The Makeover Mission (11 page)

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."

They'd obviously have to work on the dictator-to-subordinate thing
some more. Couldn't she savor her own personal victory a few seconds longer?
But it was clear the major had his own agenda. Like a pro dancing instructor he
waltzed her off the stage, through a crowd of well-wishers and almost into the
limousine before she could grab a deep breath.

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.

Without waiting for approval from the man she could all but feel
steaming at her side, she reached for them, offering genuine smiles and thank
yous, unaware of how much time had passed until the major spoke again, only
this time not to her.

"Miss Rostov thanks you all but she must leave.
Now."
She knew the last word was stressed expressly for her benefit. "Or she'll
be late for another important meeting."

This time it wasn't a tug but a command as she fell into step
beside him. aware of the ring of soldiers closing in around her, blocking the
children, bringing her back to reality with their impassive faces. Did they
learn blank looks in military school? she thought peevishly as she was all but
shoved into the limo, the door closed behind her with a resounding thwack. This
time they were alone. The king's brother had obviously found another ride. No
doubt the man knew enough to stay out of the lion's den when the lion was mad.

The limo hadn't even begun to move before McConneghy leaned toward
her, his words as cold and controlled as his eyes were heated, "If you
ever pull such a stupid stunt again—"

"It wasn't a stunt." Her own voice rose, an unheard of
thing in librarian-Jane. "Can you imagine how long that little girl waited
there? And for what? For me to ignore her? For me to walk past as though she
didn't even exist?"

He ran a hand through his hair, a movement that spoke even louder
than his voice. "This isn't about that little girl."

"It is too about that little girl." She leaned forward
herself. "It's about her worth as a human being. Have you ever been
ignored by an adult? Treated like you didn't quite count because you had no
power? Kids can't fight back, they have no choice but to give way."

He gave her a sharp look, but held his tongue. Suddenly Jane found
all the energy, all the anger pumping through her evaporate. She leaned back
against her seat, her voice calmer now, her gaze locked unseeing out the
window.

"I know exactly how that little girl felt. How it is to be
invisible in a world of adults too busy, too preoccupied to notice. I've felt
like that." She wished the words didn't sound so whisper-thin. "There
was no way I could walk past that child and ignore the look on her face."

"How in the world am I supposed to keep you safe if you march
right into a crowd of potential killers?"

She heard the frustration in his voice and answered with her own.
"They were children. Not killers, or assassins, or revolutionaries. They
were simply children. Is everything in your life so black and white? Either you
know them and they are thus okay or you don't know them which mean they are a
threat? Are there no gray zones? No people who might be just what they
seem—ordinary, everyday people?"

She heard him shift, sensed he'd leaned forward, felt the brush of
his pant leg against her skirt, a move that was hard to ignore, but she was
going to try.

"Do you know how the last attempt on Elena Rostov's life was
made?"

She looked at him then, surprised he didn't freeze from it.
"As a matter of fact I don't know. I figured it was on a need-to-know
basis."

He didn't look away, though his expression tightened, his hands
came together in a tight ball. "It was a bomb, strapped to the underside
of a baby's carriage."

"There wasn't—"

"No, the carriage was empty, but we still lost seven people.
Seven." His voice sounded calm, but his expression was not. Especially his
eyes. Windows to a soul. A tormented soul. "The assassin, three of my men
and four bystanders, all because no one thought to look beneath the bloody
carriage. Nobody wanted to believe something so innocent could be deadly. And
if you think they're not beyond using a child, you're wrong."

If she thought she felt deflated before, it was nothing to what
she felt like then. She could hear the pain in McConneghy's voice. The pain and
the cost to him.

"You feel responsible for their deaths." Her words
whispered against the hum of air conditioning in the car. "You think it's
your fault they died."

"It
was
my fault." He glanced away, but not
before she saw the bleakness in his eyes deepen. "Just like it's my responsibility
if anything happens to you."

Wrong button to push.

If there was one thing she couldn't tolerate it was being a
responsibility, an obligation to someone. Her parents had never let her forget
that she was an obligation to them. Being in that position with this man was no
better. But then he was the type of man to assume obligations, to accept duty
and responsibilities, and then to live with the aftermath when things didn't go
right. How could a man like that ever understand a woman like her? Worlds apart
and no common ground.

She leaned her head against the seat, closing her eyes. "I
didn't accept the flowers to make your job harder."

"I know you didn't, but the end result was the same."

She wondered if he knew he'd sworn aloud. "It doesn't change
the fact that I can't ignore those people. I won't purposefully put you or your
men at risk but you can't expect me to change what I am inside just because I
look like someone else on the outside."

"I can't protect you if you won't follow orders."

Trains on one-way tracks were hard to change. But research
librarians did not give up if they didn't find what they wanted in the first
place they looked.

"You're treating me like a subordinate. Again." She
opened her eyes, glad to see the signs of strain on his face lessening.
"Isn't there a way we can compromise?"

"I won't compromise with your life."

She told herself he'd say the same thing, feel the same way with
any of his responsibilities, but that didn't seem to stop the warmth spreading
through her at his words.

She closed her eyes again, feeling the emotional drain of the last
few hours. "I have great faith in your ability to find a solution to our
dilemma, Major."

He made a sound that might have been a snort. His tone was dry as
he remarked, "Now you have faith in me?"

"Of course." She couldn't help the yawn. "The king
said you fixed problems. This is your area of expertise."

Lucius didn't know if he wanted to lose his legendary sense of
control, or applaud the woman before him for neatly boxing him into a corner, a
very tight corner.

She sat before him, her eyes closed, creating half moons of dark
lashes against her satin skin, her breathing even and deep, while he churned
inside like an ocean beneath a typhoon's wind.

Part of it was residual fear. The minute she'd broken pattern and
approached the crowd he'd aged ten years. Logically he knew she didn't have a
clue what she was up
against. Why should he?
Librarians from the midwest
didn't have to fear
crowds and the threats so easily hidden in their midst. But logic had nothing
to do with the riot of emotions erupting within him when she'd made her
instinctive move toward the small child.

He'd heard it in her voice. That need to make another feel good,
to make sure they were acknowledged, that their gesture did not go
unrecognized. It was a move worthy of a country's ruler, and Tarkioff would be
blessed if he had such a mate at his side.

That was part of the problem. She was
not
Elena Rostov. Her
role was
not
to make the future queen beloved by the people, it was to
make sure there was going to be a future queen. And to do that she needed to
stay alive. He had to make sure she stayed alive.

But there was more than that, and he knew it. Not that he liked
accepting it, his job was challenging enough without emotions clouding issues,
but damn if he was going to let her get hurt—at all—in this mission. She'd had
no choice but to be a part, and he couldn't go back and fix that, though in his
final report he was going to make darn good and sure heads would roll because of
it. But he could do everything in his power to make sure she came out in one
piece. If she let him do his job.