The Makeover Mission

by Mary Buckham

  "Trust me on this, Jane." The anger was gone from his tone, but not his sense of fear. Fear for her, fear for what she was doing to him without even being aware of it. "We'll talk later, but right now the safest place for you is in your room. I'll send up something to read, some videos for the DVD player. Just stay there, where I know you'll be safe."

  He watched her close her eyes as if coming to an internal decision before she raised her gaze to his, clear and determined.

  "I'll go, but that doesn't mean I'm going to like it."

  "I didn't expect miracles."

  She smiled then. A tentative one, but it gave him hope. He took her arm again and made to open the door.

  "Lucius?"

  He paused. "Yeah?"

  "Take care of yourself in the meantime."

  "Will do." He would, too, now that he had a reason to.

  Jane counted to thirty-two, the number of steps between the main door to her room and the set of open French doors. She knew because it wasn't the first time she'd counted them. It was obvious she and the major would have to discuss the meaning of the word later. Another fifteen minutes or so and she'd disregard the silent sentinel posted outside her door all day and a good part of the night and go find McConneghy in person. The man was a sadist to leave her cooped up like this all day, alone, fretting, aching from his kisses. Especially that last one.

  She turned at the French doors and began counting backwards, the sweep of silk pants washing against her legs. She was beginning to like silk against her skin. That and the scent of Chanel No. 5. Had it been that long ago that this had all seemed so strange and frightening? Less than a month since Lucius McConneghy had crashed into her life and changed everything?

  Her footsteps stilled across the floor, her bare toes glad for its coolness beneath them, its solidness. Something had to be solid when everything else was thrown into confusion. A month ago she'd known exactly who she was, what she was doing, and, if it was a little bland and boring, the texture of her days.

  And now? Now everything was up in the air. It was bad enough there were threats against her life, well really Elena's life, but since everybody seemed to have accepted that Jane was Elena that didn't make a lot of difference. No, what was really bothering her could be pinpointed to one man. One impossible, responsibility-driven, too-difficult-for-words man. A man she was falling in love with.

  She sat down on the bed, as stunned by her realization as anything that had happened to her thus far.

  How could she possibly love a man she barely knew? He was the one responsible for getting her into this outlandish situation in the first place, and he made no bones about not wanting anything more than a physical relationship with her. Of all the men in the whole world, she couldn't have picked one less likely to be her type.

  But even that thought didn't help matters. The old Jane might have been willing to ache from afar, well aware that a man like Lucius McConneghy could never love her back and accept that she'd spend her life wanting something that was not to be. It was a sappy reaction, but then she was sappy, or had been. She'd been a doormat when it came to asserting herself, her needs, her agenda. And now? Was she much different now?

  With a heavy sigh, she wondered if, once she changed back into her sensible cottons and polyesters, resumed her job at the library and stopped using perfume she could never afford on her salary, she'd also revert to the old Jane's ways. Was being a sap in her blood? Responsibility was bred into Lucius. Heck, the guy went into the military knowing most of the males of his line had died as a direct result of that life. No wonder responsibility was such a strong element of his character.

  But did any of it make any difference? She loved him and knew he might care for her. A man who made love the way he had all the previous night had to have some sort of feelings behind such passion, but that didn't mean he loved her. She might be inexperienced, but she wasn't a total fool. He'd said as much before they'd taken that first heady step.

  Would she go back and change it? No way. Not one exhilarating, exciting, breathtaking second. But what now? Could she enjoy what they had, stop thinking about the future long enough to experience the present, accept that she might not have a forever, but she could have a here and now?

  Before she could make a decision, as if she really thought there was any but one decision to be made, she heard the quiet rattle of the door handle and a voice that made her heart accelerate.

  "It's me. Open the door."

  She rose from the bed, surprised her legs were as steady as they were, and crossed to open the door. She felt breathless and shaky inside and hoped he didn't notice.

  The look in his eyes kept her from speaking. A hot, dark, dangerous look that had her blood heating, her pulse racing even before the door behind him clicked shut.

  "I want you." He spoke the three words as a desperate man, his arms pulling her into his, his lips claiming hers.

  There was no more conversation as she tasted his need.

  This was not the man of last night, the aroused lover still in control, still holding back a part of himself. No, this was a man who was giving as he took, his hands fast and sure across her back, tangling in her hair as he deepened his kisses.

  Her mouth opened beneath his, but it wasn't enough. She felt the two of them move until a wall stopped their progress, but not his passion. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her loose shirt, a guttural groan breaking from him as he discovered no bra to hinder their movement.

  He touched, stroked, kneaded, even as she felt his hunger grow, hers expanding with it. His hands shifted direction, slipping beneath the band of her pants, letting them slide to the floor, cupping the bare skin of her buttocks.

  He pulled her closer to him, lifting and stretching her legs until she felt impaled between him and the hard surface of the wall.

  "I can't wait." His movements echoed his words as she felt the thrust of his sheathed shaft against her entrance, its bluntness demanding acceptance. "Tell me yes, Jane. Tell me yes."

