Hell, Trace thought with sudden amusement, maybe they are the crown jewels. When the woman reached the bottom he saw a movement above her head, and the princess appeared in the doorway.
He recognized her instantly. Even if he hadn’t seen her pictures, he would have known who she was—there was just something in the way she carried herself. Regal. Not superior. Not conceited. Just...regal. And composed, as if she knew the eyes of the world were always upon her. She was wearing a kelly green skirted suit that shrieked money. Her long, honey-brown hair was pulled back into a soft chignon at her nape, and there was a small green hat with a curled brim perched atop her wavy locks. She looked complete to a shade and exactly what she was—the kind of woman the paparazzi buzzed around for a very good reason.
There weren’t any paparazzi here—this area of the airport had been cordoned off, ensuring the princess’s safe and inconspicuous arrival—but Trace made one last check of their surroundings to be sure. The king of Zakhar had made that condition quite plain, despite being couched in diplomatic terms, and the State Department had been quick to agree. Trace wasted a few seconds hoping the princess maintained her anonymity—it would make the job of guarding her so much easier if the general public and the press had no idea who she was. Not to mention anyone who out-and-out wished her harm.
Then the princess clutched the handrail for a moment to steady herself, and Trace took a step forward, wondering if she was just about to tumble down the stairs. The faint smile remained plastered on her face, but she was deathly white beneath her delicate, understated makeup. He was a second away from making a dash up the stairway to catch her if she fell when she pulled herself together with iron determination, pressed her lips together in a firm line and descended the stairway with her chin tilted up, her hand only lightly touching the rail. One of her bodyguards moved forward to take her arm on the second to last step, but she said something to him in Zakharan. Her voice was clear and light, but cold, and it carried.
“Do not touch me—I do not need your help,” Trace translated easily. The bodyguard stiffened and stepped back, freeing her arm. She turned abruptly from him toward the US State Department’s representative, who had moved forward to greet her.
Bitch.
The word popped into Trace’s head, and he couldn’t erase it. Something about the cold detachment in her voice was all too familiar—it reminded him of the way his grandparents had always spoken to him, the morally outraged grandparents who’d raised their unwanted bastard grandson from a sense of duty, not a sense of love. The grandparents he hadn’t seen since the day he joined the US Marine Corps when he turned eighteen. The grandparents who’d been eager to see Trace walking out their door, never to shame their doorstep again.
Now his heart went out to the young man who had only been trying to help, but who had been cut off at the knees by a touch-me-not princess. A whole year, he thought grimly. I have to spend a whole year guarding this green-eyed bitch?
The princess was smiling graciously now, speaking with the State Department representative in English that held only the barest hint of an accent. Trace remembered from her dossier she spoke five languages fluently—one fewer than he did—and had a PhD in mathematics, but he was no longer impressed by her intelligence. Brains, but no heart. I’ll take heart over brains every time.
“Your Serene Highness, may I introduce Alec Jones and Liam Jones,” the State Department representative said, turning to present to the princess the men who would be guarding her during her stay in Colorado. “And Trace McKinnon. He’s the head of the team, and will be your primary bodyguard.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” the princess said with a lovely smile. She shook each man’s hand. The Jones brothers, trained as they were in diplomacy, said all the right things. But when she offered her hand to Trace he looked down at her, remembering how she had withered one of her Zakharian bodyguards with a few carefully chosen words. She won’t wither me.
He smiled and shook her hand, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Princess,” he said softly. The insulting inflection was so subtle the State Department representative didn’t catch it, but the Jones brothers did, and they both shot sharp glances at Trace. He didn’t care about that. All he cared about in that instant was whether or not the princess got the message. She did. She had been pale before, but Trace could have sworn she went a shade whiter. Her lovely smile faded and her eyes took on a guarded expression.
“Mr. McKinnon,” she said in a voice that never wavered, that never betrayed what he knew she must be thinking. “I have been told you once spent six months guarding the US Embassy in my country. I would enjoy talking with you about that experience sometime.”
How the hell does she know that? he wondered in shock. He glanced at the State Department representative who shook her head slightly, indicating that information hadn’t come from them. He recovered quickly. “Special Agent McKinnon,” he corrected her. “And I think you’ll find Colorado reminds you a lot of Zakhar,” he said smoothly. “Especially the mountains.”
She nodded and turned toward the Rockies, looming smoke blue and haze purple in the distance. When her gaze returned to Trace’s face, her smile returned, too. “That is one reason I chose to teach at the University of Colorado. I hope to soon feel at home here.”
More people had deplaned during the introductions, including two more men Trace tagged as part of the princess’s security detail, and now there was a sizeable retinue gathered around the princess, including the four men he’d originally pigeonholed as bodyguards. Six altogether, Trace noted approvingly. More than enough. But better too many than too few.
“This way, Your Serene Highness,” the State Department representative said, indicating several limousines that had discreetly pulled up behind them.
The princess began walking toward the first limousine in the line, her low heels clicking faintly on the concrete tarmac, but Trace steered her firmly to the second one. “No, Princess,” he said. “It will be safer for you this way. One of my team will ride in the car in front, and the other will ride in the car behind. You’ll ride in here, with me.”
She turned startled eyes on him, and Trace found himself falling into those deep, green depths. “I did not realize,” she said, for his ears only. “Am I really in such danger here?”
Trace shook his head. “After today there will only be one bodyguard at a time. Other than your Zakharian bodyguards, that is. But until we get you settled in and establish a routine, I’d feel better if we play it safe.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Play it safe?” she asked. “I am sorry, but I...”
“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” he explained. “Take extra precautions.”
“Oh.” A self-deprecating smile flitted across her face. “Thank you for explaining. My English is—”
“Your English is probably better than mine,” he replied. “Unless you’re native born, though, a language’s idioms can be difficult to master.”
“True,” she said, with a smile that invited understanding.
But Trace wasn’t feeling particularly understanding at the moment. He held the door open for her. “If you please, Princess.”
Her eyes sought his, and he could see the question she wouldn’t voice engendered by the subtle insult embodied in that one word. What have I done to you?
He couldn’t tell her he’d
