"We trained to learn how to drop instantly into rapid-eye-movement sleep," Joe said, evenly meeting the crystal blue-ness of Veronica's eyes. "It comes in handy in a combat situation, or a covert op where there may be only brief stretches of time safe enough to catch some rest. It's kept more than one SEAL alive on more than one occasion."
"What else do SEALs learn how to do?" Veronica asked..
Oh, baby, what you don't know...
"You name it, honey," Joe said, "we can do it."
"My name," she declared in her cool English accent, sitting back in her chair and gazing at him steadily, "is Veronica St. John. Not honey. Not babe. Veronica. St. John. Please refrain from using terms of endearment. I don't care for them."
She was trying to look as chilly as her words sounded, but Joe saw heat when he looked into her eyes. She was trying to hide it, but it was back there. He knew, with a sudden odd certainty, that when they made love, it was going to be a near religious experience. Not if they made love, When.. It was going to happen.
"It's a habit that's gonna be hard to break," he said.
Veronica stood, briefcase in hand. "I'm sure you have a number of habits that will be a challenge to break," she said. "So I suggest we not keep the tailor waiting a minute longer. We have plenty of work to do before we can get some sleep."
But Joe didn't move. "So what am I supposed to call you?" he asked. "Ronnie?"
Veronica looked up to find a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. He knew perfectly well that calling her "Ronnie" would not suit. He was smiling, and she was struck by the even whiteness of his teeth. He may have chipped one at one time, but the others were straight and well taken care of.
"I think Ms. St. John will do quite well, thank you," she said. "That is how the prince addresses me."
"I see," Joe murmured, clearly amused.
"Shall we?" she prompted.
"Oh, yes, please," Joe said overenthusiastically, then tried to look disappointed. "Oh...you mean shall we leave? I thought you meant..." But he was only pretending that he misunderstood. He couldn't keep a smile from slipping out.
Veronica shook her head in exasperation. "Two days, Lieutenant," she said. "We have two days to create a miracle, and you're wasting time with sophomoric humour."
Joe stood, stretching his arms above his head. His feet and legs were bare underneath his robe. So was the rest of him, but Veronica was determined not to think about that.
"I thought you were going to call me 'Your Majesty.'"
"Two days, Your Majesty," Veronica repeated.
"Two days is a breeze, Ronnie," he said. "And I've decided if I'm the prince I can call you whatever I want, and I want to call you Ronnie."
"No, you most certainly will not!"
"Why the hell not? I'm the prince," Joe said. "It's your choice—Ronnie or Honey. I don't care."
"My Lord, you're almost as incorrigible as Tedric," Veronica sputtered.
"'My Lord,'" Joe mused. "Yeah, you can call me that. Although I prefer 'Your All-Powerful Mightiness.' Hey, while I'm making royal decrees, why don't you go ahead and give the serfs a day off."
He was laughing at her. He was teasing her, and enjoying watching her squirm.
"You know, this is going to be a vacation for me, Ron," he added. "Two days of prep is a Cakewalk."
Veronica laughed in disbelief. How dare he...? "Two days," she said. "You're going to have to completely relearn how to walk and talk and stand and sit and eat. Not to mention memorizing all the names and faces of the aides and ambassadors and government officials that the prince is acquainted with. And don't forget all the rules and protocols you'll have to learn, all of the Ustanzian customs and traditions..."
Joe spread his hands and shrugged. "How hard could it be? Give me a videotape of Tedric and half an hour, and you'll think I'm the same guy," he said. "I've gone on far tougher missions with way less prep time. Two days—forty-eight hours—is a luxury, sweetheart."
How could he think that? Veronica was so stressed out by the rapidly approaching deadline she could barely breathe.
"Less than forty-eight hours," she told him sharply. "You have to sleep some of that time."
"Sleep?" Joe smiled. "I just did."
Chapter 5
"And never, ever open the door yourself," Veronica said. "Always wait for someone—a servant—to do it for you."
Joe gazed at her across the top of his mug as he sat on the other side of the conference table in Tedric's royal suite. "Never?" he said. He took a sip of coffee, still watching her, his dark eyes mysterious, unreadable. "Old Ted never opens the door for anyone?"
