by Mary Buckham
"Fine, we'll start, anyway."
"Don't let the grass grow under your feet do you, Major?"
"Can't afford to."
She took a deep breath and glanced out the window. Except for the way her fingers smoothed and re-smoothed the folds of her dress he'd have thought her totally under control. If she managed to keep her composure, and if his team had made progress on who was behind the attempt on Elena Rostov's life, and if there were no more attempts until they could eliminate the threat, they just might make it through this mission. But that was an awful lot of ifs.
"When we reach where we're going you'll be taken to your quarters."
"Where we're going?"
"There's a small villa outside of town where we'll remain as long as we can."
"Doing what?"
"Teaching you to be Elena." He noted her puzzled look and added, "It's wiser to ease you into your position. Cover the basics. The way Elena talks, the way she walks, who her friends are and what foods she'll eat or not eat."
He thought he could hear the air sigh from her lungs.
"And you didn't think I should know there was going to be a reprieve, even a short one, before you throw me to the wolves?"
"Listen very carefully, Miss Richards." He leaned forward, watching her eyes widen with his movement. "There is no reprieve. The mission has begun and you are the mission. From now on you will think, act and believe you are Elena Rostov. Your life depends on it."
She glanced at him but said nothing.
He continued. "You're Elena now." He glanced toward the smoked glass separating their seat from the driver and armed guard up front. "It's imperative that you talk about yourself as such."
"All right," she took a deep breath and looked as if she was holding back her temper. "What would I normally do when I arrive at wherever we're going? Is that better?"
He ignored the sarcasm. "You've been known to ask for a review."
"A what?"
"You like to have the household servants line up so you can review them."
"I see. A queen to her subjects."
He ducked his head to hide a grin, aware he couldn't have described the process much more succinctly. "Yes, something like that."
"That's the most archaic—" she caught herself, flattened her fingers against her skirt and started again. "Then won't the household know something is up when Ele—I mean, when I don't do that this time?"
"We're using the excuse that you're tired from your long flight and justifiably concerned about security."
"Where am I supposed to be flying in from?"
Another good question.
"You've been in Switzerland and France, visiting old school friends."
"And recovering from my ordeal."
"Exactly."
"How many people know about this scam you're running?"
"I prefer to think of it as a mission."
"I bet you do."
"Only the king, his head of state security, Eustace Tarkioff—"
"I thought the king's name was Tarkioff?"
"Eustace is his brother."
"Ah, nepotism at work."
"As I was saying, only they, my team and myself know of our mission."
"And me."
"And you."
She turned away from him again, her fingers taking up their pattern among the dress folds.
"Look, Miss Richards—" he began.
"Elena. My name is Elena. Remember?"
So maybe he shouldn't be trying to offer comfort. Not when she sounded as hard as week-old ice. But he knew from first-hand experience what bravado often hid.
"All right, Elena. I know this is difficult."
"Try downright impossible."
"You did fine back there." He nodded to indicate the airport they'd left behind. "You'll do fine again."
Her glance held fire as she replied. "I'll do fine until I don't recognize someone I should know, or say the wrong thing to the wrong person or pick up the wrong fork to eat with. There are a million ways I can slip up and we both know it."
He'd be lying through his teeth if he refuted her words and he knew they both realized it, especially when she spoke again, her words pitched low, as if in speaking them aloud they might come true.
"The problem is you can't be with me twenty-four hours a day and I can't use the excuse of still being in shock for more than a day or two. You've got yourself a librarian here. That's all. Not someone who's been to a private school, who's traveled through Europe, someone who—" she glanced down at the dress she wore, "who wears clothes that show more skin than I do in my swimsuit. I'm going to mess up here—sooner or later."
She glanced away, her hands curled into tight balls of misery. "And when I do, some nameless, faceless person is going to notice and the whole thing is going to come crashing down around my head. If I haven't been killed in the meantime."
"That's why we're taking what time we can to prep you for the mission."
"And how long will I have?" she asked.
"A week at the most."
"And if I don't have my…" she mumbled around the word, "…my role, or part or whatever you call it… What if I don't have it down in this week or so?"
There were times, in the course of a number of missions, when Lucius had felt that he wasn't going to pull through; that the end was just around the next crumbling wall, behind the next bend in the road. But never had he felt the frustration of helplessness so keenly. Every word Jane Richards spoke was on target and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to make the problems go away.
He set the sheaf of papers he'd been holding onto the seat next to him. "There's still option two."
She glanced at him with contempt. Not that he blamed her. "You mean the one where I'm drugged and helpless?"
"The one where, if something bad was going to happen, you'd never know about it."
He thought she might have sniffed, but her eyes were dry as she replied, "No, thanks, Major. I'd rather be led to my execution with my eyes open."
"We're doing everything in our power—everything in my power—to protect you."
She looked away, wishing she could believe him. She believed he was serious in his declaration, but right now that didn't feel like a hill of beans. But maybe with a little time? She watched small, closely spaced stucco buildings give way to open yards and smaller homes.
