The Makeover Mission

by Mary Buckham

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

  © 2004

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  Chapter 1

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  "Tell the major she's awake."

  Jane Richards snapped her head back, paying for the movement with a pounding that felt like a band of fire across her temples.

  Who was the major? And where was she?

  She blinked, straining to see into the darkness. Nothing. Something shielded her eyes. What? Why?

  Panic tightened her throat.

  She attempted to rip off whatever covered her eyes. But her hands wouldn't budge. They were strapped to the blunt edges of what felt like armrests.

  Blindfolded and trapped.

  But why? Where?

  "Who are you?" The words were hers, but the voice didn't sound like her own. It sounded weak and scared.

  No one answered.

  The air around her felt clammy. The darkness seemed uniform throughout. There were no traffic sounds beyond thin windows, no voices through walls. The only noise permeating the silence came from behind her. The sound of someone breathing. Slow, even breaths. The sound from a child's nightmare. The sound from a woman's worst fears.

  But it was real. And it was happening to her.

  She wanted to scream. The temptation to struggle against the bonds trapping her was stronger. It must be a nightmare. It had to be. People like her did not end up in dark rooms with their hands tied to the arms of chairs.

  "Who are you? Why am I here?" Her voice shook; her whole body mimicked it.

  No answer. The breathing continued. Evenly paced and controlled.

  She had to keep calm, to regain control. Isn't that what they'd told her during library fire drills? The person who panics is the person who's lost. And she was ready to panic in a big way.

  Jane squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to hold back the tidal wave of terror pulsating through her system. She wiggled her hands, wondering what held her in place. Tape? She could feel adhesive tugging at her bare skin with each twist of her wrists.

  The fear wanted to paralyze her. If she let it, it would. She flexed her hands, the tug of the tape holding strong. Her legs too were bound. Helpless.

  Scream? If she shouted would anyone hear her? Could she alert someone before the breather stopped her? Did she have any other choice?

  She might have only one chance. She had to make it good. She opened her mouth to scream.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

  The voice stopped her cold. It was male. Rough-edged and deep.

  Poised on the brink of shouting, she paused. Listening. Straining against the darkness to locate the speaker. His voice had sounded in front of her, not behind. Had the breather moved? Or was there someone new in the room?

  But she hadn't heard movement. Had she?

  Her jaw relaxed, but not because the fear lessened. If anything it had increased. The voice was that of the hunter and she was the prey.

  "Who are you? What do you want with me?" She sounded like a tape recorder stuck on one line and felt the rise of laughter bubbling through her. Hysteria? Possibly, not that she had much experience with the emotion. Hysteria happened to others. Not to her.

  "Turn the light on, Elderman." The voice spoke again, ignoring her question as the sound of footsteps moved closer. Leather soles slapped against a hard floor behind and then in front of her. What sounded like at least two others stepped closer, making her want to cringe. To flee. But she couldn't. Not with her hands and legs bound.

  Before she prepared herself, a light blazed forth. Not strong as much as startling behind the muffled darkness of the blindfold. She knew she was spotlighted before these strangers.

  She pulled back, jerking her head with the movement, setting off the cannons pounding double-time in her head. There was no place to run, no place to hide.

  She might have gasped, or flinched, because the deep voice demanded. "How much did you give her?"

  "She didn't come easily, sir." Another male voice replied from behind her.

  "I asked how much you gave her."

  The man's voice radiated cold assurance, unrelenting authority. Jane wanted to hide from that voice. There was no doubt that voice could order men into battle and expect to be obeyed. But what did they want with her?

  "Thompson handled the dosage, sir."

  "Then he'll be dealt with."

  This new voice jogged a fuzzy memory.

  Someone had grabbed her arm from behind in the parking garage of her apartment building. The very unexpectedness of it had caused her to turn, to catch the shadow of a masked face. She felt another grab her other arm. Then the pain of a scratch near her elbow. A scratch or a poke. She'd called out. Swung away, striking the nearest man with her purse. He'd muttered an oath, or what sounded like an oath, but already things were blurring.

  She'd felt herself falling. She thought she'd screamed again and knew she'd lashed out, her foot connecting with a shin, her hand tearing cloth. The jabbing sensation to her arm came again. Then the darkness.

  "You were at my apartment," she whispered the words aloud, feeling anger slide in where moments ago there was only fear. "I want to know what you're doing. Why I'm here."

  "Enough." Another man spoke, this one with a guttural accent she couldn't place. Eastern European maybe. That and an imperious tone to his voice; a man used to getting his way. A different kind of power than the first voice. "I cannot see what she looks like with that thing around her face."

  "That thing is for your protection, sir." The first voice spoke, and in spite of the salutation there was no deference in his tone. "For your protection and hers."

  "We are running out of time. She looks like Elena but I must be sure."

  Who was Elena? And who was the first voice protecting? He'd said "her" but surely that didn't mean her. Why would someone drug and kidnap a person then worry about protecting them? Nothing made sense.

  Before she could demand answers, someone bent down next to her. She could smell the scent of soap and feel the warmth of a hand brush against her shoulder.

  She flinched, pressing as far back as the unyielding chair would allow, straining against the tape, but it was useless. There was nowhere to go.

