The secret princess’s bodyguard…

As head of a visiting royal’s protection detail, Trace McKinnon’s focus should be strictly on the external threats against a woman’s life. But what happens when he finds Dr. Mara Marianescu—a princess incognito as a college professor—much more intriguing?

And that’s only the start of his troubles. When actual danger arrives for this beautiful royal, Trace isn’t sure if it’s because of a genuine threat from her country—or because of the darkness in his own past. Trace knows he should let Mara go—and does his best. But the cool, intelligent princess might just risk the one thing she has that is all her own—her heart…

Trace stared down into Mara’s 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.

***

Dear Reader,

When I wrote Reilly’s Return years ago, the character of Trace McKinnon intrigued me, and I knew I’d have to tell his story someday. Problem was, first I had to tell Cody Walker’s story, which I did in Cody Walker’s Woman. But I managed to work Trace in, as the heroine’s movie-star-handsome partner. Now Trace is back and on his own with a scarred past and emotional baggage, and he’s guarding an honest-to-God princess—the last thing Trace thinks he needs in his life right now.

Dr. Mara Marianescu is a conundrum, out of place in today’s world yet trying desperately to live a normal life free of the stultifying protocol surrounding her as Princess Mara Theodora of Zakhar. She arrives incognito in the US wanting nothing more than to live a quiet, simple life of purpose as a math professor at the University of Colorado.

But the world won’t let Mara and Trace forget who they are and where they come from—the past is never dead, not for either of them. They both must overcome the sins of the fathers to find love and redemption in each other’s arms through their own efforts… And we meet Mara’s brother, who will be the hero of my next book.

I love hearing from my readers. Please email me at AmeliaAutin@aol.com and let me know what you think.

Amelia Autin

McKinnon’s Royal Mission

Amelia Autin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

AMELIA AUTIN is a voracious reader who can’t bear to put a good book down…or part with it. Her bookshelves are crammed with books her husband periodically threatens to donate to a good cause, but he always relents…eventually.

Amelia returned to her first love, romance writing, after a long hiatus, during which she wrote numerous technical manuals and how-to guides, as well as designed and taught classes on a variety of subjects, including technical writing. She is a long-time member of Romance Writers of America (RWA), and served three years as its treasurer.

Amelia currently resides with her PhD engineer husband in quiet Vail, Arizona, where they can see the stars at night and have a “million-dollar view” of the Rincon Mountains from their backyard.

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For good brothers everywhere, just like mine—thanks Al and John!—flawed, everyday heroes who do the best they can day in and day out and who deserve wonderful women to love them. And for Vincent…always.

Though itself part of the US Department of State, the Bureau of Diplomatic Security is the parent organization of the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS). The DSS is the primary tool by which the DS carries out its security and law enforcement mandate. For more information, please visit state.gov/m/ds.

I have the highest regard for the work these federal agencies perform. Nothing in this story is intended as a negative representation of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security or the Diplomatic Security Service, their duties, or their employees.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“Why me? Why the hell does it have to be me?” Trace McKinnon stared at his boss with a touch of belligerence.

“Because they specifically asked for you,” Cody Walker said reasonably with a faint smile. “And in the spirit of interagency cooperation...”

Trace scowled. “That’s BS and you know it.”

“Yeah.” Walker’s smile turned sympathetic. “You know it and I know it. But we have to at least pretend to play nice with the State Department and the Bureau of Diplomatic Security.” His voice took on a conciliatory tone. “This is the first time another federal agency has asked for our help since we teamed with the FBI to take down the New World Militia and Michael Vishenko,” he said, referring to a case that in some respects was still ongoing, at least with regard to testifying at trials. “And look how well that turned out. Weren’t you the one who reminded me two years ago we’re all on the same side?”

Damned by my own words, Trace thought, frustrated. His boss was right, and on some level he knew it. It was just that he’d recently started on a case that really interested him for the first time in those same two years, and he hated like hell the idea of turning that case over to someone else while he babysat a foreign princess.

“Why does it have to be me?” he reiterated.

Persuasively, Walker said, “Considering she’s going to be at the University of Colorado Boulder, at least you don’t have to go far from home. And with your background in the US Marshals Service, who better could they get?”

“I would have thought female bodyguards would be better, under the circumstances.”

Walker looked uncomfortable. “Yes...well...you see...the thing is...” He cleared his throat. “The Zakharians are somewhat behind the times. They specifically requested men for this job.”

Trace snorted. “Don’t let Keira hear you say that. It would drive your wife crazy.”

“I know. But we can hardly go against their wishes on this, can we?” He glanced at the folder in front of him, sent over from the Diplomatic Security Service—the other name for the Bureau of Diplomatic Security—in an attachment to an email. “Zakhar is a small country, but it’s critically important to the US’s strategic plan for NATO and Europe. We don’t want to piss the Zakharians off on something as simple as this. Especially since they’ll be picking up the entire tab for the cost involved. Yeah,” he said when Trace raised his eyebrows. “She’s a foreign dignitary, but she’s not a diplomat, and technically she doesn’t qualify for DSS protection, not long term like this. Zakhar’s king just wants our expertise guarding his precious sister, and he’s willing to pay for it. State agreed for the reasons I just mentioned, and it won’t cost the US taxpayers a single dime.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that. But why does it have to be me?” Trace asked for the third time. “Isn’t this something the Diplomatic Security Service would normally handle?”

