McKinnon's Royal Mission (3 page)

Trace had previously gone through every room in the house in minute detail, especially the bedrooms, and in his mind he’d already assigned rooms to the princess and the key personnel he knew were accompanying her. But the princess had other ideas, and wasn’t shy in the least about expressing her opinions.

“No,” she said immediately when he showed her to the large, sumptuous bedroom he’d picked out for her.

“Why not?” Trace dug in his heels. Not only was this the largest bedroom, it was the most easily defensible, situated as it was on the east side of the house with a vast expanse of open lawn in front of the long windows, no cover for anyone who might make it past the iron gates.

“I did not come to Boulder to look at grass,” she said firmly. “No matter how well kept. I wish to see the mountains from my bedroom window.”

She wandered through the house, oblivious not only to the beehive of activity around her, but also to Trace following behind her like a tall, grumpy shadow. She peered into room after room, commenting favorably or unfavorably on each of them in her native language, and once or twice Trace was hard put not to respond. But he knew she was talking to herself, not to him. And besides, she wasn’t to know he understood.

“This one,” she said finally in English, surprising him yet again. The bedroom was neither the largest nor the most opulent, although it had its own attached sitting room and luxurious bath. But when he joined her at the window from which she’d drawn back the drapes he realized why she’d picked it.

The Rockies soared in majestic wonder—layer upon snow-capped layer of blue and purple mountains filling the horizon. All at once Trace remembered Zakhar’s capital city, Drago, nestled deep in a mountain valley surrounded by towering, jagged peaks, and the princess’s words at the airport,
I hope to soon feel at home here.

She turned abruptly, not realizing how close he was behind her, and bumped into him. “Excuse me,” she said, looking up at him with a faint smile. But Trace didn’t back away. The expression on her face in the seconds before she ran into him held him mesmerized. He knew that expression. Knew the emotions it sprang from. He just never expected to see it on the face of a princess.

Loneliness.

Why the hell should she feel lonely? It’s not as if she has no one here with her from home—she brought a bevy of people with her. Every one of them here exclusively to see to her comfort and protection. Just like me.

He stared into her face. Her smile faded and her green eyes widened. And Trace could have sworn the delicate, expensive perfume she wore increased its potency as her pulse points heated up. Something tugged at him again, something he hadn’t felt in years. Not just desire. Not just passion.

He wanted to run the tips of his fingers along the curve of her cheek and banish the loneliness from her eyes. He wanted to pull the clip from her golden brown hair and have it spill over his hands in a heavy wave, then wind it about his throat, binding them together. And he wanted to draw her into the shelter of his arms and tell her...

Tell her what?

His face hardened in rejection of his unprofessional reaction to her and he backed away, muttering a soft imprecation under his breath. Then he turned and abruptly strode out. But not before he saw an expression in her eyes that stabbed through him. An expression he knew would keep him awake that night—and many nights to come—trying to figure it out. An expression so markedly different from the avid one he’d seen in the eyes of countless women over the years that he would never be able to erase it...or her...from his mind.

She was attracted to him. And it surprised the hell out of her. But that wasn’t what tore at his heart. That wasn’t what would haunt his nights. It was her quiet expectation—and acceptance—of his rejection that told Trace more than words just how little she expected from the men in her life. Princess or no princess, no one as young and lovely as she was, no one with her impressive string of accomplishments and with her whole life ahead of her should feel that way. Ever.

Chapter 2

M
ara watched Special Agent McKinnon go, watched him walk away from her as she had expected.
Why should he be any different?
she thought. But she was still surprised deep down...and
that
surprised her. He had seemed so unique, so different from all the men she knew, men who either treated her with kid gloves and a stultifying protocol, or the ones she had always studiously avoided—men who looked at her with conquest in their eyes, wondering what it would be like to bed a princess.

Trace McKinnon had done neither. He had reminded her of her brother, Andre.
No, that is not correct,
she told herself with a little shake of her head, wondering why her first instinct was to liken Special Agent McKinnon to her beloved brother when they were nothing alike. Not in physical appearance, and not in their attitudes toward her.

Andre had always called her
dernya
as far back as she could remember, which meant “little treasure” in Zakharan. That had been his pet name for her ever since childhood, because, he said, she was the most precious gift he’d ever received. She’d always tried in word and deed to live up to Andre’s estimation of her, even though it had sometimes meant sacrifices few people would have understood. Andre had never insulted her the way Special Agent McKinnon had, slicing through her defenses with that one word,
Princess.
But the protective air, the way he’d taken charge, yes, that was Andre. And she knew that despite how Special Agent McKinnon felt about her she was safe with him.

But there was something more. Just a flicker— perhaps she had imagined it—but for a few seconds she thought his eyes had softened as they gazed at her. Softened, and warmed. Not the way some men looked at her with avarice or sexual conquest in their minds, as if she were a prize to be won. No, his eyes had seemed to plumb the depths of her lonely soul. As if he understood loneliness. As if they shared some special bond. Then he had cursed under his breath and walked away, and the spell had been broken.

