Joe’s short dark hair was about six inches longer—and no longer short—thanks to the hair extensions the tired-looking stylist had almost finished attaching.
It was odd, seeing himself with long hair like this.
Joe had grown his hair out before, when he’d had advance warning of covert operations. But he liked wearing his hair short. It wasn’t military-regulation short, just a comfortable length that was easy to deal with.
Long hair got in the way. It worked its way into his mouth, hung in his face, and got in his eyes at inopportune moments.
And it made him look like that cowardly idiot, Tedric Cortere.
Which was precisely the point, right now.
God help them, Joe vowed, if they expected him to wear those satin suits with the ruffles and metallic trim, and those garish rings on his fingers. No, God help him. This was a job, and if the powers that be wanted him to dress like an idiot, he was going to have to dress like an idiot. Like it or not.
Joe stared into the mirror at the opulence of the hotel room. This place gave him the creeps. He was nervous he might break something or spill something or touch something he wasn’t supposed to touch. And his nervousness really annoyed him. Why should he be nervous? Why should he feel intimidated? It was only a lousy hotel room, for Pete’s sake. The only difference between this room and the cheap motel rooms he stayed in when he traveled was that here the TV wasn’t chained down. Here there was a phone in the bathroom. And the towels were thick and plentiful. And the carpets were plush and clean. And the wallpaper wasn’t stained, and the curtains actually closed all the way, and the furniture wasn’t broken and mismatched. Oh yeah, and the price tag for a one-night stay—that was different, too.
Sheesh, this place was as different from the places he usually stayed as night was to day, Joe reminded himself.
But the truth was, he wished he was staying at a cheap motel. At least then he could lie on the bed and put his feet up without being afraid he’d ruin the bedspread. At least he wouldn’t feel so goddammed out of his league.
But he was stuck here until another assassination attempt was made or until the prince’s U.S. tour ended in five weeks.
Five weeks.
Five weeks of feeling out of place. Of being afraid to touch anything.
“Don’t touch!” he could still hear his mother say, when as a kid, he went along on her trips to Scarsdale, where she cleaned houses that were ten times the size of their tiny Jersey City apartment. “Don’t touch, or you’ll hear from your father when we get home.”
Except Joe didn’t have a father. He had a whole slew of stepfathers and “uncles,” but no father. Still, whoever was temporarily playing the part of dear old dad at home would have leaped at any excuse to kick Joe’s insolent butt into tomorrow.
Jeez, what was wrong with him? He hadn’t thought about those “happy” memories in years.
The hotel-room door opened with an almost-inaudible click and Joe tensed. He looked up, turning his head and making the hairdresser sigh melodramatically.
But Joe had been too well-trained to let someone come into the room without giving them the once-over. Not while he was looking more and more like a man who’d been an assassin’s target just this morning.
It was only the media consultant. Veronica St. John.
She posed no threat.
Joe turned his head, looking back into the mirror, waiting for the rush of relief, for the relaxation of the tension in his shoulders.
But it never came. Instead of relaxing, he felt as if all of his senses had gone on alert. As if he’d suddenly woken up. It was as if he were about to go into a combat situation. The colors in the wallpaper seemed sharper, clearer. The sounds of the hairdresser behind him seemed louder. And his sense of smell heightened to the point where he caught a whiff of Veronica St. John’s subtle perfume from all the way across the room.
“Good God,” she said in her crisp, faintly British-accented voice. “You look…amazing.”
“Well, thank you, sweetheart. You’re not so bad yourself.”
She’d moved to where he could see her behind him in the mirror, and he glanced up, briefly meeting her gaze.
Blue eyes. Oh, baby, those eyes were blue. Electric blue. Electric-shock blue.
Joe looked up at her again and realized that the current of awareness and attraction that had shot through him had gone through her, as well. She looked as surprised as he felt. Surprised, no doubt, that a guy from his side of the tracks could catch her eye.
Except he didn’t look like himself anymore. He looked like Prince Tedric.
It figured.
“I see you had the opportunity to take a shower,” she said, no longer meeting his eyes. “Did your clothes get taken down to the laundry?”
“I think so,” he said. “They were gone when I got out of the bathroom. I found this hotel robe…I’d appreciate it if you could ask Admiral Forrest to send over a uniform in the morning. And maybe some socks and shorts…?”
Veronica felt her cheeks start to heat. Lord, what was wrong with her? Since when did the mention of men’s underwear make her face turn as red as a schoolgirl’s?
Or maybe it wasn’t the mention of unmentionables that was making her blush. Maybe it was the thought that this very large, very charismatic, very handsome, and very, very dangerous man was sitting here, with absolutely nothing on underneath his white terry-cloth robe.
From the glint in his dark brown eyes, it was clear that he was able to read her mind.
She used every ounce of her British schooling to keep her voice sounding cool and detached. “There’s no need, Your Highness,” she said. “We go from here to your suite. A tailor will be arriving soon. He’ll provide you with all of the clothing you’ll need for the course of the next few weeks.”
“Whoa,” Joe said. “Whoa, whoa! Back up a sec, will ya?”
“A tailor,” Veronica repeated. “We’ll be meeting with him shortly. I realize it’s late, but if we don’t get started with—”
“No, no,” Joe said. “Before that. Did you just call me ‘Your Highness’?”
“I’m done here,” the hairdresser said. In a monotone, he quickly ran down a quick list of things Joe could and could not do with the extensions in his hair. “Swim—yes. Shower—yes. Run a comb through your hair—no. You have to be careful to comb only above and below the attachment.” He turned to Veronica. “You have my card if you need me again.”
“Find Mr. Laughton on your way out,” Veronica said as Joe stood and helped the man fold up his portable chair. “He’ll see that you get paid.”
She watched, waiting until the hairdresser had closed the hotel-room door tightly behind him. Then she turned back to Joe.
“Your Highness,” she said again.