"If he were with a king or a queen, he might open the door," Veronica said, glancing down at her notes. And away from those eyes. "But I doubt you'll be running into any such personages on this tour."
"What does Ted do when he's all alone?" Joe started to put his mug down on the richly polished oak tabletop, but stopped as if he were afraid to mar the wood. He pulled one of Veronica's file folders closer and set his mug down on top of the stiff manila. "Just stand there until a servant comes along to open the door? That could be a real drag if he's in a rush to use the head." He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow on the table, as he continued to gaze at her.
"Your Highness, an Ustanzian prince never rests his elbows on the top of a table," Veronica said with forced patience.
Joe smiled and didn't move. He just watched her with half-closed bedroom eyes that exuded sexuality. They'd been working together all night, and not once had he let her forget that she was a woman and he was a man. "I'm not a Ustanzian prince," he said. "Yet."
Veronica folded her hands neatly on top of her notes. "And it's not called a 'head,'" she said. "Not John, not toilet, not bathroom. It's a water closet. W.C. We went through this already, remember, Your Majesty?"
"How about I call it the Little Prince's Room?" Joe asked.
Veronica laughed despite her growing sense of doom. Or maybe because of it. What was she going to do about Joe Catalanotto's thick New Jersey accent? And what was she going to do about the fact that this man didn't, for even one single second, take anything they were doing seriously?
And to further frustrate her, she was ready to drop from exhaustion, while he looked ready to run laps.
"My mother's name is Maria. She was an Italian countess before she met my father. My father is King Derrick the Fourth, his father was Derrick the Third," Joe recited. "I was born in the capital city on January 7, 1961— You know, this would be a whole lot easier on both of us if you would just hand me your file on this guy, and give me a videotape so I can see firsthand the way he walks and stands and..."
"Excuse me, Lieutenant." A FInCOM agent by the name of West stood politely to one side.
Joe looked up, an instant Naval Officer. He sat straighter and even looked as if he was paying attention. Now, why couldn't Veronica get him to take her that seriously?
"At Admiral Forrest's request, Mr. Laughton requires your consultation, sir, in planning the scheduling of the tour, and the strategy for your protection," West continued. "That is, if you wish to have any input."
Joe stood. "Damn straight I do," he said. "Your security stinks. Fortunately those terrorists took the night off, or I'd already be dead."
West stiffened. "The security we've provided has been top level."
"What I'm saying is your so-called top-level security isn't good enough, pal," Joe countered. He looked back at Veronica. "What do you say you go take a nap, Ronnie, and we meet back at..." He glanced at his watch. "How's eleven-hundred hours? Just over two hours."
But Veronica stood, shaking her head. She wanted desperately to sleep, but unless she attended this meeting, the visit to Saint Mary's would be removed from the tour schedule. She spoke directly to the FInCOM agent. "I'd like to have some input in this meeting, too, Mr. West," she said coolly. "I'm sure Mr. Laughton—or Admiral Forrest—won't mind if I sit in."
Joe shrugged. "Suit yourself."
Joe rolled his eyes.
"And princes don't roll their eyes," she said.
"Sheesh," he muttered.
"They don't swear, either, Your Majesty," Veronica told him. "Not even those thinly veiled words you Americans use in place of the truly nasty ones."
"So you're not an American," Joe said, walking backward so he could look at her. "Mac Forrest must've been mistaken. He told me, despite your fancy accent, that you were."
Joe had talked about her with Admiral Forrest. Veronica felt a warm flash of pleasure that she instantly tried to squelch. So what if Joe had talked with the admiral about her. She'd talked to the admiral about Joe, simply to get some perspective on whom she'd be dealing with, who she'd be working closely with for the next few weeks.
"Oh, I'm American," Veronica said. "I even say a full variety of those aforementioned nasty words upon occasion."
Joe laughed. He had a nice laugh, rich and full. It made her want to smile. "That I won't believe until I hear it."
"Well, you won't hear it, Your Majesty. It wouldn't be polite or proper."
