The Makeover Mission
Page 7
But there were other issues he'd be addressing with the king and, though he felt like day-old dog meat, chewed up and spat out, there was no time like the present to get a few things straightened out.
Tarkioff sat behind the desk as Lucius entered the library. A room so called because a former owner had enjoyed literature and had filled this room with the thick dark wood paneling, shelf after shelf of books, and plush red carpet he felt befitted a man of literature.
The fact that those who had followed never cracked open one of the handsomely bound books didn't seem to matter. They too enjoyed the aura the room exuded and kept it virtually intact. Like a lot in Vendari, there was power in appearance alone.
"Ah, Major," Tarkioff hailed him as he looked up. "Come in. I think we have much to discuss."
Since McConneghy agreed and knew the room had already been swept for listening devices by his men, he didn't hesitate to speak his mind once he closed the door.
"You should never have authorized the abduction of Miss Richards," he spoke bluntly, knowing the best way to deal with the man before him was head-on. Tarkioff listened to little else. "Or at the least you should have allowed me to handle it differently."
"You were moving too slowly." The king waved away objections like fireflies in the night.
"We are asking her to risk her life." He'd moved far enough into the room to splay his hands across the highly polished surface of the desk. "You might have given her a choice."
"And if she had said no?" Tarkioff rolled an unlit cigar between his stocky fingers. "You and I both know there is too much at stake to have allowed that."
"I could have persuaded her." At the other man's look, he added, "A willing individual is much easier to work with than an unwilling one."
"I still think you can use your powers of persuasion," came the casual reply as Tarkioff continued to study his cigar, rolling it back and forth. One eyebrow arched.
"We're not talking about a seduction here," Lucius bit back, surprised at the anger rolling through him. "We're talking about a young woman who could lose her life for your country. She deserves better treatment than she has received thus far."
The cigar snapped between the king's fingers. "It is of no consequence. She is of no consequence." The man's voice no longer sounded modulated and even; his face was as flushed as the pile carpet. "She has a purpose. As you do, Major, or have you forgotten your own role?"
"I may have found the girl for you, but I certainly did not authorize her being drugged and kidnapped."
"And yet you brought her to Vendari."
He knew he'd have to live with that knowledge for a long, long time. "I had my orders."
The king leaned forward. "And is not one of those orders to make sure that I am kept content? That my goodwill continues to be extended toward your country?"
Lucius wanted to wipe the smug look off the bastard's face with one punch. But it would serve no good. He'd worked with men like Tarkioff before, some worse, a few better, but all of them aware of the see-saw game of international politics, a game that had innocent casualties all too often.
"I will keep Miss Richards safe." He enunciated each word so that they both understood where he was coming from. "She is under my protection while she is in Vendari."
The other man shrugged and smiled. "And who is going to protect the young lady from you, Major?"
Chapter 5
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Jane joined the major for breakfast the following morning. She had barely slid into the straight-backed chair and grabbed a cup of coffee before he announced, "We've arranged two events for you today. We're using your long trip as an excuse not to overtire you."
"Today?"
"You're ready."
Wrong. She'd never be ready for this. Never.
"But what if I—"
"You're ready. The limo will be here in less than half an hour to take us into the city. Eat your croissant and we'll be on our way."
McConneghy was sure if the croissant was a lethal weapon it'd be lobbed his way in a heartbeat.
But he couldn't afford to pretty up what wasn't pretty. It'd been a long week but he'd been honest with her. She was ready. As ready as she'd ever be, and they could no longer afford this time in seclusion. The rumors were already circulating and rumors in an unstable country were too dangerous to go unchecked.
The rest of the brief breakfast was spent in silence. She still wasn't eating enough to feed a bird but he'd let it go this time. One skirmish at a time and he held no doubts there would be more skirmishes ahead.
"Eustace Tarkioff will be joining us in the limo," he said and watched her pale.
"The king's brother?"
"Yes."
"Why is he coming?"
"He wants to make sure all is well." He could have lied. Should have when he noted the way her hands moved to her lap, pleating her skirt. "He's the Head of Security. It's his job."
He wondered what she was thinking as silence descended, until she squared her shoulders, looked him straight in the eye and asked, "Can he nix your mission?"
"It's too late—"
"No, I mean, does he have the power or authority or whatever to force the second option? The one I didn't choose."
No wonder she looked as if she was preparing to meet the firing squad.
"No. The choice has been made. The mission goes forward as planned."
Less than twenty minutes later, he wondered if he should have made Jane more wary of the king's brother. Eustace Tarkioff possessed several attributes his royal brother did not, secrecy and control being two. There had been many times Lucius had wished Eustace had been the ruling brother rather than the more volatile and unstable Viktor.
This was not one of those times, Lucius thought, as he watched the cool way Eustace introduced himself to Jane and her response.