Who are you, Trace McKinnon?
she wondered.
What have you seen in life that makes you the man you are?

She remembered the dossier on him that her country’s secret intelligence service had prepared when they’d been told who would be guarding her during her stay in the United States. There had been dossiers on all three men, but Trace McKinnon’s had been the one that intrigued her right from the start.

Was it just his incredibly handsome face and honed physique that had caught her attention? She didn’t think so—she wasn’t that susceptible to a handsome face, no matter what kind of body went with it. She’d encountered her share of physically attractive men before, and they’d all left her cold. The other two US agents assigned to guard her were attractive men, too, with tall, reassuringly muscular builds and watchful eyes that told her they took their jobs as seriously as Special Agent McKinnon did.

No, it wasn’t just the way he looked. And anyway, his pictures didn’t do him justice. The pictures hadn’t prepared her for the sledgehammer impact to her senses when his large, masculine hand had engulfed hers, and those bluer-than-blue eyes had stared down at her from a tanned face that could have been carved by Michelangelo. And his slightly shaggy dark hair hadn’t detracted from that perfection. It merely added just the right touch of dangerous masculinity, which kept him from being
too
perfect.

She was tall for a woman, but next to him she didn’t feel tall, she felt just right somehow. As if she would fit into the protective curve of his shoulder without the slightest need for adjustment. As if she belonged there, in his arms.

And for the first time in her life she knew what it meant to be a woman, understood why nature had designed men to be hard where women were soft. For the first time she had met a man who made her realize something vital was missing from her life. Even though she’d still been recovering from the motion sickness that always overwhelmed her whenever she flew despite the numerous medications doctors had prescribed—none of which really worked for her except by knocking her out, and that she refused to allow—even though she’d still been a little shaky, something deep inside her had responded to his blatant masculinity and those gorgeous blue eyes. Her breath had caught in her throat and her heartbeat had stuttered.

But then he’d said that one word,
Princess.
The deliberate insult had been unmistakable. And her daydreams had been banished as swiftly as if they’d never been.

Her father had been like that. Sometimes he had called her Mara, and when he did she knew he’d forgotten to hate her. But the other times, when he’d called her by her full name—Mara Theodora—then she’d trembled at the implacable hatred in his eyes, the bitterness in his voice. She knew why her father had felt that way. She just didn’t understand why a man she had never met before today would feel such contempt for her.

She turned back to the bedroom window, gazing out at the mountains.
He was right,
she thought.
The Rockies remind me of the mountains in Zakhar.
She stood there a long time, letting the peace of the mountains settle over her. “ ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,’ ” she whispered to herself in Zakharan, quoting from a favorite psalm, a litany that never failed to soothe her.

Calmer now, her thoughts returned to the man who had stood beside her earlier—Trace McKinnon—wondering again what forces had molded him. She knew the facts of his life, but not the man. He was thirty-six and handsome in a way that would only improve with age. That was obvious. He had served in his country’s military with honor and distinction for four years, and had worked for one branch of his government before switching to another.

He had been married at one time, but no longer, and she wondered about that now. What had caused the breakup of his marriage? Had he been unfaithful? With his movie star looks and his dangerous air of masculine strength, most women would melt at his feet. Married or not, he would be a challenge most women would be unable to resist, and they would fall all over themselves trying to attract his attention. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to resist temptation himself and his wife divorced him—divorce was common here in the States, but not so much in Zakhar.

Zakhar. Special Agent McKinnon had spent six months in Zakhar as a young military man. Had he loved it the way she did? Had he been sorry to leave it, as she was now? A familiar wave of homesickness swept through her, but she fought against it. Her brother had wanted her safely out of Zakhar for a time, and so she was here. She would have done anything to make Andre’s life easier, and if that meant suffering the pangs of homesickness—as she’d done all those years she’d studied at Oxford—that was the way it had to be. For the next year she would be teaching mathematics at the University of Colorado.

Other than Andre, her few close female friends, and her horses—especially her favorite, Suleiman—mathematics was her only love. There was something comforting about the preciseness of mathematics; something reassuring about its unchanging nature: a squared plus b squared
always
equaled c squared. You always knew where you stood.

Even as a small child she had known this. She had devoured her math textbooks, demanding more and tougher problems to solve from her tutors and her teachers, racing ahead of them, and then soon outstripping their abilities. She had delved into mathematical intricacies instead of playing with dolls; had challenged herself to achieve scholastically instead of dating the highborn men her father found for her; had attended Oxford in pursuit of her PhD instead of marrying the man her father had tried to force upon her. The only equation she hadn’t been able to solve was the one dealing with human hearts. No matter what she did, no matter how she excelled, she could not win her father’s love. And now she never would.

* * *

Trace rendezvoused with the Jones brothers Alec and Liam in the privacy of the sun room. A year apart in age, they looked like two peas in a pod—tall, rangy; honed to muscle, sinew and bone, just as he was. Both had that competent air instilled in them by their years in the US Marine Corps and the Diplomatic Security Service. And both had auburn hair, which they kept close cropped. Not for them their sister’s red-gold tangle of curls, although neither had the milky complexion and freckles that usually accompanied hair that color.