Her shoe caught in the thick carpeting, and she stumbled slightly. Joe caught and held her arm, stopping to make sure she had her balance.
Veronica looked really beat. She looked ready to fall on her face—which she just about did. Joe could feel the warmth of her arm, even through the sleeve of her jacket and blouse. He didn't want to let her go, so he didn't. They stood there in the hotel corridor, and FInCOM Agent West waited impatiently nearby.
Joe was playing with fire. He knew that he was playing with fire. But, hell. He was a demolitions expert. He was used to handling materials that could blow sky-high at any time.
Veronica looked down at his hand still on her arm, then lifted enormous blue eyes to his.
"I'm quite all right, Your Royal Highness," she said in that Julie Andrews accent.
"You're tired as hell," he countered bluntly. "Go get some sleep."
"Believe it or not, I do have some information of importance to add to this scheduling meeting," she said hotly, the crystal of her eyes turning suddenly to blue flame. "I'd truly appreciate it if you'd unhand me so we could continue on our way, Your Majesty."
"Wait," Joe said. "Don't tell me. A prince never offers a helping hand, is that it? A prince lets a lady fall on her face, right?"
"A prince doesn't take advantage of a lady's misfortune," Veronica said tightly. "You helped me—thank you. Now let me go. Please. Your Excellency."
Joe laughed. This time it was a low, dangerous sound. His hand tightened on her arm and he drew her even closer to him, so that their noses almost touched, so that Veronica could feel his body heat through the thin cotton shirt and dark slacks the tailor had left him with after the early-morning fitting.
"Babe, if you think this is taking advantage, you've never been taken advantage of." He lowered his voice and dropped his head down so he was speaking directly into her ear. "If you want, I'll demonstrate the differences. With pleasure."
She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck as he waited for her to react. He was expecting her to run, screaming, away from him. He was expecting her to be outraged, upset, angry, offended.
But all she could think about was how utterly delicious he smelled.
What would he say, what would he do if she moved her head a fraction of an inch to the right and pressed her cheek against the roughness of his chin. What would he do if she lifted her head to whisper into his ear, "Oh, yes"?
It wouldn't be the response he was expecting, that was certain.
But the truth was, this wasn't about sex, it was about power. Veronica had played hardball with the big boys long enough to know that.
It wasn't that he wasn't interested—he'd made that more than clear in the way he'd looked at her all night long. But Veronica was willing to bet that right now Joe was bluffing. And while she wasn't going to call his bluff, she was going to let him know that merely because he was bigger and stronger than she, didn't mean he'd automatically win.
So she lifted her head and, keeping her voice cool, almost chilly, said, "One would think that a Navy SEAL might be aware of the dangers of standing too long in a public corridor, considering someone out there wants Tedric—whom, by the way, you look quite a bit like these days—dead."
Joe laughed.
Not exactly the response she was expecting after her verbal attack. Another man might have been annoyed that his bluff hadn't worked. Another man might have pouted or glowered. Joe laughed.
"I don't know, Ron," he said, letting her go. His dark eyes were genuinely amused, but there was something else there, too. Could it possibly be respect? "You sound so...proper, but I don't think you really are, are you? I think it's all an act. I think you go home from work, and you take off the Margaret Thatcher costume, and let down your hair and put on some little black sequined number with stiletto heels, and you go out and mambo in some Latin nightclub until dawn."
Veronica crossed her arms. "You forgot my gigolo," she said crisply. "I go pick up my current gigolo and then we mambo till dawn."
"Let me know when there's an opening, honey," Joe said. "I'd love to apply for the job."
All humour had gone from his eyes. He was dead serious. Veronica turned away, afraid he'd see just from looking at her how appealing she found the thought of dancing with him until dawn, their bodies clasped together, moving to the pulsing beat of Latin drums.
"We'd best not keep Mr. Laughton waiting," she said. "Your Majesty."
"Damn," Joe said. "Margaret Thatcher's back."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Veronica murmured as they went into the secret-service agents' suite. "But she never left."
"Saint Mary's, right here in Washington," Veronica said from her seat next to Joe at the big conference table. "Someone keeps taking Saint Mary's off the schedule."
