The Makeover Mission (17 page)

"They have changed. You're not the only one who can dictate
orders around here."

"Care to make a bet on that?"

Indecision flickered in her gaze, as if she'd backed herself into
a corner without a clue how to get out.

"I don't have to make a bet." That prissy tone again. He
must be masochistic to be aroused by it. "I can and will take care of
myself. No more meekly following your orders while you set me up as a
pigeon."

Now they were getting to the real issue.

"You knew what you were getting into before you ever landed
on Vendari." Or at least as much as she needed to know, he amended
silently.

"Not quite. I think you left a few details out."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind." She backed away, standing stiff and straight,
her hands fiddling with the folds of her dress, her eyes wary once again.
"I believe it's time to leave."

"Not until you get one thing straight here."

"And what would that be?"

Damn if he didn't want to haul her up against him and kiss that
upper-crust, straitlaced superiority off her lips. Instead he lowered his
voice, surprised she didn't flinch from it.

"While in Vendari, you're my responsibility. Mine alone. And
if you want to get out of this place in one piece you
will
follow
my
orders to the letter."

"Oh?" He thought she meant it to be belligerent, but it
came out too breathless for that.

"You're not in Kansas anymore, Jane."

"I never was." She gave him a look that could slay
dragons. "And if you remember correctly, I'm from South Dakota,
not
Kansas."

He remembered, he thought, as she walked away in a cloud of Chanel
No. 5 and swishing silk. He remembered only too well.

The woman was going to be the death of him yet.

Jane watched the soft greens of Vendari slip past the limo's
windows, surprised the chill from inside the car wasn't withering everything in
sight. McConneghy sat across from her, his long legs stretched in front of him,
dominating the space, his expression as friendly as a shark waiting for dinner.

Was it only a few days ago she'd thought they'd progressed to
having a friendly relationship? It was amazing what a few days could do.

She caught her fingers folding and unfolding the cream-colored
silk of her skirt and stopped, but not before she noted McConneghy's attention
on her hands. That and the flash of a smugly superior smile.

Her parents used to employ a similar tactic when she'd misbehaved
or displeased them. Disapproving silence once made her disappear into her room,
caused her stomach to roil, and left her stammering when asked a direct
question.

Once, when she'd broken a Sèvres china cup belonging to a
great-great-grandmother, she'd spent nearly a week walking around on tiptoes.
Aware there was nothing she could do to make the eggshell pieces whole again,
waiting for the slashing, biting words that would tell her in no uncertain
terms what a failure she was. But they never came. Just the tight-lipped
silence, glances that looked through her and a tenseness that was a thousand
times worse than any outburst.

With a small humorless smile, she wanted to let Lucius McConneghy
know she wasn't going to be cowed by his displeasure. Not when she'd been
taught by pros and knew, no matter how long, nor how heavy the silence could
be, she could outlast it. Maybe.

"We're here." His voice sliced through the silence like
steel through air.

She involuntarily flinched, knowing McConneghy was watching her
every move. Nothing to be ashamed of, she told herself, ignoring his
outstretched hand as she slid out of the limo. Just because she possessed nerves
and he didn't, there was no need to be ashamed of them. So why did she feel
she'd given something away? Exposed a chink in her armor, a suit she knew had
gaping holes. And why did it matter? Who cared if McConneghy knew she was a
mass of raw nerve endings and insecurities? His opinion was nothing to her.
Nothing.

If only she could remember that.

"Mademoiselle Rostov," a plump-faced man with sweat
along his upper lip greeted her. "We are most honored by your visit."

"It is my pleasure. I thank you for inviting me." Was it
only days ago she would have stumbled and stuttered over the polite phrases
that slipped so quickly from her tongue now? Her smile no longer felt frozen,
nor her legs like jelly, and, for chunks of time, she forgot she wasn't Elena
Rostov.

But today McConneghy's scrutiny made her remember. Did he expect
her to expose them all? She glanced at him and realized that's exactly what he
was waiting for. It was there, in the tenseness of his stance, the way his own
gaze remained riveted on hers, the deepening of the creases bracketing his
eyes.

And what if she did? What if she turned to the smiling gentleman
even now guiding them to a raised wooden stage in the middle of a parking lot
jammed with onlookers and casually remarked that it was all a ruse, she was not
Elena Rostov and would he be so kind as to find her a flight back to Sioux
Falls.

"It won't work." McConneghy whispered at her side, his
thoughts matching hers line by line.

"I don't know what you mean." Though lying to a man who
missed nothing was pointless.

"This way, Miss Rostov," someone remarked to her right.

She turned, feeling McConneghy's arm brush hers, his body acting
as a warning. There was no escaping it. Of escaping him. It was then she heard the
sounds.

Firecrackers? It sounded like the Christmas Eve party her parents
held, one she had watched from between the rails of the second-floor landing.
Her father had exploded a bottle, its cork sailing across the room as people
laughed and cheered. But this sound was like multiple bottles popping.

The next minutes slowed as time and sound froze.

Open-mouthed dignitaries revolved around her, yet no voices came.
A muted roar rose and fell, but far, far away, like an ocean's pulse in the
distance.

Hands reached toward her.

Nothing seemed real.

Until a hard body slammed her to the ground. Gravel bit into her
palms, her cheek, her knees.

Reality rushed home with a crash.

