years older and wiser and prettier.”
“Jealous?”
“No. Not really. When I was thirteen, perhaps. Julia had so much more poise. And breasts,” she added, surprising both of them with her honesty. “Julia had breasts.”
He laughed, sharp and quick, and heat surged to her face. What had she been thinking, to blurt that out?
“You’ve got breasts,” he drawled.
She looked down at the mail on her lap. “I didn’t then. What I had was baby fat.”
“I bet you were cute.”
She shook her head. “Thirteen-year-old girls do not want to be cute.”
“What do they want?”
She didn’t want to remember. She was beyond that now. She was a respected member of the academic community, with a purpose and identity that reached far beyond the confining walls of the palace. The awkward, pudgy princess had morphed into cool, assured Dr. Sebastiani. And she did not discuss old dreams, old hurts and her breasts with her father’s hired keeper.
“This is an inappropriate discussion,” she said stiffly.
“Why? What did you want, princess, when you were thirteen?”
She straightened her shoulders and told him part of the truth. “To be left alone.”
He hooked a chair from behind an empty desk and straddled it, his blue gaze steady on her face. “So, some things don’t change.”
“No,” she agreed, and ignored the pang at her heart. “Some things never change.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“We don’t.” She began to sort her mail, stacking the first-class envelopes on her desk, setting aside the department memos to be dealt with later. “There is no ‘we.’ I expect you to report back to my father that you found me well and safe and happy, and that your services are not required.”
“I don’t report to your father. I report to mine. And until I hear from him, I don’t know what’s required.”
Christina fidgeted with the neat stack of envelopes. There was one from the Harborside Hotel in San Diego, which she hoped held her conference confirmation, and a plain white envelope with no return address. Responding to either seemed preferable to dealing with Jack Dalton right now.
She tore open the white envelope and unfolded the single sheet inside. A newspaper clipping fell into her lap. She scanned the headline, her heart thumping unpleasantly.
And all her brave assertions turned bitter in her mouth.
Something was wrong.
Jack felt it in his gut.
And yet Christina hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word. She breathed slowly, in and out, and her spine and her eyes were straight. But there was tension in her shoulders, and her gaze did not focus on the paper she held. The edges trembled in her tightened grip.
Inside him, something lurched in acknowledgment, both of her distress and her determination to hide it. But Christina had already made it clear she didn’t want his sympathy. Or his admiration. Or anything to do with him.
“Somebody die?” he asked.
She stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He gestured toward the letter she still held. “Something’s upset you.”
She gave him one of those “Me, princess. You, peasant” looks she was so good at. “You’ve been upsetting me since you got here.”
He almost grinned. “Something else.”
“It’s nothing.” She grimaced slightly. “Fan mail.”
He held out his hand. “Let me see.”
When she didn’t respond, he leaned forward and tugged the paper away.
U.S. Embassy Bombed, the headline read.
It was an undated Associated Press wire clipping from Montebello. Jack read it carefully, comparing what the reporter knew with what his father had told him. No group has claimed responsibility for the bombing, although several terrorist organizations in the region are known to be hostile to the U.S. military presence in Montebello…
Right. Jack’s dad had said Sheik Ahmed Kamal of Tamir was the most likely suspect. King Marcus was convinced of the neighboring ruler’s guilt. And Kamal was well known for his anti-West sentiment.
Jack read on. A source close to the palace reveals that the bombing could have been a diversion to cover a kidnap attempt on Princess Julia.
Oh, boy. A leak at the palace must have made the old man unhappy, Jack thought. But he was going to be really ticked about the straggling line of cut-out letters pasted below the article, like a ransom note in a B movie: THIS COULD BE YOU.
Hell.
“We’ve got to get this tested,” he said.
Christina raised her eyebrows. She had her emotions in check again. He couldn’t help wondering what it would take to shatter that calm control. “Tested for what?”
“For fingerprints. ID. To find out who’s threatening you.”
She sighed. “No one’s threatened me.”
Exasperation spiked his voice. “What do you call this?”
“An unfortunate consequence of my family’s fame. I get them all the time, Mr. Dalton, even here. Requests for autographs, marriage proposals, nude videos, pleas for money… I refuse to get rattled by one more crank who likes to cut things out of the newspaper.”
But she had been rattled. He’d seen it in her eyes.
“You better start calling me Jack,” he said. “I have a feeling we’re going to get to know each other pretty well.”
“No. I told you, I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“And I don’t need a princess with attitude. But it looks like neither one of us is going to get what we want. Will you at least cooperate until we establish whether or not you’re a target?”
She bit her lip. He couldn’t tell if she was responding to his jibe or considering his offer. “How long would that take?”
“You want the truth?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a report from the major hitting my post office box, maybe today. Background stuff. Probably an update on the bombing investigation. I can go over that and tell you what kind of risk I think you’re taking. And then we get lab results on your little love letter here. If we establish a tie to Kamal, I’d say you’re in real danger.
