McKinnon's Royal Mission (13 page)

When he unbuttoned her last button his hands tugged the ends of her blouse from her jeans, then slipped inside and slid the blouse off her shoulders. He tried to be gentle, but his heart was slamming inside his chest, and all he could think of was hurry.
Hurry.
A wisp of a silk-and-lace bra cupped her full breasts the way his hands longed to do. He reached behind her; first unsnapping her bra, then removing the clip that held her hair so that it tumbled around her shoulders in a silken curtain.

Then his hands moved beneath, sure and strong, sliding the bra straps down, down, until she was naked from the waist up, with only her honey-brown hair partially concealing her from him.

A little panicked sound escaped her and she made as if to cover herself. “No, Princess,” he breathed reassuringly. “Don’t hide. Not from me. Please.”

His hands reached for the zipper of her jeans, but she stopped him. At first he thought she’d changed her mind, and disappointment exploded through him. But then she smiled up at him, her obvious desire to please him overcoming her shyness, and she undid the zipper herself. Holding his gaze she skimmed her jeans over her hips. But then she stopped.

His hands replaced hers. “Let me. I’ve dreamed of doing this.” His hands slid inside the waistband and slipped the denim down, kneeling before her. She rested her hands on his shoulders, balancing herself as he gently lifted one foot, then the other, so she could step out of her jeans.

She was trembling, but so was he. He hooked his fingers in the scrap of silk that shielded her womanhood from him and tugged it down and off. Then she was completely bare to his gaze, and he sat back on his heels to take in the sight of her. “Hallelujah,” he whispered finally, reverently.

She laughed, just a breath of a sound, and he realized from the delicate pink flags in her cheeks it was more from the release of the stress of standing naked before him while he was still completely clothed than from humor. He wanted to say something more, to express the complex emotions roiling through him at the sight of her. But he couldn’t think of words strong enough, sweet enough, meaningful enough to describe what this moment meant to him. What her trust meant to him.

He stood up slowly, his hands moving her silky tresses aside so he could caress the pink nipples that tightened even before he touched them. Then he was bending to take one nipple into his mouth, loving it with his tongue. “God, you are beautiful, Princess,” he whispered, as his lips moved to her other nipple and loved it the same way.

“That is not—” Her breath caught. “That is not true,” she said. “I am pretty, yes, but not... Oh!” He’d slipped his hand between her thighs, parting them until his fingers could slide into her velvet tenderness.

“Yes,” he told her, his voice husky with desire. “Beautiful. If Eve had looked like you, Adam would have gladly left Eden.”
If Eve had felt like you,
he told her in his mind as his fingers moved slowly in and out of her melting softness,
Adam would have thought he was still in Eden.

A wave of heat swept through Trace so powerful his whole body tightened, and he knew he had to hold her against his bare skin just once, or die. His hands made short work of the rest of his clothes, and then he was as naked as she was. His heart was pounding so savagely he was almost beyond caring about anything but having her when he drew her into his arms and felt her all along his body—soft and yielding everywhere he was hard and immovable. But he managed to hold on to his sanity—and his self-control—by his fingertips.

Then he was touching her again, fingers stealing into her body, stealing her breath, making her melt and run, making her clutch at his arms with desperation. His mouth trailed down to suckle the pink nipples that peeked at him through her glorious hair, tugging first one, then the other into his mouth until she moaned and her knees buckled. He held her up with one strong arm while he bent her backwards and continued his assault on her senses, until she shuddered uncontrollably and cried his name again and again, giving to him so sweetly, so completely, he knew he would remember this day forever.

His arms were iron bands around her body as he pressed her head against his shoulder, holding her close until the last tremor faded away. His body throbbed and he let her feel his desire, hot and hard against her stomach, begging for release. But he wouldn’t let it go further. He couldn’t. He knew there was a bed...soft...inviting...in the next room. But he didn’t dare trust himself anywhere near it. He yearned to lay her down and come into her welcoming body, sealing himself to her in the most elemental way. But once wouldn’t be enough, would never be enough. If he once made her his, he would kill to keep her his forever.

And he knew he couldn’t keep her. She could never be his. Even if she loved him anywhere approaching how much he loved her, she could never be his. The school year would end and she would have no choice—she would return to Zakhar, abandoning him. Leaving him in hell.