"What—"

"Stay down." McConneghy's voice shouted in her ear, his
body grinding her into the asphalt parking lot. "Do exactly as I
say."

She would, when she caught her breath, which she could do if he'd
just budge a little.

"Quit squirming."

He held her head tightly down.

"I said hold still."

"Can't breathe." The pressure eased. A little. When it
did, she was aware of several things at once. Screams intensified. It was no
longer a wall of sound but individual bursts, high-pitched and hysterical. The
other awareness? McConneghy's body covering hers, enveloping it; a lover's
intimacy. Though there was nothing romantic about being sandwiched between a
man who paid no more attention to her than to the hard ground still grinding
into her skin.

He had raised himself on one arm, his gun drawn and poised, his
whole attention focused on scanning the milling, pushing crowd. The only clue
that he wasn't his calm, cool self was the beating of his heart, the pulse she
could feel racing with her own, measure-by-measure, as he lay pressed against
her.

"Stay still." She wondered if he was dictating to her or
to the feet running this way and that just beyond where she lay.

As far as she could tell the popping noises had stopped. Either
that or the shouting drowned them out.

"When I say three we're going to get up, keeping your head
tucked as low as possible, and head for that stack of chairs there."

She couldn't see anything except pavement and running shoes.

"What chairs?"

"Follow my lead."

As if she had any choice. But he was already counting.

"One."

Wait, she didn't know which direction they were running.

"Two."

Was he crazy? What if her legs didn't work?

"Three. Go."

His gun-free arm pulled her into a low crouch, holding her and
covering her at the same time. She felt like a humped camel with a shield. A
shield propelling her forward.

"Run."

The man was going to be the end of her. How could she run bent
over like a question mark, unable to see in front of her and with his legs so
intertwined with hers they could have passed as a four-legged creature instead
of two?

"Stop being difficult." His words brushed against her.

Of all the … thoughts fled her as they reached the rectangular
pile of chairs sandwiched one on top of another. He squeezed her between their
metal solidity and his own. Now she knew how a piece of lunchmeat felt. She
squelched the thought while trying to kneel on scraped knees and keep from
having a chair leg's permanent indent on her cheek.

"For cripes sake, hold still."

"Quit squashing me and I will." She knew he was trying
to do what he saw as his job, but did it mean he had to turn her into a mass of
black and blue bruises in the process?

He shifted, not by much, and barked orders into a small black disc
attached to his sport jacket. Had she noticed that there before? Or, like so
many other things about this man she wasn't willing to see or deal with, had
she turned a blind eye to it?

Like the final drop of water that fills a bucket to overflowing
she found herself wanting to shut down. The conversation with the king, a long,
sleepless night, the confrontation over breakfast and now this, unfolding
before them, all merged and jumbled. It was like a shouting match with too many
voices joining in all at once. The result—a need to cringe from the onslaught,
back away, and regroup.

"Jane. Jane? Got it?"

She shook her head, aware that McConneghy must have been talking,
or more like dictating something to her. But she'd blocked it all out.

There was something different about his voice though, that got
through to her. His voice and his words. It took her a moment to realize what
it was. Her name. He'd called her by her real name. Not Elena Rostov or Miss
Richards. He'd called her by her real name.

Lucius told himself to keep his voice level, his manner calm, no
matter how much adrenaline surged through his blood. He ignored the fear he
wasn't ready to deal with, a fear out of all proportion to what he should be
feeling, and all centered on this woman. The one whose eyes gazed up at him,
too large in the paleness of her face, whose whole expression said she was one
step away from shock or hysteria.

Not that he blamed her.

"It's going to be all right. The team's contained the
problem." When she didn't respond, he added, "Just a man celebrating
the birth of his child next block over."

"I don't understand." She remained crouched where she
was until he put his hands beneath her arms and slowly pulled her to her feet,
feeling as if he was dealing with fine crystal, ready to splinter at any
moment.

"The gunshots came from a man firing a pistol into the air.
Celebrating the birth of his first-born."

"Gunshots?"

He didn't know if he wanted to shake her, bring back some of that
fire he'd heard in her voice only moments ago, or pull her into his arms and
make her promises he knew he couldn't keep.

"Sit down over here." He practically had to drag her to
the nearest chair, feeling her tremors as he eased her into it. He snagged the
arm of a woman who looked as though she could get things done and demanded,
"Get…" for a second he almost said Jane, but caught himself. An
indication of how unstable he was. "Get Miss Rostov a glass of juice or a
cold soda. Something with plenty of sugar in it. If you can't find it anywhere
else check for some in the limo. And bring her a blanket."

The woman looked at him as if he was crazy. The morning sun was
already high and hot in the sky; asking for a blanket was like asking for more
sand in a desert. But once the woman's gaze shifted to Jane sitting in the
chair, she nodded and left.

Lucius crouched down beside Jane, taking her hands between his.
Ice would have felt warmer.

"There's nothing to worry about. It's all over now."
This time.

She looked at him as if he were a lifeline, reaching inside him to
tug at emotions he thought locked away. "Those were gunshots?"

For a moment he wondered if she'd already snapped until he remembered
who she really was and where she'd come from. In that other world, the one he
tried so hard to protect, he'd almost forgotten people could live their whole
lives without being exposed to the type of violence he lived with day after
day. Guns, bombs, exploding land mines, it was as alien to her life as porch
swings, slow summer evenings and babies were to his. Something he'd do well to
remember.