The Makeover Mission (22 page)

"Lucius, I want—"

"Shhh." Their time was brief. All too brief and more
poignant because of it. He couldn't give her what she wanted, what his own body
ached to take, so they had to be content with what they could do.

He deepened his kiss, ignoring the throbbing of his lower body,
the sweet, sweet friction caused by her pressing against him. He'd never thought
himself a saint, only a man with responsibilities to fulfill, obligations to
meet, but if he walked away tonight he'd deserve every medal for courage above
and beyond the call of duty.

Because that's what it took to step back, drop his hand from the
satin of her skin, pull his lips from hers, feel the cool night air wash
between them—the kind of courage he hoped never to experience again.

It took a few pleasure-drugged seconds for Jane to realize he was
doing it again; arousing her body to a frenzy of need and want and then pulling
away. Slowly opening her eyes, as if awakening from a very deep sleep, she
focused on him, aware of the tautness of the skin across his face, the
stillness of his body.

His expression told her he expected her anger. He darn well
deserved it for leaving her aching and needy. But she wasn't going to let him
get away with it.

Anger he'd only deflect. He'd pull his mantle of duty and
obligation tight about him, accept the responsibility of his actions, and hers,
and curse himself. She knew it as she knew the beat of her own heart. She could
read it in his face, in the deepness of the lines carved there, in the
tenseness of his stance. He was a warrior, prepared for battle and ready to
accept the cost. And the pain.

But she couldn't let him do that. Wouldn't let him do that. She
was a woman grown, responsible for her own wants, her own actions. He hadn't
seduced her, given her fancy words and softly spoken lines. Not unless barked
commands counted.

No, he'd been honest, at least in this between them. Other things,
well, that was another matter. And one that had to be dealt with. But not now.

Now she stepped forward, noticing the almost imperceptible
tightening of his features as if he expected, and felt he deserved, the worst
she had to offer. But instead of slapping his face, she raised one hand, a
tentative hand she could feel shaking and laid it alongside his cheek.

His eyes betrayed his surprise. And his wariness.

She found that she wanted to soothe. Tell him it was okay, that
she understood his sense of right, wrong and responsibility, even if it meant
her body felt unfulfilled.

"I won't believe you if you tell me this was a mistake."
She offered a smile, one that felt as unsure as her hand that she now slowly
slipped to her side. "I wanted this as much as you did. The only
difference is I'm honest enough to know it's not going to go away just because
it doesn't fit into your definition of a mission. It's not nice and tidy, but
it's real. And you'd better learn to deal with it."

She stepped to the side then, not sure if she could make it all
the way to the French doors and beyond on legs that felt like limp spaghetti.
The Jane she used to be wouldn't have been able to, she knew that much. But the
new Jane, the one who'd stepped into the shoes of another, who'd faced crowds
of strangers and kept on going, that Jane could do it.

Did she have any choice?

Chapter 9

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L
ucius glanced at his watch. What was
keeping her? The one thing he'd come to depend on with Jane was that she was
punctual. She might have the rest of his world head over heels, but at least
she'd never thrown off his time schedule. Until now.

He glanced up as the door began to open.

"It's about time—" The rest of his sentence disappeared
as he tried not to swallow his tongue.

"Do you like it?" she asked, as if she didn't see him
standing there thunderstruck and speechless. "Ekaterina helped me choose
something special for tonight."

And then she turned and he felt his gut plummet to the floor.
Special? That damn dress could cause a riot. It
would
cause a riot if
even one man looked at her the way he knew he was looking at her. He felt the
slam of jealousy, white-hot and potent, screaming through his veins.

"Don't you like it?" There was the slightest edge of
hesitancy, of doubt in her voice, as she glanced at him.

He grabbed on to it like a lifeline.

"I've seen handkerchiefs with more material to them."

He thought he might have hurt her with the abruptness of his words
until she straightened her shoulders, making him wonder if that damn dress
would slip off with such a move. Realizing that they'd never make it to the
function if it did.

"I see you're still cranky." She said it with pouted
lips. At least that's where his attention was snagged. Had he kissed those same
lips? Where had he found the strength to stop kissing them?

"Let's go." It was more command than request, but darn
if he was going to let her know how she'd rattled him. That was the last thing
he needed going into an assemblage of most of the movers and shakers in
Vendari. He felt like he was leading fresh meat to a pack of piranhas, the
biggest fish being Tarkioff himself. One look at Jane in that dress and the man
would feel no compunction at taking what he saw as belonging to him anyway.

So much for trying to protect her. What had happened to the
straitlaced librarian who had quaked in her boots the first day he'd led her
onto a crowded stage? Now he was walking down the hallway with a sweet,
seductive siren who smelled of Chanel No. 5 and tasted like forbidden fruit. He
knew, he had yet to forget her taste. Forget or stop craving.

"I think you look very nice in your tux. Very suave and
dangerous."

When had a woman's compliment made him want to blush? "Thank
you."

"Aren't you going to tell me I look nice in my dress?"

He dared not even look at her dress, not at the way it swirled
around her hips when she walked, at the way it molded every curve like a
lover's hands.

"It's a nice dress."

"Are you going to be sulky all night?" He thought she
might be goading him. Not a wise thing to do in his present mood.

"I'm not being sulky."

"It's hard to tell."

"Did you ever stop to think what that dress is going to do to
Tarkioff?"

He heard her quick intake of breath. "I didn't wear it for
Tarkioff."

Lust slammed into him with the power of a locomotive.

