McKinnon's Royal Mission Read online

  Don’t lie to yourself, a little voice in the back of his head mocked. It’s not that you didn’t find her attractive. It’s just that she didn’t have green eyes.

  Green eyes fringed with long, delicately tinted lashes that owed nothing to artifice. Hair the color of wild honey. Lips that wore just a touch of lip gloss; that curved into an open, natural smile more often than not. And a voice like water trickling through a mountain stream bed, cool and clear, with just the faintest hint of an accent.

  Sunday he’d gone to his cabin near Keystone, but that hadn’t been a success, either. He’d done the long-overdue yard work and prepped the cabin for winter until his body was aching and dripping with sweat. But his thoughts continually strayed to the princess, wondering what she was doing on her last day before the semester started. Wondering what she’d think of his rustic cabin in the mountains if he ever dared take her there. Wondering what it would be like to kiss her until her lips were naked of anything but the color of passion.

  When he’d caught himself thinking along those lines he’d severely chastised himself, but it hadn’t done any good. It had only been a month, but she was slowly driving him crazy with wanting her. How was he going to make it through the rest of the year?

  Trace had reminded himself he had no intention of falling into the trap that falling for the princess would eventually become. Hadn’t he made it quite clear to his boss and to the State Department that he would not, under any circumstances, use his looks to attract her the way the State Department had wanted him to do? That he would not compromise the princess that way? But who would believe him if he said now that he was drawn to her for reasons totally unrelated to his job? Even he’d have a hard time believing it of himself, though he knew it was the God’s honest truth.

  He’d returned to the estate last night in a foul mood. Then he’d lain awake until the wee hours of the morning, unable to banish the princess from his mind. Thinking about the way she watched him when she thought he wouldn’t notice, and what that meant. Thinking about the way she looked on Suleiman, how she handled the high-spirited thoroughbred with ease and rode as if she and the horse communicated on a higher plane. Watching as she groomed Suleiman with firm and sure strokes—she never left that manual chore for her groom to do, earning Trace’s respect for her as a true horsewoman. Hearing in his head her gentle voice as she talked to her horse in Zakharan when she thought no one could hear, all soft and sweet and loving, nothing held back.

  Would she be like that with a man? With him?

  He’d finally fallen asleep, for all the good it did him. She haunted his dreams, memories of the times he’d spent in her company interwoven with fantasies. Vivid fantasies. Erotic fantasies.

  Now Trace tried to shake off the remnants of his dreams as he dressed in the jeans and casual shirt she insisted her bodyguards wear on campus so as not to stand out. Then he strapped on his SIG SAUER, automatically checking the action and the clip before shrugging on a blazer to cover the gun and its holster and heading out.

  He wasn’t looking forward to today. Guarding the princess meant he’d have to sit in on her classes. And since she didn’t want anyone to know she was being guarded, he was going to have to pretend he was a student. A little long in the tooth for a student, he thought, smiling wryly. But that meant he couldn’t read the newspaper, couldn’t do the crossword puzzle, couldn’t do anything but sit there, listen and pretend to take notes.

  Why did she have to be a math teacher? Well, maybe he’d learn something. He couldn’t imagine how it might apply to his job, but you never knew. He’d just have to make the best of it.

  He started out the door, but was called back by the ping of the secure fax machine indicating an incoming fax was pending. He quickly keyed in the code to release the fax, then waited impatiently for the two sheets of paper to print. His brows drew into a frown as he perused the latest intelligence report from the State Department. It was disquieting, to say the least, to think that the estate might have been under observation by a person or persons unknown. The good news—if you could call it that—was that if there had been surveillance, which the State Department was by no means sure of, that surveillance had since been withdrawn.

  Trace considered things for a moment, correlating known facts with this latest intel. No one had been following the princess, he was sure of that. And no one had attempted to penetrate the estate’s perimeter. So the reason for the surveillance—if there had been any, he reminded himself—was unknown at this point.

  He didn’t like it. He didn’t like unknowns, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, except kick up their state of readiness, just in case. He made a mental note to discuss the situation with Alec and Liam. Before he mentioned anything to the princess and her Zakharian bodyguards, he wanted to get the Jones brothers’ take on it. He had to be careful about how much he revealed regarding his government’s secret intelligence reports—especially if they showed his government in a poor light the way this one did. He considered how he might word a warning to the Zakharians as he folded the pages and tucked them securely in an inner pocket of his jacket before he walked outside.

  The princess’s chauffeur had parked the brand-new midnight blue Lexus SUV in front of the main house in preparation for her, leaving the keys in the ignition, and Trace took a minute to look the vehicle over. On the one hand it wasn’t a vehicle many college professors could afford to drive. But on the other hand it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility, either. If she wanted to fit in, as both Alec and Liam had made a point of telling him, at least the SUV would be less noticeable than the limo and driver.

  The princess had already driven the two DSS agents to and from the university, getting a feel for the SUV and learning her way about town. They’d both assured him she was a good and careful driver, if a little nervous at times. Only to be expected, he thought. Zakhar doesn’t have the kind of traffic we take for granted, and she probably didn’t have much opportunity to drive herself there anyway. The same goes for the time she spent in England.