But that wasn’t the worst thing he could imagine. That wasn’t what caused his eyes to burn as he stared sightlessly into the distance over the top of her head. That wasn’t what caused the ache that shuddered desolately through him. He’d been abandoned before, and he’d survived. He was tough—he could take it. But she wasn’t.

She was completely vulnerable. The trust in her eyes when he’d knelt at her feet and she’d let him see all of her was his undoing. She loved him—how much he was afraid to know. She would give herself to him and never count the cost until it was too late. But he would. He would rather die than let anything happen to her—because of him.

He’d let his control slip twice now, and that was two times too many. It would be like dying to give her up, but he needed to end it. Now. Somehow. Not just the physical side of things, although that would be hard enough. No, he needed to end everything. The sharing. The emotional bonding over which he seemed to have no control. The way her smile had twisted itself into his heart. The way she looked at him as if he were her world.

That all had to stop before it was too late. If it wasn’t already too late. He had to find a way to cut himself out of her heart, even if it meant leaving his heart bleeding on the floor. He
had
to do it. For her sake, and his own.

Chapter 12

T
race deliberately took a corner much too fast, then swung the steering wheel sharply to the right and brought his car to a dead stop beside the curb. Then waited, his eyes on the rearview mirror.

There! There it was again, that dark sedan he’d spotted a few miles back. It turned the corner quickly, too, then drove right past him as if it wasn’t following him. But in the few seconds as the car passed him he saw the two men in the front seat exchanging glances when they realized he’d spotted their tail. He quickly memorized the make and model of the car and the license plate number, then jotted the info in the little notebook he carried in his pocket as soon as the other car was far enough away.

He cursed under his breath. The same car had been following them the week before as the princess drove to school in her Lexus SUV—he was sure of it now. The university had been closed for Thanksgiving week, but the princess had left two research books in her office at the university that she needed to work on the textbook she was writing, so they’d gone there last Monday to fetch them. He’d only tagged the car once, noting it in his subconscious as he was trained to do, but the vehicle had turned off several blocks away from the faculty parking lot where the princess usually parked, so he’d dismissed it as a tail. But now...

They weren’t following her, they were following me.

He turned cold at the thought. If that was true, the princess was in far more danger than anyone realized, especially him. His thoughts flew to memories more than two years old, and a bloody scene in a hospital parking lot. Two men dead in the front seat of their pickup truck, his then-partner, Keira, sprawled on the ground bleeding out, a bullet that had come within inches of her heart lodged in her shoulder.

Michael Vishenko, the New World Militia, and the Russian mob all had reason to want revenge on the four of them—Ryan Callahan, Keira and Cody Walker, and...himself. They’d been extremely careful for the first year after the arrests of Vishenko and the others, but as one conviction after another had piled up with no attempts to silence them, they’d...well, not exactly grown careless, but they hadn’t been quite so sharply watchful. At least he hadn’t. He couldn’t answer for the other three.

We’ll never be
safe
as long as we live.
Wasn’t that what Keira had told him her husband had said when she asked him to be Alyssa’s godfather? Wasn’t that one of the reasons they’d picked him as a godfather, because they knew he understood the danger they all lived under, because he’d watch over Alyssa with the same fierce protectiveness they felt toward their daughter should anything happen to them?

For a few precious months he’d let himself forget about the price on his head. He’d let himself forget he was a target, and always would be. He should have remembered they were still out there...watching...and waiting for their chance to exact revenge. Anyone close to him shared that danger.

He had no proof the New World Militia or the Russian Brotherhood was tailing him—not yet, anyway. But he had a license plate number now, and that was a start.

* * *

Trace stood in Cody Walker’s office the next day. He’d compared notes with the Jones brothers the night before, making damned sure it wasn’t the princess who was being followed. Both men had been emphatic there was no tail on the princess when they were guarding her—and they assured him he’d have been the first to know if they’d had even a whiff of a suspicion. That confirmed his assumption he was the one who was being followed, not her.

So he’d immediately requested the interview with Walker, knowing it shouldn’t be put off. He was frustrated because he hadn’t been able to trace the license plate on the car he’d spotted following him the day before to Michael Vishenko, the New World Militia, or the Russian mob, but it was the only thing that made sense.

He was still being tailed. He hadn’t seen them, but he knew they were there. And now it was time to let his boss know what he knew, because he wasn’t the only one involved. If he was under surveillance, then it seemed likely Callahan and the Walkers were, too.