"Who'd you wear it for then?"

"Ahh, Mademoiselle Rostov and Major McConneghy. It is a
pleasure to see you."

Jane was never so pleased at an interruption in her life. She
couldn't remember the name of the funny round man who was even now extending
his pudgy hands to them, but she knew she owed him more than she could ever
repay. Another few seconds beneath McConneghy's glare, within reach of his
slashing tone, and she would have hit him with her beaded bag. Not a very
effective weapon, but there wasn't much else at hand.

Maybe her plan wasn't such a good one after all. What did she know
about seduction? From Lucius's look, very little. He was supposed to move
toward her, not growl and scowl. Maybe she should have read a few more articles
in those
Cosmo
magazines before she'd shelved them.

"Please. Please." The man gestured to a gathering throng
near double doors leading into what looked like a large hall or ballroom.
"His highness sent me to look for you."

Thank heavens, she thought, before she saw the glances shooting
her way, then silently sliding away. Maybe the dress was a little too daring?
No time to retract now. The best bet would be to stiffen her spine, make sure
her smile remained firmly in place and bluff her way through. Something
librarian Jane knew how to do with her eyes closed. Something that would be
easier to do if Lucius McConneghy wasn't impaling her with his gaze. Condemning
or devouring, she didn't know.

"Ahhh, my Elena. You look enchanting." The king's voice
sounded as slick as an oil spill. But at least he seemed to appreciate the
effort she'd made.

The smile she gave him was only a little tentative. She ignored
McConneghy at her side and extended her hand, which Tarkioff raised to his
lips. She thought she heard McConneghy growl.

"If you will stand by my side, my dear." The king
phrased it like a request but she'd been in Vendari long enough to know better.
Squeezing in between Tarkioff and his brother, Eustace, was a tight fit.
Tighter still when McConneghy clung to her side like a burr to socks.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, keeping her smile
pasted in place.

"Protecting you."

"You can't do that if you smother me first." Too late,
she thought of a dozen different ways he could press down upon her, each one
more graphic and erotic than the last. She could have sworn the temperature in
the room jumped ten degrees.

"I'll take that risk."

Were they still talking about being smothered? Jane didn't think
so, not with McConneghy's shark smile and the intensity of his gaze. Maybe
she'd gone too far with her dress? Hadn't she seen a documentary about little
fishes getting eaten by bigger fishes only because they dared to swim in the
wrong part of the pond?

Fortunately she didn't have time to dwell on her unpleasant
thoughts as the receiving line began to swell, each individual requiring a
smile, a handshake and a few words of greeting. And to think she used to envy
royalty who had to do this for their living. But at least they didn't have
McConneghy breathing over their shoulder. He stood just behind her, out of the
direct line, but closer than her shadow. Every time she shifted she could feel
the brush of his sleeve against hers, sense the slightest of whispers of his
hand across the bare skin of her back.

Right then and there she decided if she was ever to be tortured,
she'd be a failure at holding back. Not when every nerve ending, every ounce of
awareness she possessed was attuned to his next move, the next accidental
touch, the lightest of impersonal caresses.

The man was killing her, second by second and he didn't even know
it. Or did he? After a hint of roughened fingertips crossed her lower back,
causing her to stiffen in order to fight the sensations they ignited in her,
she began to wonder if Lucius McConneghy wasn't playing her for a fool. He'd be
a master at this game of cat and mouse, while she knew she'd never get beyond
amateur status.

But why? Was he trying to punish her by taunting her in just the
way she had meant to tease and taunt him? Or was he trying to show her how far
out of her comfort zone she'd traveled? That wouldn't be too hard to do, but
darn, she resented his being able to get away with it.

What if she turned the tables on the always-in-control major? What
if, instead of flinching every time he brushed against her, she, too, played
his game? Hadn't she decided to dare tonight? What was the point of screwing up
her courage if she was going to run at the first sign that things weren't going
the way she planned?

What would Elena of the silk clothes and diaphanous nightgowns do
if the man she wanted was standing within inches, trapped as surely she was
trapped in this receiving line? For the first time that night Jane felt a real
smile. The old Jane wouldn't have dared—the new Jane could hardly wait for the
fireworks.

Lucius cast a cautious glance down the line. At the rate it was
progressing, he'd be an old man before it petered out.

Old and broken. Surely the Grand Inquisitors did not need the rack
and thumbscrews to bring a man to his knees. All they would have had to do was
place him within touching distance of the woman he ached for, close enough that
he could inhale the scent of her skin with every breath, hear the pattern of
her breathing, feel the texture of her skin now and again when she accidentally
brushed against him, and the man would crumble.

Lucius knew he would. He was crumbling now and there wasn't a damn
thing he could do about it. Not with every eye of Vendari upon them. What had
happened to his legendary control?

Before he could pull together what shreds of it he thought he
might have left, Jane stepped back. Far enough back that he had no choice but
to stop her movement with the palm of his hand against her lower back. Either
that or have both of them tumble against the windows behind them.

It was a big mistake. The second he felt the softness of her skin
beneath his touch, the curve of her spine begging him to caress, he knew he'd
crossed an invisible line. One spelling doom for his mission, spelling doom for
himself.

"Stay still." He all but hissed the order in her ear.
Aware how tempting it'd be to nibble on her earlobe even as he was telling
himself fools who played with fire got singed.

She slanted him a glance over her shoulder, one filled with
teasing laughter. "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to bother you."

Like hell she didn't.