Alec at thirty-four was a year older and a shade taller than his brother, whereas Liam was a tad broader in the shoulders. But both inspired confidence on sight, something Trace had been relieved to see. They were Keira’s brothers and former marines, so they
had
to be damned good, but still...

“So the plan is,” Trace explained, “to guard the princess whenever she’s out and about. We’ll get regular threat assessments from the State Department and your own agency, the DSS.
My
agency is also in the loop, and I’ve been assured we’ll get all the cooperation we need along those lines—or anything else for that matter. All we have to do is ask. And State has requested the NSA keep them and us posted on any chatter it comes across on terrorist channels. You know what I’m talking about, so I don’t have say anything more on that topic.”

“Anything pop up on the radar yet?” Alec asked.

“Not so far. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Trace replied. “You’ll know the minute I know anything.” He glanced toward the sunroom’s closed door, reassuring himself they still had privacy. “The princess has her own Zakharian security team to guard her here on the estate, as I’m sure you’ve already noted. State cleared them for concealed carry, so I’m not worried too much about an assault on this house. But she doesn’t step outside the door without one of us in attendance. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear,” Liam said, answering for both of them. “But does she know?”

“She should, but if she doesn’t, she soon will,” Trace said. “And her limo driver knows he doesn’t drive her anywhere unless one of us is in the limo with her. This isn’t coming from the State Department—this is coming from her brother, Zakhar’s King Andre Alexei the Fourth. I don’t know how much you know about Zakhar, but—”

Alec smiled and cut him off. “We’ve been briefed. We’ve learned enough to know that Zakhar isn’t a constitutional monarchy, the way Great Britain is. The king
is
Zakhar, and vice versa, so a command from him carries considerable weight.”

“Exactly.” Trace was glad he wasn’t going to have to paint them a picture. “I know neither of you speaks Zakharan, but—”

“Lubyentok marsai cherentziune todai,”
Liam said.

“I’ll be damned.” Trace stared at him.

Alec tossed in,
“Makopescht lycobeschy petzeque.”
He grinned. “We had a three week crash course. Can’t say we really
know
the language, but we’ve got the basics down pat. Enough to get by.”

Trace’s admiration for the DSS shot up dramatically, not to mention his admiration for the Jones brothers. “You’ve even got the accent and inflection nailed,” he said.

He asked each of them several questions in Zakharan, and their answers proved they understood what he was saying. Their responses were more simplistic than his questions, but he’d expected that. Mastering an unknown language starts with understanding what you’re hearing. Speaking the language takes longer and fluency even longer than that. And
thinking
in the new language, which was the talent he had, is something few people ever really achieve when the language is learned as an adult.

Still, understanding what they heard would be a definite plus when it came to the second part of their assignment—noting anything important the princess or her entourage might say in Zakharan and reporting it to the State Department. He figured they’d already received instructions on this from the DSS, but he went ahead and outlined things anyway.

“I’m not expecting a blow-by-blow translation of everything anyone says in Zakharan. But anything meaningful needs to be reported. And I want to see the reports before they go in. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Liam and Alec answered in unison.

“Oh, crap,” Trace said. “We’re not in the Marine Corps anymore and I’m not your commanding officer. I’m not even a DSS special agent. I’m the head of this team, that’s all. So cut out the ‘sir,’ okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Liam and Alec both grinned unrepentantly at him.

Trace’s eyes narrowed and he uttered an earthy curse. In Zakharan. Alec glanced at Liam, who shook his head. “Me, neither,” Alec said.

Trace gave them a superior look, then relented and grinned. “You won’t hear it used in diplomatic circles. Ask me when this is all over, and I’ll tell you what it means,” he said. “But whatever you do, don’t repeat it in front of the princess. She’d probably faint from the shock to her delicate ears.”

“Speaking of the princess,” Liam said, “how did you want to work the schedule?”

“I’ve got her teaching schedule here, along with a few other things,” Trace said, reaching into his inner jacket pocket, and handing copies to each man. “Classes don’t begin until the end of August, but she’ll be starting work at the university on Monday. The limousine will take her to the campus every weekday, Monday through Friday, leaving at seven sharp, and will pick her up on campus at five, returning her here.”

He grimaced. “Weekends are going to be a nightmare unless I can nail her down to a set schedule. The same goes for weekday evenings if she wants to go out. Word from Zakhar through diplomatic channels is that she doesn’t intend to act in any way that will draw attention to herself. Apparently the princess is sincere in wanting to do nothing more than teach. But time will tell.”

He looked at the Jones brothers. “I thought it would be best for us to take it in rotation—two days on and four off, then on again. That means three long working days out of every seven for the three of us. But it gives us full coverage of the princess when she’s out of the house, and we all get plenty of time off. How does that sound?”

Liam glanced at Alec, who nodded. “Works for us,” Liam said.