The Makeover Mission (3 page)

Instead of answering directly, Gray-eyes leaned back in his seat,
his gaze shifting to scan the horizon out the row of small windows, his
expression blank.

She thought he might have sighed before he turned to face her
again. "Elena Illanya Rostov is the king's fiancée."

If she thought pushing for answers was going to make things
clearer, she was wrong. She was more confused now than when they had started
this bizarre conversation.

"I don't get it." Ignoring the pain it caused, she shook
her head, and tightened the grip of her hands wrapped around her arms.
"Why does it matter that I look like this Elena Ro…Ros…"

"Rostov."

"Why does it matter that I look like her?"

"Take my word for it that it does. That's all."

Obviously she wasn't going to get any more information. At least
for now. He rose from his seat, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of
pressed khaki pants, uneasy about something. He walked away and she guessed it
did not bode well for her.

Lucius glanced out the window, seeing nothing, buying time, even
seconds worth of time. How had things unraveled so quickly? Had it been only
minutes ago that he was thankful Jane Richards wasn't in hysterics or fighting
him tooth and nail? Not that he'd blame either reaction. But he wasn't getting
that.

His limited research had informed him she'd taken a job as a
librarian straight out of college, was dependable and conscientious in her
habits, didn't even have an outstanding parking ticket to her name and, if a
bit boring, could be expected to behave in a rational manner.

What they had neglected to discover was that she was also a woman
who had a quick and ready intelligence. One able to control herself under the
most extreme circumstances, and one who was unlikely to accept pat and pretty
answers about what was going on.

Things were going to hell in a hand basket.

"You're not answering my question." She sounded almost
prissy.

If he didn't think it would get him into hot water he'd smile at
her tone. Didn't she realize he was the one in the position of dictating—not
her?

He turned to face her, wondering if he was doing it for her
sake—or his own. "Elena Rostov plays a very pivotal part in the politics
of Vendari. She's the daughter of one of the king's leading rivals for
power."

"So her marriage to the king consolidates power in the
country."

"Exactly."

"I still don't see why it's important that I look like
her."

"Because early last month there was an assassination attempt
against her."

Silence hung in the air. McConneghy could tell to the second when
she grasped what he was saying.

"If Elena dies, the country could be plunged back into civil
war?"

"Not could. Would. There's no doubt about it. Her family has
a distant contention to the throne. If she's killed it will be seen as an attempt
to discredit her family's future ties to the royal family."

"So you're trying to make sure that the marriage goes
through."

"Once Elena and the king are married, her value as a
political pawn is decreased."

"Because?"

"Before her marriage Elena is seen as much as a daughter to
her father, Pavlov Rostov, as a fiancée to the king. After the marriage—"

"After the marriage, if she's killed, the king or his family
will no longer be the prime suspects."

He'd definitely have to watch himself around this one, he thought,
admiration—and wariness—increasing.

"So where do I come in?"

Seconds ticked past while he grappled for the right words. As if
there could be "right words" in a situation like this. "We need
a stand-in for Elena. Until the wedding."

"A what?" She rose to her feet now, facing him across
the cabin, all color drained from her face.

"We need a volunteer to take Elena's place until the
wedding."

"A volunteer?"

"Just until the wedding."

"To do what?"

It was getting sticky. "To take over her official duties. To
portray her in public."

The silence thickened until he could have sworn he heard the
pilots breathing in the cockpit.

"Portray her in public?"

"Just routine. At this time she has no real duties, but she's
appearing among the people before the wedding so that they feel a part of the
process."

"You want a guinea pig." Her voice rose an octave. So
she wasn't as calm as he might originally have thought. "No. No, make that
a target. A sacrificial lamb."

He could lie to her. Tell her he'd do everything in his power to
protect her, which he planned to do, anyway. But there was something in her
gaze that made him hesitate. He could appreciate someone who wanted the
truth—the unvarnished truth—rather than platitudes.

"That's exactly what we need."

She swayed. He moved to prevent her crumpling to the floor, but at
the last second she raised her hands, warding him off. He told himself he
deserved her lack of trust. But that didn't mean he liked it.

She lowered herself to the couch, perching on the very edge of the
leather cushions, her fingers curled into the fabric as if she was holding on
for dear life. When she glanced at him he saw the confusion, the disbelief in
her gaze. If he'd felt like pond scum before, he felt like bottom sludge now.

"Who are you?"

It was a fair question, just not one he had expected so soon.
"My name's McConneghy. Lucius McConneghy."

"Major McConneghy."

Yes, he'd definitely have to watch himself around her.

"Major Lucius McConneghy."

"Which branch of the military?"

This is where things started to really get sticky. "It's an
obscure bureau tucked in a back corner of the Pentagon."

"But it's one that allows you to abduct and drug unsuspecting
civilians in broad daylight and transfer them, against their will, to small
eastern European countries?"

"Something like that."

"Aren't there laws against that type of thing? Or do you
think yourself above the law?"

He tried to ignore the disdain in her voice, but couldn't. Then he
wondered why it didn't just slide off his back as it should.

"There are times when laws have to be bent."

"Semantics."

"Reality."

She was glaring at him now. No longer looking as though she'd
crumple and fold, for which he was grateful.

"There are people who're going to notice I'm gone."