  She smiled against his hair, feeling more sure of herself in those seconds than in her whole life. He might not love her, but right then and there he needed her. More than that, she wanted him. All of him.

  "Yes."

  The single word was all he needed as he surged forward, stretching her until she felt the fullness of him deep, deep within her. Then he began to move. Strong thrusts, each one demanding more than the last. It was if all the emotion she'd glimpsed in him from time to time, the feelings tightly leashed and controlled, were slashing at him, pushing at him to dissolve the difference between him and her until it was only them.

  His moan of release echoed against her hair, harsh and wracked, and yet he held her high, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands digging into his shoulders. She could feel the pulse of his heart quiet against her, hear the raggedness of his breathing begin to slow while they stayed where they were, as if caught in a heartbeat of time. She knew then, without words, that he was already regretting his actions. What she wasn't sure of was the reason why.

  "Are you going to tell me this was a mistake? She surprised herself by the ferocity of her tone.

  He pulled back then, enough for her to see the tiredness bracketing his eyes, the exhaustion lining his face. "No. No mistake. I needed you too much for that."

  His words warmed her even as he slowly slid her legs to the floor, his hands not releasing her until sure her own legs would hold her.

  "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  "No." She responded both to the question and the hesitation in his gaze. "In fact, it was much better than a bland 'how are you?'"

  She caught his wry grin, pleased she'd lightened some of the load pressing down on him. No doubt he'd been cloistered with Tarkioff and his brother all day, something that would try the patience of the strongest of men.

  He lifted a hand to her face, the gentleness of the act bringing tears to her eyes. She felt his fingers glide across her brow, stroke a strand of hair from her
face, memorize the line of her cheekbone and jaw.

  "I never want to hurt you." She knew he was talking about more than the last few minutes, but she was at a loss how to take away the regret shadowing his gaze.

  "They don't grow wimps in South Dakota." Keep it light, she told herself. Keep it light. "You'll just have to try harder next time."

  He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, another tender gesture so at odds with the strained lines of his expression that she wanted to ask what had happened, but before she could he'd slipped his arms beneath her legs and swung her into his arms.

  "Let's try it slow this time." He gave her a smile that could topple mountains and walked to the bed, settling her atop the covers as if she was rare and precious.

  If she hadn't already lost her heart, she knew it would have taken flight right then and there.

  He slipped his jacket from his shoulders, tossing it on a nearby chair and removed his shoulder harness, his gaze never leaving hers. Yet, when his fingers began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt, for some reason she felt unaccountably shy. A silly feeling given their lovemaking of only moments ago.

  Hardly being aware of it, she let her gaze slip, finding respite in smoothing the folds of her blouse while she tried to still the erratic beating of her heart, the sudden dryness in her mouth. Even then she was aware of his movements just beyond the line of her sight, of his steady breathing, of his gaze studying her.

  "I haven't frightened you." He leaned forward until his fingers curled beneath her chin, raising it until her gaze locked with his. She could read the concern in his eyes. Those eyes she'd once had thought were hard and cold, without feeling, devoid of passion. Boy, when she was wrong, she was really wrong.

  Since no words would come she mutely shook her head instead.

  He knelt beside her, his splendidly naked body heavily aroused and yet his voice soothing, his gaze steady on hers.

  "There have been times I would have given a fortune to have you keep quiet." She knew he was trying to make her smile with his teasing tone, so why did she feel like crying? Especially when he added, "This isn't one of them."

  She swallowed, but still couldn't force words past the lump in her throat.

  He removed his fingers from her chin and slipped them lower, to the top button of her shirt.

  "I'll stop any time you want me to."

  She knew he would, though that was the last thing in the world she wanted right then. Her head shook in negation and his finger slid a button from its hole.

  "You deserve courtship, with red roses and candlelight dinners. I don't have any of that to offer you. Not here and now."

  She wondered if there were more to his words but lost the thought as the last button gave and she felt his fingers slip between the open folds of silk.

  Her breath caught and held as callused fingertips slid ever so gently across her skin. There was no pattern to the movement, no heat to the touch. Nothing but an exquisite gentleness at odds with the driven, determined man she thought she understood. Through eyes growing heavy with pleasure she could see the cost of his control.

  She wanted to give him something, anything, in return for the sensations racing through her.

  "We don't have to go slow."

  "She speaks at last." His lips ever so tenderly brushed her forehead. "But you're wrong. We do need to go slow. This time."

  "Why?"

  "Because I want you to know, to feel what you've put me through all day. Away from you, thinking about the taste of your lips."

  He kissed her deeply.

  "About the feel of your skin when I do this."

  He squeezed one nipple ever so gently.

  "About the sounds you make deep in your throat when I touch you here."

  One finger slid between her thighs, rubbing softly, then more urgently. She arched beneath him.

  "I've wanted you until I couldn't see straight."

  The pressure increased, building to an ache.

  "Until I could think of nothing but getting back to you."