Was it only days ago he'd been dealing with a woman on the verge of snapping? Where was that woman? He'd all but swallowed his tongue earlier when he'd seen her standing in the open doorway of the breakfast room, the color of her suit enhancing the golden tones of her skin, darkening her eyes, highlighting every inch of luscious, satin-smooth skin. It was all he could do not to choke on the sip of coffee clogging his throat.
And then she'd slid into the chair across from him, the movement hitching up her skirt to expose one creamy thigh, the V-neck slipping until he thought he'd drool. The scent of her skin-warmed perfume kicked him dead center. On the real Elena Rostov he'd have thought the move calculated, or practiced overkill. But Jane Richards didn't seem to have a clue what she was doing to him.
She had him by his windpipe and was tightening her hold by the second. Hell, even the way she spread butter on a croissant had him imagining how her long, slender fingers would feel stroking him—touching, caressing, memorizing. It was a miracle he hadn't poured hot coffee all over himself.
Now Eustace was taking her at face value. With her attention focused on the city rushing past outside the window, her posture that of any elegant woman, at ease, in command, sure of herself, Lucius himself might have been fooled into thinking the hardest part of this mission was behind them.
It'd be a dangerous mistake to make. Especially as they were even now moving toward a possible trap. One with Jane Richards as the bait.
He wouldn't think about it. Couldn't or he'd scrap the mission. Hadn't his team been over and over the area already? They were in place now and he'd be there, too, determined to make sure nothing happened to her.
"You look very serious." Her voice washed over him. Calm. Almost too calm, as if she was exerting every ounce of energy to keep her tone even. Not that he blamed her. He felt the same way himself.
He listened as she continued, "I don't know if that frown you're wearing bodes well for where we're going."
He forced his features into a calmness he didn't feel, knowing Eustace Tarkioff was weighing every word. "It's an elementary school. A couple of songs from the kids, a speech or two from the administr
ation."
"And do I have to make a speech, also?"
He found himself reacting to the near panic in her eyes. "No. A few words of thanks, shake everybody's hand that you can, smile constantly and you'll be fine."
He watched her tug at her skirt and wished he hadn't. It didn't take much to imagine tugging at it himself, but for a whole different reason.
"You're frowning again."
"Occupational hazard."
"How did you get into what you do?" she asked, quickly glancing at the king's brother and adding, "I mean, if it won't reveal any secrets for you to talk about it."
"I was recruited in college." Lord, that was a lifetime ago.
"I didn't know they recruited for stuff like that." She leaned forward, her blouse gaping slightly, his throat going dry. "It's not like there are college courses in abduction and international troubleshooting."
He couldn't help the wince.
"I'm sorry," she immediately offered, her smile small but genuine. "I didn't mean it to sound like that. I just meant how could college have prepared you for this." She waved her hand toward the front of the car, the guard riding there, the bulletproof glass, the escort of uniformed soldiers on motorcycles beside the vehicle.
"It didn't." This time he could smile back. "I showed an aptitude for languages and history." And the ability to absorb, understand and synthesize vast quantities of information quickly and easily.
"And the next thing you knew you were in an obscure room in an obscure corner of the Pentagon?"
"Something like that."
"What exactly is your job title?"
He glanced at Eustace before replying. "Advisor to the king."
"Advisor on?"
"Security. Politics. International Relations."
"But you're not an ambassador or with the State Department?"
"No. At this time Dubruchek does not have official diplomatic relations with the United States. A situation we are hoping to rectify."
"By my being here. Quid pro quo?"
The woman caught on quickly and Eustace was now the one frowning.
"We'd been talking about my career path. A very mundane subject, I'm afraid."
She leaned back against the leather seat, her expression thoughtful. "I think you're leaving a few details out."
He couldn't help but grin at her wry tone, and look of disappointment. "Look, I'd love to tell you some wild and exciting story, something that makes me sound larger than life and out of the ordinary, but it wouldn't be true."
"No?" One elegant brow arched upwards.
"I'm just a guy trying to do a job the best way I can."
"Some job."
Since he didn't know if she meant it as an accusation, or in admiration, he let her words slide. After all he had a few questions of his own. "How did you decide to be a librarian?"
She glanced at him as if looking for a hidden agenda before giving a silent shrug. "I always enjoyed books and research." She paused, as if hesitant to continue before adding, "And helping people."
He sensed there was more to her answer so he waited. It didn't take long.
"I know it's not in the same league as helping troubled countries, but in my own way I do help people. Not to change the world, or save lives, but I try to make a difference."
"Are you justifying what you do to me, or to yourself?"
He heard her quick intake of breath and regretted his observation, no matter how accurate it might have been.
"I'm not—oh, maybe I am, just a little." She started to pleat her skirt through her fingers. "But I never wanted to be in some glamorous occupation."
Lucius thought of all the hellholes he'd been in through the years, the jungles and inner-city slums, the all-night meetings making choices that left bile in his gut and emptiness in his soul, the decisions made, lives sacrificed and people scarred by actions he did and did not take, and he thought the word glamorous as far from the truth as the woman before him was from the real Elena Rostov.
