured cell line and Stone breathing down her neck, no doubt waiting for any chink in her control.
“I am coming up there.” Her father’s voice told her it was not negotiable.
“I won’t be here.”
“What!”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. On my honeymoon.”
Listen to me, Dad. Listen to what I can’t say. You know what I’m doing, who I’m now working for. Please understand.
“I’m putting an end to this. Immediately.” He hung up before she could reply.
She turned to Stone, every motion awkward and stiff. “You’d better tell Ling Mai to expect a call. Or worse.”
“The old man not happy with his new son-in-law?”
Was he making a joke? At a time like this, when she was crumbling by the second? No wonder he confused her. But hadn’t he also been the one who’d taught the recruits to use whatever weapon was at hand?
Vaughn took another breath, this one to slow her pulse and order her thoughts. “My father could cause problems.”
<
br /> There. She’d handed Stone a weapon if he chose to use it. What better excuse to pull a new operative than the fact that her very presence in an operation could create a backlash against the Agency.
“Ling Mai can handle herself.” He acted as if they were discussing a speed bump instead of a train wreck.
“But—”
“We have enough to deal with, Monroe. Don’t invite trouble.”
Oh, that was choice, spoken by Mega Trouble Stone, telling her to calm down. She didn’t know if she wanted to thank him or sling her mimosa at him. And wouldn’t that scene make a good photo op for the press.
He grinned again, as if understanding her every thought, an intimate, conspiratorial grin that had her realizing how very dangerous this man was to her, as an enemy, or as a friend.
“You never told me how you met this Russian,” he said, throwing her for another loop.
“You never asked.”
“I’m asking now.”
“Fine.” What could it hurt? “I was at a festival in Denmark one October a few years back.”
“The Sex Festival in Copenhagen?”
Of course Stone would know about that particular festival. “Matter of fact, it was.”
“I hear that can get pretty rowdy.”
Understatement. She shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”
“And you met Golumokoff there? Interesting?”
“It wasn’t like that.” Exactly. “I met him in a nightclub, with a whole group of people.”
“And?”
“And, after the club closed, this group was heading out to another club.” She paused.
“What happened?”
Only because his voice no longer sounded accusing could she continue. “And one of the guys didn’t want to take no for an answer. So I headed back to my hotel. Alone.”
He said nothing, so she plowed forward, rubbing the condensation on the glass back and forth. “Except this creep decided to follow me. I thought it’d be fine. The hotel wasn’t far, it was in the middle of Copenhagen. Lots of people around.”
“But?”
“But he caught me by surprise and decided to get rough.”
The rough shove to the pavement. A hand squeezing her throat. The world graying.
“Was the guy Golumokoff?”
“No. Blade noticed the guy following me and tagged along behind him.” She leaned closer to Stone so he would understand. “If it wasn’t for Blade, I doubt I’d be here.”
“So you feel you owe him.”
“I do owe him.”
He looked as if he were about to say something more but Jayleen, Alex and Mandy joined them. Instead, he leaned forward and whispered, “Plane leaves for India in a few hours. Don’t be late.”
Then he rose and strode away, in that arrogant, cocky walk of his that said he’d had the last word.
“You’re looking pretty intense.” Alex slid into a chair at her side. “What are you thinking?”
“Of all the ways one could kill Stone.”
Alex gulped back a laugh. “If the man I just married had a butt that cute in tight pants, it wouldn’t be murder I had on my mind.”
“The marriage is a fake,” Vaughn reminded her.
“Yeah.” Alex shrugged. “But the honeymoon doesn’t have to be.”
“So do not go there.”
“But—”
“I think Vaughn has a few more issues to worry about.” Jayleen’s voice overrode Alex’s, her face serious.
Great. One more battle in a day already chock-full of them.
“You have something to say?” Vaughn asked. “If so, spit it out.”
“Fine.” The woman slapped a card down on the table in front of Vaughn.
Vaughn said nothing, even as Alex sucked in her breath.
“That doesn’t look so good,” Alex said.
Even a ninny would recognize this card. The one with a grinning skeleton staring from the center of a field of fiery flowers.
“If this is supposed to be a joke, Jayleen, it’s not funny.”
Vaughn moved to stand, but Jayleen’s hand to her wrist halted her.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she said.
Alex nudged Mandy. “Hey, we’ve got to get going. See you all at the plane.” She cast an anxious glance at Vaughn before adding, “Don’t worry, we’re here to back you.”
Then she and the new girl disappeared. Smart women.
“You’ve got something to say, Jayleen, say it. But this crap about death cards is not appreciated.”
“The card is about profound change, which, if resisted, may be painful.”
“Nice.”