  He slid two fingers into her, teasing her until she wanted to scream. Or beg.

  "Of burying myself so deep within you I'd never find my way out."

  And he did. In one sure, strong stroke he entered her, finishing with his body what he had started with his hands. They slipped over the edge together and she knew there'd be no going back. Not for either of them.

  Chapter 12

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  Later, when the shadows of the night had lengthened and she lay across the bed, Lucius's head pillowed between her naked breasts, his breathing deep and even, she asked a question that had been bothering her ever since her unpleasant dinner with Tarkioff days ago.

  "Lucius?"

  "Ummm." She knew he wasn't asleep, just relaxed. Rare enough for him that she should have felt guilt for wanting to know something perhaps better left alone.

  "How well do you know Elena? The real Elena I mean."

  "Elena Rostov?"

  He was hedging and she knew it. "No, I'm talking about Elena Dela Santos, the opera singer." She tugged a lock of his hair.

  "Ow."

  "You deserve worse than that. Of course I'm talking about Elena Rostov."

  He rubbed his forehead, but she heard the wariness in his voice. "What do you want to know about her?"

  "I want to know how well you know her."

  "That's an open-ended question."

  She'd gone this far, no time to back down now.

  "I was wondering if…" This was harder than she'd thought. "If … you know."

  "If we were lovers?"

  The way he said it made her feel petty and nosy instead of just a new lover seeking some reassurance.

  "Yeah, something like that."

  "We weren't."

  The words dropped like splattered grease in the quiet of the room.

  "Because you didn't want to or because she didn't want to?"

  She wondered where she got the guts even to think of asking such personal questions, and then, when one silver-tinted eye slitted open, wondered why she could not have left well enough alone.

  With a smooth move startling her in its suddenness, she felt Lucius's hand snake up to cup her head and pull her lips to his. Only after he thoroughly kissed her did he answer.

  "Elena, like you, is a very beautiful woman. But that's where the similarities end."

  "Meaning?"

  He stretched. A great delaying tactic, she realized as she watched the play of muscles in his chest and arms.

  "Meaning Elena assumes the world is made to notice her."

  "Meaning men."

  "Yes, men in particular."

  "And you didn't?"

  "I'm here as Tarkioff's advisor, not Elena's plaything."

  She knew he'd never be any woman's plaything, but the image made her smile. At least, she told herself it was the image and not the fact that he was doing with her exactly what he wasn't willing to do with Elena.

  "I see."

  "I don't think you do." He rose to one elbow, all relaxation gone from his expression. "There never was, never would be, nor ever will be anything between Elena Rostov and myself."

  "But we look exactly alike." Why would Lucius be attracted to her and not Elena?

  "Anybody who was with either one of you for longer than ten minutes would know you're nothing alike."

  "But I thought I was doing a good job impersonating her?"

  He didn't have to grin at her tone.

  "You are. Almost too good."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Jane, you're the most real person I've ever met," he said, really throwing her for a loop.

  "You're losing me here."

  Instead of answering right away he gave her a kiss. A soft, gentle kiss she felt all the way to her toes.

  If he was trying to distract her he was doing a fine job of it. A darn fine job.

  "You're real and Elena is all smoke and mirrors."

&n
bsp; "Meaning?"

  "You see people, with their hopes and dreams and lives and treat them as if they're important."

  "Of course they're important."

  "Not everybody sees life that way."

  "Like Elena."

  "Like Elena."

  He glanced away, as if gathering his thoughts before he spoke. "You're the kind of woman that a man wants to protect and defend and ravish all at the same time."

  Her?

  "You tie up a man's thoughts until they're in knots." He sounded frustrated. "And at the same time make everything perfectly clear."

  As mud, she thought, wondering what he was really trying to say? Did he care about her? More than he wanted? Less than he thought he should?

  He pulled her back into his arms, confusing her even more. "I know I got you into this mess and I sure as hell am going to get you out, but only if you help. You could try the patience of a saint."

  Her? He was the one not making any sense.

  "I want you to keep your eyes open. Be aware of every situation. If it doesn't feel right, back away. Trust no one."

  He'd said that to her before if she recalled. Very emphatically, but she figured now was not the time to point it out. Nor his just as emphatic follow-up sentence—the one that told her to trust him least of all.

  Over the next several days Jane replayed Lucius's words over and over again, trying to capture their urgency, their shadow of fear, but it was hard, really hard, when everything else in her was smiling. No, make that grinning.

  She thought he had said something very important, even if he couldn't say the words out loud. He loved her. Or cared for her very much. She could wait for the L-word. For a while. And in the meantime every day gave her another twenty-four hours to spend with him, by his side, sometimes in his arms, many times near enough that she could simply look at him. Look and absorb as if she could capture rays of sunlight to warm her future when they'd go their separate ways. If they did.

  But she wouldn't think such gloomy thoughts. The old Jane might have dwelled on them, allowed them to taint the present with the reality that nothing this wonderful could possibly last. But the new Jane intended to savor.