  A hand slid down her hair. A gentle touch, soothing somehow, though that made no sense. The human contact should have frightened her, but it didn't. She felt fingers tugging at the knotted fabric covering her eyes. The material bunched, catching strands of her hair before it loosened.

  "You won't be hurt." The dark voice came like a caress in the darkness. "Do exactly what I say and you won't be hurt."

  Now she knew it was hysteria bubbling through her. The need to laugh aloud. The wanting to believe the voice when logic told her it'd be a fool's mistake.

  "Why—"

  "Shhh. The less movement you make the less your head will hurt."

  The words sounded tinged with regret, as if he understood the pain slamming through her temples, the terror surging through her system. Maybe he was sorry for his part in it.

  For the space of one deep breath she would have believed there were only the two of them in the room. The fear began to subside. Until the cloth gave way and slid from her eyes.

  The harshness of the light felt like a thousand suns instead of the gritty wattage of a single bulb directly overhead. Two soldiers garbed in rumpled camouflage gear flanked her and a man in a pressed uniform of white and blue faced her. And next to her, instead of a dark voice, she found herself staring into a pair of gray eyes, as cold as a frozen lake, as unreadable as the ocean deep.

  If she had thought she wanted to run and hide before, it was nothing compared to what she felt now. Those eyes
pinning her as effectively as the straps around her wrists, searched her gaze until she felt stripped bare, exposed and more vulnerable than she'd ever felt before.

  "It is true then. She is Elena." The uniform spoke, startling her with his words. Yet, in spite of his gold epaulets and row of medals marching across his chest, no one could doubt who held the power in this room. And it wasn't him.

  She found herself licking suddenly dry lips, felt the blip in her heart rhythm when the movement caught the attention of the man kneeling before her, compelling his gaze to shift to her lips, then back to her face. His expression remained enigmatic, except for the briefest tightening of his facial muscles.

  He wasn't handsome. Far from it, with unforgiving lines and a square jaw. His hair looked dark, black maybe, with a hint of gray near the temples. Not softening in its effect. There was nothing soft about this face. Not with the lines radiating from the corners of those glacial eyes, bracketing his mouth and dug deep along what looked like a scar near his right temple. His skin was tanned, like á man who lived beneath tropical rays.

  It was a strong face, one as compelling as his eyes.

  Jane held no doubt it could be implacable and hard when he chose. But she thought it wasn't inherently cruel or vicious, which, for the first time since she'd awakened, gave her hope.

  He rose beside her, his gaze still locked with hers, as if silently assessing and measuring, though he spoke to the uniform. "There are enough similarities that she could easily pass as Elena, especially from a distance."

  "Then she will do," came the immediate, and dismissive response. The uniform's accent had deepened. "It has taken too long as it is."

  Who was Elena? What did it matter if she looked like her? Who were these men?

  "There are still a number of obstacles," the man they referred to as the major said, leaving no doubt Jane was one of them, before he continued, "There will be repercussions. Too much has already been badly handled."

  "That, then, is what you are here for." Gold epaulets flashed and the uniform shifted. "I have heard you were the best. Fix the problems and we will be on our way."

  "It's not that easy—"

  "I do not wish for excuses, Major McConneghy. I want only solutions."

  Jane watched the other man's gaze darken and shift and was thankful he was no longer looking at her. Even the uniform seemed to realize he'd taken the wrong tone with the man he called McConneghy as he stepped back and waved a hand before him. "My fear is for Elena. This is a terrible strain on her."

  "I understand." The reply indicated understanding would only be extended so far and not an inch further. "But a shoddy operation is worse than no operation. I'll take care of the details here."

  "Well then…" the uniform glanced around the room. "I shall be on my way and expect to see you in Dubruchek tomorrow."

  Jane did not feel relief when he turned on a booted heel and marched from the room. In spite of his commands and imperial words, it was Gray-eyes who worried her.

  His stillness permeated the room, as if he were weighing options and gauging consequences. The two soldiers kept their gazes on him, their attention as ramrod straight as their stances.

  "Elderman."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Tell Winters to ready the plane."

  "Yes, sir." The soldier closest to the door saluted and disappeared.

  Two down, two to go, Jane thought, not finding an ounce of comfort in the realization as long as one of those two was Major Gray-eyes.

  She watched him, every cell in her body waiting, hoping against hope that now that the others had left he would turn toward her, tell her it was all a big mistake and unstrap the tape. But then optimism had always been one of her weaknesses.

  "I won't say anything to anyone if you'll let me go." She heard the plea in her own voice.

  "It's too late." The man said it as if with regret, then nodded to the soldier behind her. His gaze shifted to hers, right before he crouched beside her once again, his hand covering her own clenched fist, his eyes steady on hers. "Just do exactly as I say and I promise you'll be safe."

  She believed his words, maybe because of the intensity of the gaze riveted to hers, until movement out of the corner of her eye snagged her attention.

  The other man, the soldier who had been slightly behind her, moved. He stepped forward, far enough into the light that she could make out his face. One that looked too young to be dressed in fatigues. A soldier-boy she thought, then caught sight of what was in his right hand.

