The Makeover Mission

“Ms. Rostov knows exactly what she’s getting out of the deal, so don’t waste any pity there.”

Her eyebrows arched again, making him feel like someone who routinely stole candy from children.

“We don’t have much time and a lot to cover,” he said.

“Of course.” Damn, if she didn’t sound like a prissy librarian catching him chewing gum behind the stacks. He resisted the urge to squirm. Barely.

“We’ll be landing at Dubruchek’s only airport where one of the king’s limos will pick us up.”

“Will the king be there?”

“No. He’s involved in a series of high-level meetings that will occupy most of his time for the next couple of days.”

He could have sworn she looked relieved at the news.

“Will I have to…to interact with him much?”

“You are his fiancée.”

“I’m a hostage pretending that I’m a political pawn entering a loveless marriage,” she threw back, blowing a stream of air that made the midnight-black strands of hair dance around her face. “I just want to know how far I’m going to have to take this farce.”

“No, you will not be expected to sleep with the king if that is what you’re asking, Ms. Richards.” Now it was his turn to sound prissy and her look told him as much.

She released the breath she’d obviously been holding.

“We don’t know the principals behind the last attempt on Ms. Rostov’s life and, until we do, we have to assume any number of individuals close to the king may be involved.”

“But you do have some suspects?”

Too many to count, he silently acknowledged, including some bad customers he’d tangled with in the past. But that was his problem, not hers.

“There are suspects.” Instead of replying with specifics he nodded his head, scanning a sheaf of papers he had extracted from a file. “You’ll want to be on your guard. At all times. Trust no one. No one. Am I clear?”

When she didn’t answer immediately he raised his head, catching the speculative look in her dark eyes.

“Is there a problem?”

She shrugged and looked away. “I’m assuming that includes trusting you.”

“Especially me.”

He let his words hover between them, laser-sharp and lethal. There was no point in pretending otherwise. There was too much at risk for both of them.

He watched her swallow, hard, before she pasted a shaky smile on her lips and leaned forward. “I’ll keep your advice uppermost in mind.”

He could like her at that moment. Admit, if only to himself, he admired the flashes of fire she probably wasn’t even aware she possessed. But there was no room for such thoughts or feelings.

Instead he glanced at the papers and continued as if the last seconds hadn’t occurred. “Elena Rostov is the only daughter of Pavlov Rostov. Her mother died when she was still a baby and she’s been raised almost exclusively in Switzerland.”

“Will her family know I’m impersonating her?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Surely you can’t believe her family wants her killed?”

“We can’t take that chance. It’s a known fact that Pavlov Rostov would gain a lot of sympathy if his daughter is killed.”

“But—”

He rose to his feet. “Have no doubt about the matter, Ms. Richards. We have taken care to protect you from coming too close to the Rostov family. As for others, make no mistake, there are a lot of individuals who would benefit by Ms. Rostov’s death.”

“You mean my death.” She looked at him then, her gaze holding him as effectively as any set of restraints. “I think you’ve been honest, at least as honest as you think you can be. Let’s not pretty up the picture at this point.”

“All right.” He set down the file he’d been clutching. “You’re in a very precarious position.”

He thought she mumbled something about an understatement but couldn’t be sure.

“It’s my job to make sure you’re safe and I’m very good at my job.” He wished she didn’t look quite so skeptical at his statement. “I’m going to be right at your side as much as possible while you’re in Vendari. If there’s an attempt on your life, they’ll have to go through me to do it.”

When she gave no response, not that there was a need for one, he glanced behind her shoulders and caught sight of the granite-studded mountains of Vendari out the plane windows.

Their time was up. Ready or not.

“Buckle up, Ms. Richards. We’ll be in Dubruchek in a few moments.” He heard the command in his tone and wished it could be otherwise. But wishes wouldn’t keep Jane Richards alive.

Chapter 3

Jane’s hands shook as she buckled her seat belt. How was she possibly going to get through this? Nothing in her life had prepared her for international politics, mysterious missions or heroics. Especially heroics.

She came from the heartland of America, the backbone, not the front lines. She could get through her monthly grant-writing workshop, giving a little talk that would have her sweating and wishing for oblivion. And once she’d given the welcoming speech for a visiting library dignitary, which had her stomach in knots for weeks.

Now this total stranger, of wary glances and few words, wanted her to impersonate someone who, judging by her taste in clothes alone, was more sophisticated than Jane could ever hope to be.

As if he read her thoughts, or the panic she felt welling from her very toes, the major glanced her way.

“Breathe,” he ordered, as if that alone would make a difference. “The temperature in Dubruchek should be around eighty degrees.”

She didn’t need a tour guide. She needed a miracle. But his gaze on her remained calm, his voice low and level.

“The country is land-locked by mountains, keeping it cool in the summer months. Many think it resembles Switzerland.”

