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.
She should not be sitting in a private plane being whisked half way across the world to some country she’d never heard of, to risk her life for people she didn’t know, to pretend she was something she wasn’t, and possibly to die in the process.
With a groan, she fought against the temptation to curl up into the chair where she sat and bury her head even deeper in her hands. But that wasn’t going to solve anything. It’d be better to figure out how to tell Major Gray-eyes to take his not-so-brilliant idea and bury it.
But she already knew what would happen then. He’d hold her tight, tell her everything would be all right, while he shot another dose of whatever through her system, rendering her completely vulnerable.
He was right. There was a choice, a small one, but the only one as far as she could see. And while her elderly parents had raised her to be mild-mannered, they’d never raised her to be a fool. And maybe, if she kept her wits about her she might even be able to figure a way out of this nightmare. A service? Yeah, right. She knew about service, had spent a lifetime fulfilling duties and obligations to others. This did not feel like service. This felt like suicide.
She was still sitting in the chair, gazing out the far windows when she heard him return. He said nothing, just walked over and stood near her, obviously not expecting her to look at him. The man could give lessons in patience to a stone, she thought peevishly, aware of the sigh slipping from her.
“You’ve made your decision.”
He didn’t even have the grace to make it a question. “You know there’s only one choice. I’ll pretend I’m Elena—a functioning Elena, not a drugged target.”
“Good.”
“But I want to know how long this…this farce is going to last?”
He shrugged. Not a reassuring sign she thought, before his gaze slid from hers. “Until the wedding.”
“Which is when?”
“There’s some question about it at this time. Elena, the real Elena has not been well since—”
“The attack?”
“Yes.”
“She was hurt?”
“No. But it has caused her great distress. I have been told she is under a doctor’s care.”
“So the wedding is postponed?”
“No. It will go on. We’re working on the logistics now.”
She just bet he was. But before she could press the point he moved to the opposite chair and said, “The plane will be landing soon. There are some clothes in the back room. All are appropriate to what Elena would wear, and, as you’re the same size, should fit you without a problem.”
Jane bit her lip, wondering what would have happened if she’d chosen option B. Would this man have stripped her from her serviceable cotton skirt and oxford blouse, something very appropriate for midsummer in Sioux Falls, but obviously out of place in Vendari? She didn’t want to think such thoughts, nor feel the flash of heat warming her cheeks.
“Is there something wrong?”
“No. No, nothing.” Leave it to Mister in Charge to see her blush. She turned to glance at him, catching the wariness in his gaze. “But wearing the proper clothes is not going to turn me into a king’s fiancée.”
For a moment she thought she saw the glimmer of a smile, quickly banked. “No, but it’s not going to hurt. Why don’t you change now? Then I’ll give you some background on Elena.”
Like an automaton, she rose, surprised her legs didn’t buckle beneath her. Her stomach felt as if she’d been riding tilt-a-whirls all morning and the headache Gray-eyes had alluded to earlier was all but bringing tears to her eyes.
Yet, in spite of, or maybe because of, feeling the major’s gaze monitoring her every move, she marched toward the door he indicated, her head held high, her posture rigid. She might feel like a rag doll without its stuffing but it’d be a cold day in July before she’d let him know it.
Lucius waited until she crossed into the bedroom before he let out the breath of air backed up in his lungs. He had to give Jane Richards credit; she was showing a degree of determination and bravery he rarely saw except in battle-seasoned troops.
For a second there he’d thought she was going to cave. She looked whiter than the clouds out the far windows, and about as steady as quicksand. But she’d pulled herself together, never indicating by as much as a peep that she needed or wanted help. Yeah, the woman had guts.
Brains and nerve, it was a powerful combination as far as he was concerned. In another woman, at another time, he’d be mighty drawn to such attributes. But he couldn’t here. Here he had a mission to accomplish and, if it went anything like it had gone so far, he was going to have his hands full keeping Jane Richards alive.
Not that he wanted her to know that. She had enough to deal with, and more to come. With a pang of conscience he couldn’t afford, he wondered: If she had really known what she was up against, would she have chosen to be drugged and unaware?
“How does this look?”
He hadn’t heard the door behind him open, an unusual occurrence that clued him into how deep his thoughts had been. But when he turned he found himself pausing, amending his earlier assessment. This woman not only had brains and guts, she had beauty, too.
A strapless, ruby-red sundress cupped and molded curves he’d never guessed lay hidden beneath the librarian’s plain garb. She’d let her hair fall loose, undone from the pins holding it back earlier, creating a waterfall of darkness against her pale shoulders. A waterfall a man could ache to run his fingers through.
Any other man except him. He had a job to do. End of story.
Yet this double-punch-to-the-solar-plexus kind of beauty wasn’t going to make his job one iota easier.
“Well?” She fanned the skirt away from her. Its color only served to highlight the combination of sultry beauty and innocence that looked nothing like Elena Rostov. Nothing at all.
“Do I look enough like her to pass?”
“You’ll do.” He heard the dryness of his response, hoped he alone understood its curtness before he saw the quick flash of emotion in her eyes as she lowered her gaze.
“There’s