"I think the world needs a lot more librarians," he remarked, as surprised as she that he'd said the words aloud.
She appeared to want to respond, but time had run out; the car swung down a street that was swept daily and pulled into an open paved area. He quickly picked out several of his men, stationed where they could see the most, offer the most protection. The setting was still vulnerable to attack from a number of points, but he'd stationed men to watch them too.
It was show time.
"Miss Rostov," he offered his arm, aware a member of the school staff had opened the limo door and was both watching and listening. Jane glanced at Eustace Tarkioff, who gave a silent nod.
"Major McConneghy." She placed her hand in his, her eyes suddenly hesitant and unsure. But her voice betrayed nothing as she slid along the seat toward him.
Atta girl, he wanted to tell her. Just as he wanted to let her know he'd be right there with her. Right beside her. Protecting her in every way he knew how.
He'd made his promise and meant to keep it. As long as it took to get her back to her world, the quiet, normal world of a small-town library, he'd be there for her. No matter what the cost to him.
Jane gazed out across the semi-circular courtyard, aware of the chant-like tones of the third—or was it fourth?—speaker extolling the need for a stronger educational program for Vendari, the sounds of deep-throated birds warbling from cone-shaped trees in the background, the soft gurgle of a fountain somewhere out of sight.
The school behind where she sat on a platform rose like a grand old dame, its stucco pockmarked and crumbling, its paint faded tones of gold and cream. Before her a small sea of faces stood and sat, the older ones on folded metal chairs, the younger ones cross-legged down in front, hopping from one foot to the other in the back rows.
Though she wasn't a parent herself, had never even allowed herself to think along those lines because they seemed so impossible, she'd worked with enough kids to recognize their feelings as being akin to hers—impatience, boredom, with maybe a tinge of anticipation thrown in for good measure.
Soon she'd have to stand, walk before the collection of dignitaries flanking her, feel McConneghy and the king's brother judge and weigh her every move, waiting for her to mess up or stumble her way through, nod and say a few thank yous and then they'd be done. Thank heavens.
Her lips felt stretched into an impossible smile, except when she looked at the children. They watched her, not because they expected anything from her, but out of undiluted curiosity. When she thought no one was looking she'd wiggle her fingers at them, watch their grins widen, and listen to McConneghy smother a cough next to her.
At least she thought it was a cough, yet when she'd glance his way his expression was as blank as ever. His concentration never wavered from scanning the rooftops around them, the blank windows in the buildings across the street. The man never relaxed, except for that rare moment in the car when not only had he offered up a smile, he'd followed it with a grin. A look that did funny things to her sense of equilibrium.
"…and I give you Miss Elena Rostov," she heard the speaker say, jerking her back to reality with a thud.
Show time, she thought, smoothing down her skirt as she stood, wishing she was anywhere but where she was, reminding herself that the old Jane might not have been able to pull this off, but that the new one would at least give it a try. Her first step wobbled, her second didn't. She kept her gaze on the children's faces, strengthened by their smiles and continued until she stood at the mike, one hand waving, the other grasping a huge bouquet someone had shoved into her hands when she first arrived.
The next seconds took all the nerve she'd ever possessed, but just as McConneghy had said, a few words, a few more waves and a never-ending smile and she finished. Before she knew it there were people on their feet, applauding, McConneghy at her side, his hand strong and reassuring as it cupped her elbow, his voice pitched low for her alone.
"Good job. Now it's time to go."
But when she did, she halted, caught by two things. One was the sight of a small girl, stick-thin but with a smile as large as her face, and the other, a drooping flower, scarlet-red, wilting in her hands.
"Wait," Jane whispered, pulling away from the major, ignoring his look of outrage as she stepped forward. The girl stood on the other side of a roped barrier, almost obscured by a row of fatigue-covered soldiers and adults in suits.
How long had she waited there? Jane wondered, touched by the gesture, determined that it would not go unrewarded.
"Hello," she offered, once she'd reached the girl, bending over until they were eye to eye. "Is this for me?"
The child offered a shy smile and a nod as she extended her clenched hand and the sad-looking flower. Jane reached for it, never as touched by anything. The moment passed as a strong, male hand bit into her arm, a familiar terse voice ordered, "It's time to leave, Miss Rostov. Now."
She could have sworn the humid temperature chilled by several degrees. But she held her ground, a difficult feat with a fire-breathing dragon tugging at her arm.
"Thank you for the beautiful flower." She spoke only to the little girl. "Did you pick it for me?"
Another nod.
"Then I'll treasure it forever." She wanted to brush her hand across the child's bangs, give her something in return, acknowledge her in some way.
The hand tugged again.
"Here, do something useful," she snapped, straightening and thrusting the elaborate bouquet she'd been holding into the face of a man who looked as frustrated, as put out by her actions, as she was by his.
"Miss Rostov—" His words sounded like the rumble of a freight train bearing down on her before she turned her back on him. The little girl had been joined by others, many holding single flowers held in hot, grimy hands for who knew how long, all of them extended in her direction.