But when he entered Walker’s office he found it difficult to begin because he had no proof, just instincts, and he paced back and forth in front of the big desk, struggling for the right words. Then he realized the right words weren’t necessary, not with Walker, and he said abruptly, “I’m being followed.”

Walker glanced at him sharply, but Trace didn’t see it. He’d come to a halt in front of one of the pictures on Walker’s wall—a large, blown up reproduction of Walker’s cabin in the woods of the Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming. Remembering. Fairly certain what had happened in Wyoming more than two years ago was the reason he was being followed now. It was the only working theory he could come up with.

“You’re sure.”

From the tone of Walker’s voice Trace knew it wasn’t really a question, but he answered it anyway. “I’m damn sure they’re back there, if that’s what you mean. It could be someone scoping out the princess, but I doubt it—Keira’s brothers are adamant the princess isn’t being followed when they’re on duty, and the tail is there on me even when I’m not with her.”

Walker cursed under his breath. “That’s a complication I hadn’t counted on.”

“Yeah.” Trace turned from the picture to stare at his boss. “Anyone following you? Keira?”

“Not that either of us have noticed, but...” Trace nodded.
But.
That was the operative word. “How long has it been going on?” Walker asked him.

Trace thought about it for a minute. “A week, maybe?” he said finally. “Two weeks? Hell, who knows?” he added, making a gesture of frustration with one hand. He hated admitting it to Walker, because it meant he hadn’t really been doing his job protecting the princess. Had he let his emotions distract him, throw him off guard? How had he missed them? Those thoughts galled him, but he wasn’t about to make excuses for himself, except to say, “Whoever they are, they’re damn good at keeping to the shadows, better than anyone I’ve ever seen. Better even than Callahan.”

Walker’s eyes widened, and Trace laughed without humor. “Yeah. Go figure. It’s not a constant thing, that much I
can
tell you. Sometimes they’re there, but not always. I got the first twitch yesterday, but once that sank in I realized I’d seen the same car last week.” He paused, then added honestly, “For all I know it could have started before then. Maybe even months ago. You know how it is. Nothing you can put your finger on, just a gut reaction, like when you found out you were being tailed. Like when you knew your truck had been tampered with.”

Agents of Michael Vishenko within the New World Militia had rigged Walker’s truck with gelignite—
turn the key, step on the gas, and boom!
—was how Walker had referred to it, trying to make light of the situation. The bomb in his truck hadn’t exploded because Walker’s sixth sense had warned him something was wrong even before he knew exactly what. That’s when he’d noticed the thin film of dust missing from the hood of the truck, dust that should have been there. He’d been quick to warn Ryan Callahan, too. Callahan was the sheriff of Black Rock, Wyoming, and Trace had been guarding him at the time. It was very possible Walker had saved both their lives because Callahan’s official sheriff’s SUV in Black Rock had also been rigged that night with the same type of explosives as Walker’s truck in Denver.

Callahan and Walker had been targets of Michael Vishenko and the revived New World Militia, as had Trace and Nick D’Arcy, along with two federal prosecutors who were—unfortunately—now dead.

Six names had been on Vishenko’s personal hit list to avenge his father, David Pennington. But Vishenko had only succeeded in eliminating two of them, and not even the two he most wanted dead. That would be Callahan and Walker, who together had killed David Pennington more than eight years ago while saving the woman who was now Callahan’s wife.

David Pennington was long dead. Michael Vishenko was now behind bars, and unless his conviction was overturned that’s where he would stay for the rest of his natural life. But he still had ties to the Russian
Bratva
through his uncle, Aleksandrov Vishenko. And although the New World Militia had been badly crippled by the prosecutions over the past two years and the loss of Vishenko’s fortune, it was still in existence. So the threat to all of them was real.

Now Walker said one word. “Proof?”

“Nada. I got a license plate number yesterday, but it doesn’t lead anywhere.” He tore the page from his notebook and tossed it onto Walker’s desk. “Maybe Keira would have more success than I did. She always could track down the damnedest things no one else could. It’s worth a shot anyway.”

Walker steepled his fingers and held them against his lips, nodding absently. “So what do you want to do?”