Who was she kidding? A week wasn't going to make a lot of difference. What was the old saying? Silk purse out of a sow's ear. This whole scheme was ludicrous. No one in their right mind was going to mistake a midwestern librarian for a future queen. No one.
"If you're ready, I'll continue." His voice slashed through her thoughts. But this time he wasn't a mind reader. She'd never be ready. Never.
Her parents hadn't raised her to rock the boat, but neither had they raised her to back down when the going got rough. And this definitely qualified as rough.
"Fine, finish your briefing, Major." She glanced out the window as the limo slowed. "If I'm not mistaken that big, pink building on the hill must be the villa."
His gaze followed hers. "It is."
"Then you don't have much time to tell me what I need to know."
Jane waited, sensing the major wasn't happy with her response, maybe with her whole attitude, but she didn't care. And that in itself scared her.
She had always been aware of and sensitive to the needs of those around her. She'd had little choice in the matter. The only daughter of a couple who had long before given up on ever having children, her arrival into their lives was not a blessing as much as a shock. A little like a Christmas gift delivered too late and the wrong size.
Her earliest memories had been of needing to be quiet to let her father prepare for one of the college English classes he taught, or to wait for her mother to finish editing a manuscript. Her parents were both studious, quiet people who had taught Jane, and taught her well, not to cause problems.
But right then she didn't feel accommodati
ng or tolerant of others' needs. Not one bit, and she guessed that the major sensed it, too.
"We'll talk later. At the villa," he announced before leaning forward to push one of the buttons lining the arm of his chair. "Stefan, I'd like you to drive to the side entrance rather than through the main gates."
"Yes, sir," came the quick response.
"Slipping me in through the side door?" Jane heard herself ask in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. Did hysteria come masked as sarcasm?
"I'm trying to make this as easy for you as possible."
She found herself wanting to believe him.
"You'll have a maid who'll help you unpack your luggage."
Great. She didn't even know she had luggage.
"I'll give you about an hour before I come for you."
So she had a little over sixty minutes to pull herself together, she thought, watching as the limo slid smoothly beneath an arched entryway, into a cobblestone courtyard that might have been charming except for the barbed wire and glass spikes sprouting along the top of every wall and the absence of anything that might have served as a hiding space. Not even a pot of flowers broke the starkness.
The limo stopped too soon for her. But, between the look the major shot her and the actions of a uniformed man opening her door, it looked as if she wasn't going to be allowed to linger.
Let the show begin, she thought, sliding forward to step into the bright, unadorned courtyard.
Less than ten minutes later she found herself in a bedroom the size of her whole apartment back in Sioux Falls. Cream-colored. Silken upholstery. A bed large enough to host a slumber party dead center in the room.
It was a fairy-tale room: tasteful, ultimately feminine and so quiet Jane was tempted to tiptoe across its polished wood floors.
"Mademoiselle Rostov, welcome home." A young woman's voice interrupted her perusal. "It is good to have you back."
Jane spotted a woman standing in the doorway of an adjoining room the size of a small bedroom and froze. The woman could not have been too many years younger than Jane, but she carried herself with a quiet maturity. Maturity or wariness, Jane wondered, noting that the woman's gaze did not rise from staring at the floor, nor did the welcoming words extend to her expression. If anything she looked as though she was waiting to be rebuked.
So, Major McConneghy, Jane thought silently, what am I supposed to do now? Never having had anyone wait on her, she wasn't sure if she was supposed to know this woman, or treat her with the same degree of familiarity as one addressed a waiter in a restaurant.
With a pithy thought regarding the major's ancestors, she decided that when in doubt, do what felt right.
"I'm sorry." Her voice sounded like sandpaper, "I don't recall your name."
The woman started before quickly glancing up. "It's Ekaterina, mademoiselle. Ekaterina Tabruz."
Well, either Elena should have known this woman's name, in which case Jane had already blown things, or the king's fiancée would never have bothered to ask. Either way it was too late to go backwards.
"Thank you, Ekaterina. It seems as if I've heard so many names lately that they become jumbled in my memory." That at least was the truth. Or part of it.
"Would mademoiselle wish me to draw her a bath or turn down the bed covers for a rest?"
This having-a-maid thing was going to take some getting used to, she realized, feeling too restive for either suggestion but not wanting to cause too much suspicion on Ekaterina's part as to why her mistress was acting out of the norm.
"Actually, Ekaterina, what I'd like is to ask a few questions." At the other woman's immediate look of wariness, she added, "I'm feeling very disoriented and am sure you can help me."
"Yes, mademoiselle." Ekaterina bowed her head and folded her hands together in front of her. Not an auspicious sign for a friendly chat, Jane thought as she wandered toward the far side of the room and a set of French doors.
Opening the doors she immediately felt better, as the pine- and cedar-scented breeze drifted in. The cries of birds beyond the fortified walls sounded like a National Geographic soundtrack.
There was a small balcony, ringed by an elaborate wrought-iron railing and, Jane noted with a quick glance down its length, obviously connected to a room just beyond hers.