“I mean it. The cards are only meant to give fair warning. Old patterns must be destroyed, released in order to make room for the new.”
“Great. I’ll remember that, now if you don’t mind—”
“Look, Vaughn, there ain’t a lot of love lost between us and we both know it.”
“Your point?”
“My point is, you’re about to face your greatest fears, and they can do one of two things. Make you stronger…”
“Or?”
“Or destroy you.”
Chapter 9
India—bleating animals wandering the streets, car horns blaring, dust mingling with masses of people, wrapping one in a blanket both suffocating and irritating. The monsoons had not yet broken the dry heat; an air of expectancy choked human and animal alike.
Even the Hotel Taj was not immune, though it was one of the nicest of the older hotels in Simla’s stately mall area, a haven of postcolonial British-looking homes and shops. Another contrast in a country of contrasts. Vaughn wondered how Ling Mai had arranged for rooms, since they were usually booked for months ahead of time as city dwellers and travelers headed north to find relief until the rains arrived.
Inside the Taj’s marble hallways, one could forget, for a few moments, the echo of humanity on the other side of its intricately carved doors. The odors of jasmine planted around the open verandah, the dark aroma of teak furniture and sweat—the bellboys, hotel help and her own travel-creased wear—smacked Vaughn in the face.
She’d actually missed this part of the world.
Everyone looked rumpled and on edge, typical right before the dry season ended and the blessed wet arrived. More suicides and murders occurred at this time of year than any other as nerves stretched to the breaking point, testing the patience of even the most determined of Hindu saints.
And then there was Stone.
Vaughn stood away from the reception desk, her whole attention fixed on him, looking cool and controlled as usual, registering the two of them into the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Stone. He looked like a world traveler, in khaki pants and a lightweight Armani jacket that on someone else would have been wrinkled. It made him even more eye-catching—sexy, urbane James Bond in action.
They’d traveled straight through from New York, awake twenty-three hours and counting. Right now, all Vaughn wanted was a soft bed and blessed oblivion. Or even a few minutes away from Stone’s hawklike gaze. The man missed nothing, which might have reassured her if it were someone else, but with him it was like waiting for a chopping blade to strike.
But she wasn’t here to sleep, nor to wait for Stone to act; she was quite capable of acting herself.
With a small wave, she signaled to a bellhop with almond-shaped eyes and thick, dark eyelashes to die for.
“Yes, Missy?” he asked, his voice wavering between adolescent and adult.
She fingered a handful of five rupee coins as she leaned close. “Is there a Mister Golumokoff in the hotel?” At the boy’s puzzled expression, she tried again. “A Russian, so tall.” She held her hand a good foot above her own head. “Big shoulders. Yellow hair. Big men always near him.”
“Oh, yes, Missy. Man is here.”
She squeezed a little more information from the boy before she slipped the coins into his hands.
Right then, her cell phon
e buzzed. She looked at the incoming number and debated answering, but obligation won out.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Vaughn? Vaughn, is that you?”
You tell me, you’re the one calling. Vaughn sighed. Manners, Vaughn. Mind your manners. She forced a smile on her face, if not her tone. “Yes, Mother, it’s me.”
“Tell me you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not like this. Not after all—”
“Mother, the connection is bad.” Vaughn scraped her nails across the speaker.
“You just couldn’t,” her mother continued, a female Sherman tank on the roll. “Chrissie told me to expect something like this.”
What were sisters for?
“But I never believed that—”
Vaughn counted to seven, knowing by ten either the health card or the friends card would be brought to bear.
“I can’t imagine how we’ll tell our friends.”
So health would be saved for a bigger issue.
“Mother, Mother, can you hear me?” The quickest way to stop her mother was to use her own trump cards. “Mother, ask Father.”
“—down at the club. What?”
“You heard me, ask Father.”
“About what?”
Vaughn glanced up as Stone started to approach. “Father knows what’s happening.”
“But he never—”
“Ciao, Mother. Love to Grams. Hugs to Chrissie.” Who, no doubt, was standing in the background gloating over screwup Vaughn earning another black mark.
“But, Vaughn, you can’t.”
“Talk to Father. Bye.” She clicked her phone shut with enough force to snap the rhinestone-studded clamshell in two.
“Problem?” Stone asked, returning to her side.
“Of course not.”
“Vaughn?” He simply stood there looking at her with those dark eyes carefully blanked, close enough to telegraph intimacy should anyone look. Heavy-lidded. Sexy. Dangerous. And posing as her lover.
The role, dummy, she reminded herself. He’s playing the role. As should she.
“Sorry, jet lag.” She had to remember she was in her territory now. It’d been a few years since she’d visited India, but it was more familiar to her than the setup at the headquarters in Maryland had been. Her turf, her terms.