Great, she was going to die in paradise. Was she supposed to take consolation in that?

“Because of the mountains, and except for Dubruchek and the smaller city of Dracula, most of the locals live in small farming villages.”

“Dracula?”

He shrugged as if he didn’t hear the terror in her single word. “It was a poor choice I agree, but the town’s founders were told it was a well-known name in English literature.”

“I guess it could have been worse. Something like Frankenstein definitely would have kept away tourist dollars.”

“Most likely.” He offered her a crooked smile that softened the harshness of his face. Making it charming, almost, though she didn’t think he’d be flattered by the observation. But it was a smile.

A first, she realized, surprised to find that something as small as that was helping. The panic was still there, but so was something else. Not camaraderie, exactly. Major McConneghy didn’t look like the type to indulge in camaraderie. A knowledge that she wasn’t going alone into the unknown. Unwilling, maybe, but not alone.

“We’re here.”

She felt the thud of wheels hit the tarmac, heard the whine of engines reversing themselves.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

He paused in the act of unbuckling, his movements economical, unhurried. Nothing like what she was feeling, fear freezing everything.

“Of course you can do it.” He stood, moving toward where she still sat, petrified in her seat. He knelt beside her, unbuckling her seat belt as if she were a small child, extending his open palm to help her to her feet.

She placed her hand in his. An automatic response, she told herself, until she felt the heat of his fingers close around hers, comforting and commanding at the same time.

“When the door opens you’ll step forward—”

Her breath hitched but he continued, pulling her to her feet.

“I’ll be right beside you. If there are reporters nearby you’ll wave and act as if everything is fine.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

He gave her a look that reminded her of her maiden aunt Gertrude. The one who didn’t like sticky-fingered, skinned-kneed little kids.

“We’ll walk down the stairs and directly to the waiting limo.”

He propelled her forward, giving her no choice but to move, his hand no longer holding hers but tight around her bare arm. She swore it would leave a brand there, but wasn’t sure she could blame it all on him, not when she was dragging her feet as much as he was tugging her forward.

“What if there are reporters and they want to talk?”

“They’ve been informed you’re still a little shaken.”

“I won’t have to act that part.”

“—and that there’ll be a formal news conference.”

When her knees started to buckle at that piece of information he only held on tighter and added, “Later.”

“But what if—”

“You’ll be fine. Just smile and wave.”

“But—”

The man obviously didn’t take terror as a reason not to keep plunging forward. Already the sounds of a ramp being adjusted into place sounded from the other side.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” Major Gray-eyes all but breathed against her ear, his words meant for her alone. “You’ve made your choice.”

As if she’d been slapped with cold water she felt her panic recede. Anger replaced it. She’d had no choice. Not really, and the look she gave her abductor told him as much. Right before she shrugged off his hold, straightened her shoulders and told herself that nothing, no one, especially not a gray-eyed dictator standing almost on top of her, was going to know the cost of the next few minutes.

When the door slid open, and a rush of fresh mountain air washed against her, she stepped forward. The sunlight blinded her, the air chilled her skin, creating a ridge of goose bumps along her arms. She wanted to choke. Or cry. And made herself do neither.

Just as he’d said, there was a crowd of people beyond a barricade of orange cones and yellow flapping tape. She raised a hand to her eyes to cut the glare and scan the rest of the tarmac.

A stretch limo waited at the far end of a blue-carpeted runway that began at the base of the stairs where she stood.

Once, long, long ago, when she had watched a television special about a Hollywood star, she’d wondered what it would be like to ride in a car the length of a city block. Now she was about to find out—if an assassin’s bullet didn’t stop her first.

“Don’t think about it.” The major spoke behind her. Either a remarkably astute man or a compassionate one. But that would make him human and she didn’t want to think of him that way. Not when he was the reason she was in this mess in the first place. “Smile and wave.”

She did. Ignoring that her arm felt like a lead weight and her jaw muscles ached after only a few seconds.

The major took her arm; from a distance it probably looked as if he was assisting, not forcing her to take the first step down the metal stairs. First one, then another.

“I can walk by myself,” she muttered between stiff lips locked in a smile. “You don’t have to worry I’ll run away.”

“There’s nowhere to run.”

Oh, the man was just a font of cheerful news.

“Pause before we enter the limo and give the reporters one last photo op.”

She did as he asked, no, demanded, and was never as thankful as when she slid into the cool leather interior of the vehicle and heard the door slam shut behind her.

So far, so good, Lucius thought, watching the color seep back into Jane’s face as she leaned against the limo’s luxurious seats, her eyes closed, her breathing less shallow than it had been only moments ago. He’d give her a minute, but couldn’t afford much more than that.

He watched her eyes flutter open and asked, “Feeling better now?”

“No.”

He wouldn’t smile. Not at her acerbic response, or the brutal honesty of it.

“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 accommodating 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.