  Light flashed off a sliver of metal. A sharp, lethal-looking slice of silver. One attached to a hypodermic syringe.

  "No. No, please no." The words were automatic. And useless. As useless as struggling against the bonds holding her. But she could no more stop either reaction than the pounding of her heart. "No, I won't tell. I won't—"

  "It will be all right." Gray-eyes spoke, his words like an anchor in the swirl of terror surging through her. Yet he was one of them. More than that, he led them.

  Her gaze snapped to his. "Please, don't let him do this. Please … I won't—"

  She could feel the other man's hand pin her arm even as

  Gray-eyes raised his free hand, holding her chin so she could not look toward the needle.

  "You'll be safe. This is the best way. The only way."

  She tried to pull her chin away but he wouldn't let her. Cold dampness touched her lower arm. The pierce of a needle slid beneath her skin. And yet he held her. There would be bruises tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow.

  He spoke again, gently murmured nonsense words. Words that in another place might have been of comfort, or compassion.

  But this man held no compassion. If he did she wouldn't be there, feeling helpless. Defenseless. Terrified.

  The needle receded. The fear didn't. But it took only a heartbeat to feel it muted. Her struggles slowed. Became exaggerated. Even more useless.

  "Shhh. It won't be long now." Silence, then more words. "You'll be safe. Remember that, you'll be safe."

  She heard what he said. And knew he lied. His words lied. The emotion in his gaze lied.

  The cottony feeling thickened, but not enough to douse the realization that he was still lying. She'd never be safe around this man. Never.

  And then the darkness descended.

  Lucius McConneghy watched the flutter of the woman's dark eyelashes as they slowly closed, creating half circles against the paleness of her skin. She was fighting the drug Versed but it was pointless. Between the earlier dosage and the fear accelerating through her system it'd be a matter of minutes at the most, then they could move out.

  "Check on the vehicle." He barked orders to Corporal Tennison, aware they sounded harsher than they needed to be. Where was the legendary McConneghy control? The ability to shut off all emotions to get the mission accomplished?

  Shot to hell, he mused, watching the younger man snap to attention and all but run from the room. Shot to hell the moment he saw this doe-eyed young woman, her look pleading with him to save her.

  As if he were some bleeding angel of mercy. Hell, he was the reason she was here. And the sooner she knew it, and accepted what her role was, the better it would be for all concerned.

  He felt the scramble of her pulse lessen beneath his hand. Her head lolled forward, the curtain of her midnight-black hair shielding all but the curve of her chin, the paleness of her complexion. One that had turned sheet-white when she realized what Tennison was doing to her with the hypodermic. Then her gaze had consigned him to a hell with no return. Not that he blamed her.

  But that was his job. Make the tough choices, get the mission accomplished. Maybe he was getting old, or stale, since the thought sat heavy on him. But he meant what he'd said. So far this mission had been a disaster. If they'd had more time, they could have foregone the crudeness of a kidnapping. Avoided the emotional and physical costs the woman before him already was paying.

  But if there was one thing he had accepted after year
s of service, there was no going back and correcting past mistakes. There was only going forward, and minimizing future ones. Someone always paid. In this case—her.

  Jane Richards was his responsibility now. And he'd do everything in his power to keep her alive. Everything.

  "I will keep you safe," he whispered aloud to the woman who couldn't hear him. He squeezed her hand, knowing it was a useless gesture, surprised that he was compelled to do it at all.

  Chapter 2

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  "Here, drink this." The voice was close to her. A male voice, like hot caramel over cold ice cream. One she thought she should know.

  "Open your eyes and drink this."

  She didn't want to open her eyes. Then there'd be no going back, no pretending she was safe and in Sioux Falls. But there was no avoiding it. The voice wouldn't let her.

  Slowly, as if they had been glued shut, she pried her eyes open. Then shut them quickly.

  Gray-eyes. Mesmerizing, compelling, lying Gray-eyes. Like the crash of a wave—it all came back to her. Her apartment building. A cramped, airless room. A man with medals strung across his chest and another man—Gray-eyes—telling her one thing, holding her still while yet another shot her full of who knew what.

  "You can't ignore it. Better to face things head-on."

  Easy for him to say, she wanted to snarl, surprised at the clean edge of her anger. It felt good. Better than the terror she remembered so vividly. The helplessness and confusion in the small room. The willingness to trust a man who said one thing and did another. This man.

  She opened her eyes again. Cowering was for cowards. While Jane thought she was a lot of things—shy, unprepossessing, ordinary—she didn't like thinking of herself as a coward.

  "Who are you and what do you want?"

  The demand she heard in her voice pleased her. For a second she thought he might have felt the same way. A glimmer of a smile touched his lips, until he pushed forward a glass. It looked as if he'd been holding it, waiting for her. "Drink this. Then we'll talk."

  She raised herself to a reclining position, balancing on her elbow and reaching for the glass, aware her hand shook as she grasped its cool surface. Even under ordinary circumstances it would have been difficult to appear unmoved when a man like this hovered next to her, close enough that she could smell the scent of his skin and feel the heat his body radiated. An awareness out of place with the man who had kidnapped her.