  The front door opened and the princess walked out alone. She was dressed as casually as he was in jeans topped with a pale green blouse open at the throat, exposing a creamy expanse of skin. A brown leather purse was slung over one shoulder, she carried a leather briefcase in her other hand and brown leather flats were on her feet. A delicate gold necklace, a discreet gold watch and tiny gold studs in her ears were all the jewelry she wore. Her hair was pulled back into the chignon she customarily wore in public, a style that begged for a man’s hands to undo to let her wavy tresses flow free.

  Her makeup was understated, as always, as if she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. And the disguising horn-rimmed fake eyeglasses were firmly in place—they really did make a noticeable difference in her appearance, although they didn’t really hide her lovely green eyes. Not from him, anyway.

  “Good morning,” she said, smiling hesitantly.

  His heartbeat quickened when her eyes met his, and he had to steel himself to be brusque. “Good morning, Princess.”

  Her smile faded, and she took a deep breath. “Please do not call me that. Not today. Today I am Dr. Marianescu. Only that.”

  She’s right, he thought. She’s gone to a lot of trouble to fit in, and it would defeat the purpose if anyone overhears me calling her Princess.

  He knew why he called her Princess. It was his only defense against her, against the way she tugged at his emotions, the way his body responded to her. It was the only way he could remind himself of who and what she was. Not to mention who and what he was. She was a royal princess, sister to a reigning monarch. He was a man who didn’t even know his father’s name. And while Trace was as egalitarian as they come, there was still a vast gulf between them. Too vast to cross.

  “Dr. Marianescu it is,” he told her. Her smile returned, and it was like the sun rising over the h
orizon. He almost smiled back, but then stopped himself and added, “At least while we’re at school.”

  An odd expression flitted over her face and her eyes darkened behind the clear lenses, but she kept the smile in place with an effort. Something about that forced smile made him feel as if he’d kicked a defenseless kitten—not a good feeling at all. Trace wished he hadn’t said it, but it was too late for that. “We’d better get going,” he said curtly. And despite telling himself not to, he couldn’t keep the mocking inflection out of his voice when he added, “You don’t want to be late on your first day, Princess.”

  Chapter 4

  That day set the pattern for Mara for the days that followed. She was teaching four classes this semester. One, a calculus course, was what her fellow professors at the university called “general education,” or “gen ed” for short. This class contained upwards of a hundred students, and was taught in a large lecture hall five days a week.

  Her other three classes—advanced undergraduate courses in ordinary differential equations and partial differential equations, and a graduate course in partial differential equations—were taught on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and were all small, where she could really interact with her students. Those classes were where she was really pinning her hopes as a teacher.

  Differential equations were her specialty...and her passion. No one knew it yet except the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences and the head of the mathematics department, but she was secretly working on a differential equations textbook. She hadn’t even told Andre—she wanted to surprise him.

  Other than her early morning calculus class, she didn’t teach on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but she had office hours. Her door was always open to her students, who soon learned that Dr. Marianescu was one of the more approachable professors in the mathematics department, and were quick to take advantage of her willingness to spend time with them one-on-one. By the time Friday of her first week teaching rolled around, Mara had established herself in a satisfying if exhausting routine.

  Tomorrow was Saturday, and she’d promised herself she would devote the entire day to researching her textbook. She hadn’t had a chance to work on it since last weekend—starting a new semester was always a challenge, mentally and physically, and she’d been too tired when she’d arrived home from work every night this week to even think about her book. She was determined to make progress, though, so that by the end of the school year the book would be finished. Then she’d tell Andre—he’d be so proud of her.

  But Sunday? That was a different story entirely. Mara had overheard two of the professors who had offices near hers discussing the upcoming closure of the top of Mount Evans. When she’d asked what they were talking about, they’d assured her Mount Evans was definitely something she didn’t want to miss during her stay here.

  “It’s only sixty miles west of Denver, and it’s the highest paved road in North America,” one professor explained. “You can actually drive all the way to the top of the mountain—over fourteen thousand feet. But they close the road past Summit Lake the day after Labor Day, and they don’t reopen that five mile section until Memorial Day.”

  “When is that?” Mara had asked.

  “Memorial Day’s the last Monday in May, so it won’t be open again until next year. This weekend’s your last chance to go up there this year. After Monday it’ll be closed.”

  * * *

  When Mara diffidently approached Special Agent McKinnon after breakfast Sunday morning about visiting Mount Evans, he gave her a long, considering look. Then he said, “Okay, if you want to go, that’s fine. But you can’t drive—you can only go if your chauffeur drives us.”

  “Why can I not drive myself the way I drive to the university?” Mara insisted. “It is not that far—only sixty miles.”

  “Look, Princess,” he explained patiently. “I’ve driven up Mount Evans...and I’ve driven with you behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, but you’ll need a lot more experience before I’ll let you attempt those switchbacks.”