He heard the hope and knew he had no choice but to crush it. Hope
might cause her to take unacceptable risks, putting both her life and the lives
of his team at risk. So why did it feel as if he was destroying a child's
vision of Santa Claus? Sometimes he hated his job.

"The library has been notified there's an illness in your
family. That you'll be away for some time."

"You know I work at a library?" She shook her head,
obviously not comprehending the means available to someone like him to meet a strategic
objective.

"Of course you know." She slid back against the
cushions, her shoulders slumped, her voice less forceful. "What else have
you taken care of?"

"We've canceled your speaking engagement for the
grant-writing seminar, asked your landlady to look after your cat until you
return and have arranged to have your bills automatically paid, courtesy of
Uncle Sam."

If he thought he would interject a little levity into the
situation he was dead wrong. Her gaze, when she raised it to his, was as bleak as
any he'd ever seen. And that was saying a lot.

"I have friends—"

"Not a lot I'm afraid. And they've received word that you're
off to visit an elderly sick aunt. Aunt Dorothy."

"I don't have an aunt Dorothy."

"We know it. Fortunately, from our perspective, you do not
have many close friends." He watched her shoulders slump more and felt
like a heel. But she had to know where she stood. "In fact, very few know
you outside of your work. Your parents are both dead. No siblings. No
lovers."

She blushed, keeping her gaze averted as she mumbled, "So
you've made me disappear with no one the wiser?"

"Yes."

"And what if I don't want to play stand-in for this Elena?
What if I refuse?"

"You have no choice."

"Meaning what exactly?"

Time to play hardball. He sat back in the chair, making sure he
enunciated each word clearly. There'd be no doubt here. Neither one of them
could afford it. "You can agree to play the part of Ms. Rostov, attending
functions, being seen in public, doing what any young woman would do on the eve
of her marriage—"

"Or?"

"Or Elena Rostov can be devastated from her recent ordeal and
need to be kept under sedation until she's feeling better."

"You'd drug me? Again?"

He couldn't be swayed by the despair he heard in her voice, nor
the silent appeal he read in her gaze.

"Yes, if we had to, we'd drug you. It's up to you."

"Even if it meant that, being drugged, I'd have no chance at
all against someone trying to kill me?"

She caught on quick.

"You'll have all the protection we're able to—"

"Enough." She shot to her feet, pacing to the far side
of the plane as if she wanted to put as much distance as possible between them.

"I might not have a lot of experience in this sort of thing,
but I'm not a total idiot, either. If you were so sure you could provide total
protection you'd have no problem with Elena continuing as she has been."

No, this woman was definitely not slow on the uptake.

"I could lie to you."

She speared him a withering glance. Who'd have thought dark eyes
could hold such fire?

He changed his tactics, if not his tone. "Do you want me to
tell you what we're asking doesn't hold risks?"

"It'd be a lie. And you're not asking."

"You have a choice here."

"Not much of one. You've made darn good and sure of
that."

"We didn't create the situation, Ms. Richards."

"But you brought me into it. Against my will. Without my
knowledge." She paused, gulping air before she added. "And now you
have the audacity to tell me I have a choice."

Yeah, the lady saw too clearly what she was up against.

He rose to his feet and glanced at his watch. "It might be
best if you thought of it as a service to your country. A vital service. We'll
be landing within an hour. I have some things to see to in the cockpit."
Which was an out-and-out lie, but right then the only thing he could think to
give to her was space and a little time. A very little time. "I'll need
your decision when I return."

He didn't wait for her answer. As she had pointed out, there
wasn't much to choose between. But for her sake, and the sake of the mission,
he hoped she'd make the right choice. If she didn't, well he'd deal with that
if and when the need came.

Jane watched Gray-eyes, or Major McConneghy, or whatever he wanted
to call himself walk silently from the cabin space and disappear through a
metal door marked Private. She waited until she heard the click of the door
being closed before she gave in to what she'd wanted to do since she'd opened
her eyes. With a small oath her co-workers from the library never would have
suspected she knew, she sank into the nearest chair, her legs no longer capable
of holding her. Her head slipped into her hands, despair finally overcoming her
outrage, her fear, her confusion.

How dare some nameless government agency snatch her from her sane,
comfortable world and force her to become a target in some obscure country's
game of survival? And
force
was the operative word. Even the major
didn't pretend there was much of an option. For that at least she was thankful.
Not that she was willing to give the man points for anything else.

It didn't take a high IQ to know he was the brains behind this
crazy scheme. That he was the puppet master, pulling strings and disrupting
lives with as much compassion as a sponge soaked in vinegar.

She glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was a little after
ten in the morning. Which morning she wasn't sure, but she did know exactly
what she'd be doing if some grim-lipped major hadn't changed everything.

She'd have been at work for a little over an hour. If it was
Wednesday, the weekly staff meeting would just be finishing and she'd be
rotating from the main circulation desk to the information desk. She'd handle
questions, from the obvious to the esoteric, feeling as if, in her small way,
she was helping others.

So what if she didn't have a large social life outside of the
library? Or really any, to speak of. The stark facts the major laid out before
her were pretty bleak. No family, no friends, no life. How did he phrase it? No
lovers. But it still was her life. She should be the one in control of it.