Trace had known when he walked in here what he was going to ask for. It was the perfect opportunity, the perfect out. And it happened to be the truth, so he wouldn’t have to disclose anything about the princess and him in order to be taken off the case. “I know I signed up for the whole nine yards, but I think you’re going to have to replace me on the team guarding the princess. If someone’s gunning for me, she could very easily get caught in the crossfire. And that is
not
going to happen, not if I have anything to say about it.”

At Walker’s grimace Trace said, “State was wrong—it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. But they don’t need me to spy on her. She’s not involved in the politics of Zakhar in any way. Hell, she’s not even in the line of succession. Keira’s brothers haven’t overheard a single word worth reporting to the State Department in four months, and neither have I. So that part of the assignment is a total bust.”

“It won’t be easy finding someone to replace you at a moment’s notice.”

“Let State deal with it. You don’t have to sacrifice someone from the agency, do you? They asked for me in the first place because I’m fluent in Zakharan, but the Jones brothers can understand it pretty well so that’s no longer a prime concern...”

“I’ll see what I can do. When do you want off?”

“Tomorrow too soon?” Trace laughed wryly at his boss’s expression. “Just kidding. But if she’s in danger because of me, the sooner the better. The fall term ends two and a half weeks from now, and the princess is planning to return to Zakhar for Christmas break. Could you arrange it so that someone else takes over when she returns? Earlier if you can swing it. It’s hard enough guarding her as a target because of who she is. But if I have to guard her against
my
enemies as well...”

“You’re right,” Walker said. “Damn!” He slammed his fist on his desk. “I don’t mind replacing you on that team. In fact, a case came up just the other day that’s right up your alley, and I had to assign it to someone else because you weren’t available. It’ll be great having you back with the agency. But if what you suspect is true, if you’re in danger, that means Callahan, Keira, and I are, too.”

“And Alyssa,” Trace said in a soft but deadly voice.

Alyssa’s father’s face turned hard and cold. “And Alyssa,” he agreed in a voice even softer than Trace’s. And even more deadly.

* * *

Two and a half weeks,
Trace told himself as he walked out of Walker’s office and headed for the elevator.
At the most. That’s all I have left.

It was devastating knowing that once he was off the assignment he’d never see the princess again. But he’d done the right thing. For her.
Love isn’t about what I want, what I need. This is what’s best for her.

So why did it feel as if every instinct was screaming at him, “Don’t do it!” He knew the princess was waiting for him to tell her he loved her. For the past four days he’d sensed her patiently waiting. She knew he loved her.
How could she not?
he asked himself.
You all but told her at the cabin last Sunday.
Every time their eyes met, every warm, confiding smile she gave him, told him more than the words she didn’t say that she knew he loved her as she loved him. Unconditionally.

He’d badly miscalculated her. Them. The damnable situation they found themselves in. Almost two months ago he’d told himself he could show her how lovable she was and then let her down so gently her heart wouldn’t be broken when they parted at the end of the school year. Two months...and a lifetime ago.
Cocky bastard, weren’t you?
he told himself. Then in his head he heard the princess saying fiercely, “Do
not
use that word,” and he amended his self-criticism from
bastard
to
SOB
.

But it really made no difference, not in his assessment of himself, or the situation. Time was no longer on his side, and he loved her enough to give her up now instead of later.
Being noble?
he jeered at himself, but...
Yeah
, he replied, understanding for the first time how Ryan Callahan could have walked away from Mandy Edwards rather than put her in jeopardy. In Callahan’s world a man didn’t place the woman he loved in the line of fire. Trace hadn’t realized it before, but Callahan’s world was also his. He wasn’t going to risk seeing his princess in a pool of her own blood, the way Cody had with Keira.

The only problem was, the princess would never understand. Would never agree with him. She was just stubborn enough to refuse to let him leave quietly, not if she knew the truth. Which left him with only two options—walking away without a word, or lying to her.

How could he walk away from her without a word? Just disappear from her life? Let her think he was dead? Or worse, that she meant so little to him he couldn’t be bothered to at least tell her goodbye?

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

But lying to her? God, it went against the grain for him, almost as much as just walking away. She trusted him. Could he make her believe he didn’t love her? Could he be that good an actor? Maybe. If he didn’t have to look into her eyes when he lied.

The damnable thing was, he’d done exactly what he’d set out to do two months ago—he’d freed his princess to believe in love...just in time to break her heart.