The Makeover Mission. Mary Buckham
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.