"It's unnecessary," Kevin Laughton said in his flat, almost-bored-sounding Midwestern accent.
"I disagree." Veronica spoke softly but firmly.
"Look, Ronnie," Senator McKinley said, and Veronica briefly shut her eyes. Lord, but Joe Catalanotto had all of them calling her Ronnie now. "Maybe you don't understand this, dear, but Saint Mary's doesn't do us any good. The building is too small, too well protected, and too difficult for the assassins to penetrate. Besides, it's not a public event. The assassins are going to want news coverage. They're going to want to make sure millions of people are watching when they kill the prince. Besides, there's no clear targeting area going into and out of the structure. It's a waste of our time."
"This visit's been scheduled for months," Veronica said quietly. "It's been scheduled since the Ustanzian secretary of press announced Prince Tedric's American tour. I think we can take one hour from one day to fulfill a promise the prince made."
Henri Freder, the Ustanzian ambassador to the United States, shifted in his seat. "Surely Prince Tedric can visit this Saint Mary's at the end of the tour, after the Alaskan cruise, on his way back home."
"That will be too late," Veronica said.
"Cruise?" Joe repeated. "If the assassins haven't been apprehended before the cruise to Alaska is scheduled, there's no way in hell we're getting on that loveboat." He looked around the table. "A cruise ship's too isolated. It's a natural target for tangos."
He smiled at their blank expressions. "Tangos," Joe repeated. "T's. Terrorists. The bad guys with guns."
Ah. There was understanding all around.
"Unless, of course, we're ready and waiting for 'em," Joe continued. "And maybe that's not such a bad idea. Replace the ship's personnel and passenger list with platoons of SEALs and-"
"No way," Laughton said. "FInCOM is handling this. It isn't some military operation. SEALs have no place in it."
"Terrorists are involved," Joe countered. "SEAL Team Ten has had extensive counterterr
orist training. My men are prepared for—"
"War," Laughton finished for him. "Your men are prepared and trained for war. This is not a war, Lieutenant."
Joe pointed to the cellular phone on the table in front of Laughton. "Then you'd better call the terrorists. Call the Cloud of Death, call up Diosdado. Call him up and tell him that this is not a war. Because he sure as hell thinks it's one."
"Please," Veronica interjected. "Before we continue, may we all agree to keep Saint Mary's on the schedule?"
McKinley frowned down at the papers in front of him. "I see from the previous list that there weren't going to be any media present at the event at Saint Mary's."
"Not all of the events scheduled were for the benefit of the news cameras, Senator," Veronica said evenly. She glanced around the table. "Gentlemen. This rescheduling means hours and hours of extra work for all of us. I'm trying my best to cooperate, as I'm sure you are, too. But I happen to know that this appearance at Saint Mary's was of utmost importance to Prince Tedric." She widened her eyes innocently. "If necessary, I'll ring up the prince and ask for his input and—"
"No need to do that," Senator McKinley said hastily.
Getting self-centreed Prince Tedric in on this scheduling nightmare was the last thing anyone wanted, Veronica included. His so-called "input" would slow this process down to a crawl. But she was prepared to do whatever she had to do to keep the visit to Saint Mary's on the schedule.
McKinley looked around the table. "I think we can keep Saint Mary's on the list." There was a murmur of agreement.
Joe watched Veronica. Her red curls were up in some kind of feminine arrangement on the top of her head. With her delicate features and innocent blue eyes, she looked every inch the demure, cool English lady; and again, Joe was struck by the feeling that her outward appearance was only an act. She wasn't demure or cool, and if his gut feelings were right, she could probably outmanipulate the entire tableful of them. Hell, she just had. But she'd done it so subtly that no one was even aware they'd been manipulated.
"About the Alaskan cruise," Senator McKinley said.
"That's not until later in the tour." Joe leaned back in his chair. "Let's keep it off the public schedule for now. We don't want the T's—terrorists—choosing that opportunity above everything else. We want 'em to strike early on. But still, we can start making arrangements with the SEAL teams, start getting 'em prepped for a potential operation aboard ship."
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