The Makeover Mission. Mary Buckham
willed herself to look away, to break the contact of his gaze pinning hers, and caught herself wondering what was in the glass he insisted she drink. More drugs? Something to keep her quiet and compliant? Until what? Or when?
“It’s just water.”
“Then you take a drink first.” She thrust it back into his hands, surprised she dared such a thing, even more surprised when he accepted it and took a long, slow draught, his gaze never leaving hers over the edge of the glass.
“It will help with the dry mouth.” He pressed it back into her hands. Obviously this man had dealt with drugged women before. Not a comforting thought. “Later, if you want, I’ll get you some aspirin for your headache.”
Yes, he definitely knew the aftereffects. Just who was this guy? And what did he want with her?
She watched him rise to his feet and cross to a chair several feet away. Only then did she sip from the glass, thankful for the cool sensation soothing her too-dry throat, yet wary as to why he was being so solicitous. He remained quiet until she had finished most of the water and placed the glass on a coffee table before her.
It was only then that she sat up and looked around her. Looked around and felt the flip-flop of her stomach. They were no longer in the small, cramped room. It looked like a plane, but not the passenger kind.
Instead it looked like a living room, with carpeted floors, two butternut-brown leather chairs on both sides of the couch she was sitting on, end tables and a series of oval windows on either side which showed nothing but blue, blue sky. With a feeling of detachment, or maybe it was hysteria again, she was glad to find that here at least she wasn’t tied to anything.
Not that she could make a run for it thousands of feet in the air, she thought, sure it was hysteria making her want to shake her head and close her eyes again.
But Gray-eyes had his own agenda.
“We’re thirty-two thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean,” he remarked, his voice calm and level. “We should be landing in a little over two hours, given our present rate of speed.”
“Landing where?”
“Dubruchek.”
“And Dubruchek is where?” Jane wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shaking.
“Dubruchek is the capital city of Vendari. A small, very important mountain country in the Balkans.”
“Important to whom?”
“To a lot of people.” He shifted in his seat, leaning forward, his fingers splayed across his knees as if they were discussing the weather. It was then she saw the gun peeping out from a shoulder holster he wore and knew, like a swift kick to the head, that this was not a dream. It was a nightmare.
“I know this is all very confusing.”
That was an understatement if she’d ever heard one. But something in his look told her he’d have little patience for pithy comments.
“Vendari is a monarchy sandwiched between two larger, and unstable countries, which makes it of strategic importance to the United States.”
Great, she wakes up to a strange man and a throbbing head only to get a geography lesson.
He continued. “It’s a monarchy with its own history of bloodshed and violence. Its last king, Zhitomir Vassilivich Tarkioff, was assassinated twenty years ago.”
“And this means what?”
“Since then they’ve undergone two attempted coups.” He was ignoring her. “Again, not without bloodshed.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
His gaze asked for patience, his voice gave nothing away.
“Today Vendari is ruled by King Viktor Stanislaus Tarkioff.”
“The man with the medals?” It was a wild guess, but obviously right on target as she saw his glance narrow, his hands tighten minutely.
“Yes, the man with the medals.”
“And what is his relationship to Elena?”
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