  “What is that?”

  “Sharp turns, steep inclines. Just going as far as Echo Lake can be difficult because there are some hairpin turns even an experienced driver would need to be careful on, and that’s just the first fourteen miles. Between that and Summit Lake it’s even more tricky. And after Summit Lake, forget it. There’s no guard rail, and very little shoulder. Go over the edge of the road even a little bit, and it’s a long way down with nothing to prevent it.”

  “Oh.” Mara considered this for a moment. “You could drive,” she offered.

  “Not and do my job at the same time,” he said flatly. “So either your chauffeur drives us—and frankly I don’t see why that’s a problem; he hasn’t had anything to do this past week except wash your SUV and keep it filled with gas—or we don’t go.”

  When Special Agent McKinnon spoke that way Mara knew she didn’t have a choice. It was his way or no way. “If you insist,” she said finally. “But not in the limousine. It is too noticeable, and I...” She willed him to understand how she didn’t want to stand out in a crowd the way she did in Zakhar. Even in England the paparazzi had followed her around, and she desperately wanted to avoid that here. The public—not to mention the press—didn’t know she was here in the US, and she wanted to keep it that way as long as she could. “He can drive my SUV, yes?”

  He chuckled. “You don’t have to worry about that. I had no intention of going in the limo. Not on that road.”

  * * *

  The trip soon turned enjoyable for Mara despite the unpromising start. She’d left her fake eyeglasses at home for a change—even after more than a week she still wasn’t used to wearing them, and the unaccustomed weight, slight though it was, gave her a headache when she wore them too long. She thought—hoped, actually—no one would recognize her today in her casual jeans and sweater even without the disguising glasses. And besides, even though she was dressed casually she wanted to look her best...for some strange reason.

  Silly, she scoffed at herself, not wanting to delve too deeply into her motivations. Nevertheless, she left the glasses at home.

  Even with her chauffeur in the front seat able to overhear everything they said, she felt as if she were a normal woman on a normal outing with a man. A very special man. A man who made her react in ways she never had before. A man who made her realize that being a woman wasn’t such a bad thing after all, no matter what her father had said.

  Special Agent McKinnon knew a lot about the Mount Evans Scenic Byway—not surprising for someone who’d lived in the area for years—and it had only taken a few adroit questions from Mara for him to open up and act as a tour guide.

  They turned off I-70 at Idaho Springs, stopping at the National Forest information center to check on the road conditions and for Mara to view the exhibits. Then they headed for Echo Lake, the road climbing in elevation with every mile. Mara pressed the button that rolled down the window so as not to miss any of the scenic vistas, letting the cool wind blow on her face. It reminded her so much of home she turned a smiling face to Special Agent McKinnon.

  “Does it not remind you of the mountains around Drago?” she asked him just as a strong gust of wind caused her hair to tumble down from its chignon. “Oh, no!” She grabbed for the large clip that normally held her hair so securely, but which now was dangling precariously behind her. She couldn’t reach it.

  “Here, I’ve got it,” he said, unhooking the clip and holding it out to her. “And yeah, it does remind me.”

  Mara deftly twisted her hair into a knot and affixed the clip. “I have wanted to ask you,” she said shyly. “I know you spent six months in Drago when you were a young man.” She realized he might find that comment a little insulting, so she quickly added, “Not that you are an old man now. Just older.”

  He laughed. “Not to worry, Princess. I
knew what you meant.”

  Special Agent McKinnon’s laughter changed him, made him more approachable somehow, and Mara asked, “Someday, would you tell me what you remember most about the time you were there?”

  “Homesick?”

  “Just a little.” She turned to look out the window again. “But not when I am in the mountains this way—they remind me of home.” She smiled at a particularly good memory. “Andre used to take us hiking in the mountains sometimes.”

  “Us?”

  “Juliana and me. She was the daughter of the US ambassador. We were at private school together, and we were best friends until she went away to college here in the States.”

  “What happened after that?”

  Mara’s smile faded. “I do not know,” she said softly. “I called her. Wrote to her. But she never wrote back after the first two months. Never returned my calls.” She shrugged, pretending to herself the loss of her closest friend hadn’t mattered, even though that loss had reduced her small circle of friends to pitiful proportions. “Perhaps she was too busy. The next year I started college myself, and Juliana went to Hollywood and became a famous actress. I suppose she no longer needed my friendship after that. Then her ambassador father retired to Virginia, and she never returned to Zakhar. I never saw her again.”

  Special Agent McKinnon frowned. “Juliana...famous actress...you’re not talking about Juliana Richardson, are you?”

  “Yes, that is her name.”

  He whistled. “Beautiful woman. Terrific actress.” He looked at Mara, his curiosity piqued. “So you knew her?”

  Despite the remnants of hurt and bewilderment she still felt at the loss of Juliana’s friendship all those years ago, Mara allowed herself a tiny smile. “Yes, but when I first met her she was not beautiful as she is today. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were always the same as they are now. Andre always said Juliana’s eyes could bring men to their knees.”