"Whose room is next door?" she asked the silent Ekaterina.
"It is the major's, mademoiselle."
"Major McConneghy's?" Not that the news should have surprised her, but it did.
"Yes. He asked specifically that you be given this room. For the security. If you wish to choose another room at the villa you must ask it of the major."
Like that was going to happen.
She tried a different tactic. "The villa seems different?"
"Different?" The maid's face looked confused, until she nodded. "Ah, I understand."
Jane was glad somebody did, because it sure wasn't her.
"They said it was made to look like a Swiss home but maybe not so. I can show you around the rooms to see more if the major allows it."
Jane breathed a silent sigh of relief. So she had not previously been at the villa. Which was good news. Too bad Mister I'll-Protect-You forgot to mention this little detail. He had given her explicit instructions about the location of everything, but they all seemed to be jumbling in her head. If she hadn't been here before it meant she could ask questions about the layout and not be expected to know how to find her way back through the labyrinth of halls and stairways she'd traveled earlier. At last, something was going her way.
"Who else is in residence in the villa?" She remained standing at the open doorway, listening to the sound of a heavy vehicle driving over the cobblestones below her.
"Only you and the major."
She wasn't sure why that news made her feel both safe and uneasy at the same time. Strategically she could see why it made sense, but there was something intimate about the isolation that made her hesitate. An awareness that deep in the darkness of the night it would only be she and Gray-eyes, a wall away from each other, a world away from the rest of the universe.
"Does mademoiselle wish me to tell the major she wants different rooms?" Ekaterina asked.
"No. That won't be necessary." Somehow she knew anywhere in the villa would be too close to the major. Jane kept her own concerns from her tone until she turned and noticed a door in the wall. "And where does that lead?" she asked, though she'd already guessed the answer.
"To the major's room."
She walked toward it, aware there was now even less separating her sleeping quarters from the enigmatic major's. Sort of like a lamb lying next to the lion's cage, only with removable bars, she thought, reaching for the door handle and turning it.
"It's locked."
She hadn't realized she'd spoken the words aloud until Ekaterina replied, "Yes, the lock is on the major's side."
"And do I have a lock on this side?"
The young woman shrugged. "I know of no key, but I will check if you wish."
"There's no need."
Jane whirled at the sound of the dark voice behind her, felt the triple-time pounding of her heart before she registered it was McConneghy who had spoken. He dominated the now-open doorway connecting the two rooms, either in response to her rattling of the door handle, or on his own agenda.
"Speak of the devil, Major," she said, aware of the intensity of his gaze on hers, and of how his presence dominated the room even though he remained on the threshold. "I was just wondering about a key for this door. I know I would feel much more secure." She made sure he heard the stress on the last word. "If I knew where it was."
"I have it," He nodded to the maid. "You may leave us now and finish unpacking mademoiselle's luggage while we're at dinner."
Jane waited until Ekaterina closed the door behind her before she spoke. "That's pretty presumptuous and arrogant—" she began, only to be cut off as McConneghy strode into the room, closing the door as he moved.
"It's a secu
rity issue." He ignored where she stood as he walked through the room, looking high and low. "I need to have access to protect you. You don't."
"Don't what?" She could feel the anger start to simmer inside her. Never a fan of high-handed tactics, she was even less inclined to ignore them after the day she'd already been though.
He peered beneath the lampshade on the bedside table and picked up the phone receiver. "You don't need to access my room, thus you don't need a key."
"I don't want a key to access your room," she wanted to choke on the words. "I want one to make sure you don't access mine."
He spared her a glance. Quick, appraising and heated.
"I can assure you the only reason I'd use that key was if your life was in danger."
And just what did he mean by that two-edged comment? she wanted to know, and was afraid to ask. Especially as he crossed to tower in front of her, the strength and size of him making her feel all the more vulnerable.
She checked the urge to step back and stepped forward instead. Something the old Jane Richards, the one who went to bed a librarian and expected to wake up a librarian, would never have done.
With a finger sharpened by frustration and something more, she stabbed his chest, knowing it was about as effective as howling at the moon. "Listen here, Major, if you think I can't control my primitive urges—"
"Primitive urges?"
She heard the laughter in his voice and ignored it. Easier to do if she kept her gaze level with his chest. "Yes, primitive urges. If you think I can't, then you're beyond idiotic. Not that a man who came up with this whole hare-brained scheme—"
"Mission."
"Hare-brained mission would know the difference between reality and fantasy."
"Oh?" His tone snapped her gaze to his. A mistake, a big mistake she realized—too late.
There was something in his look, in the flare of his nostrils, in the tightening of the skin across his cheek bones that warned her they'd strayed far from the point she wanted to make.
The mountain breeze cooling the room only moments ago disappeared. It was the only explanation as to why it suddenly seemed harder to breath, the air thicker, heavier, her skin too sensitive, feeling goose bumps where there should be none, aware of the abrasion of her dress across her nipples.