“The State Department explained that. You were an Embassy marine for six months in Zakhar, so you’ve been exposed to their culture, and—”

“Damn! I knew it. This is because I speak the language, right?”

Amusement touched the corners of Walker’s mouth. “Right.”

“I should never have listed that on my agency résumé.”

“Too late now.”

Frustrated, Trace took a turn around the room. “I can’t guard her 24/7. Who else is being assigned?”

“We’ll let the DSS figure it out. But I do have some ideas...”

Trace groaned at the thought.

“It won’t be that bad,” Walker insisted. “It’s only for a year, and—”

“A year! You didn’t tell me I was going to be stuck with this BS assignment for a year!”

“She’s going to be teaching at the University of Colorado for the next year. Some kind of exchange program. And she’ll have her own retinue with her, including Zakharian security forces.” He hesitated. “But you’re not just being asked to be her bodyguard.”

Trace froze. “Then what?”

“The king doesn’t know it, but the State Department wants you to take note of anything she or her entourage might say...in the Zakharian language.”

“I get it now.” Trace shot his boss a knowing look. “That’s why they want someone who speaks the language. State wants me to spy on her for them.”

“I told you Zakhar is critically important. State wants to know in advance if anything is going to change with that alliance, and it’s possible you might overhear something.” Walker looked at the cover page of the file, on which he’d jotted a few notes. His mouth curved in an expression of distaste. “I’m afraid there’s a little more to it.”

Trace felt his forehead tighten in a question.

“Oh, hell,” Walker said. “There’s no delicate way to put it.” His eyes met Trace’s. “They picked you for a variety of reasons, one of which doesn’t have a damn thing to do with anything other than the fact women find you attractive.”

Trace uttered a pithy Anglo-Saxon curse. Then he gritted his jaw and pinned his boss with an uncompromising stare, his voice soft but deadly. “I can’t believe you have the stones to say that to me. If State wants some sort of honey trap they’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“I told them you’d say that,” Walker said with the glimmer of a smile.

“I’ve done a lot of things for my country,” Trace said fiercely. “Some of those things keep me awake at night. But I’ve never done anything I was ashamed of, and I never will.”

Walker held up a hand, palm outward. “Calm down, okay?” he said.

“Damn it, Walker—” Trace growled. His handsome face was a sensitive subject, especially within an agency whose agents prided themselves on fading into the woodwork. And Trace was a damned good agent in every other way. It was just harder for him to avoid standing out in a crowd.

“Forget it,” Walker said quickly. “I’ll give State your answer, and if they don’t like it I’ll tell them the agency will pass on their request entirely.”

Trace took a deep breath and expelled it slowly, forcing down his anger at the same time. “Sorry,” he told his boss roughly. “I should have known you’d back me on this.”

“What about the rest of the request? Will you accept the assignment?”

Trace hesitated, then nodded. “You’ve convinced me. If State still wants me under the circumstances, I’m on board. When do I start?”

“The princess will be here in about a month.” Walker stood up and held out his hand. “Thanks, McKinnon. I knew I could count on you.” Trace shook the outstretched hand, and Walker continued in a completely different vein. “So Keira wants to know, are you going to make it to your goddaughter’s first birthday party this Saturday?”

Trace’s first real smile since he’d walked into this office spread over his face. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve already bought her birthday present—she’ll love it.”

“You spoil her.”

Trace laughed. “Like you don’t?” He headed for the door, his mood lightened by the thought of his goddaughter, Alyssa Tracy Walker. He’d been blown away when his former partner asked him to be her daughter’s godfather. He hadn’t had to think twice about accepting. And Alyssa was a darling, just like her mother. She already had all the men in her life wrapped around her baby finger.

“McKinnon!” Walker’s voice stopped him just as he was going through the door. “You’d better take this.” This was the folder that had been sitting on Walker’s desk, the one he’d referred to from time to time as he’d convinced Trace to accept the new assignment. Trace’s thoughts were dragged away from his goddaughter, reminding him of what he didn’t want to think about...not until he had to. He sighed and took the folder, tucking it under his arm.

A princess, he thought as he walked out. Great. Just what I need.

Chapter 1

“The princess’s plane is arriving!” the US State Department’s representative said unnecessarily as she bustled over to where Trace stood on the tarmac in the sweltering summer sun with the two Diplomatic Security Service special agents Walker had arranged to work with him—Keira’s brothers Alec and Liam Jones. While they’d been waiting for the princess’s plane to taxi in from the runway, Trace’s gaze had been constantly on the move, making sure the security measures the State Department had put in place to keep the curious—and potentially dangerous—at bay were doing the job. So far so good.

When Trace realized the self-important woman in front of him was expecting some sort of acknowledgment of her statement, he said, “Yes, ma’am. We know. That’s why we’re out here already.” As if it wasn’t obvious.

Then he zoned the woman out, and his thoughts returned to the reason he was here—Her Serene Highness, Princess Mara Theodora. Thinking of the princess brought his favorite picture of her to mind, a picture that had been included in the detailed dossier he’d received, one that had not been formally posed. The princess was dressed in traditional riding kit, standing beside a magnificent black thoroughbred. Her riding helmet was hanging by its strap from one hand, and the other was tangled in the horse’s black mane. Her long, wavy hair was casually tossed over one shoulder, as if it had tumbled down when she removed her riding helmet and she hadn’t bothered to tie it up. And she was smiling in the general direction of the camera.

It wasn’t a knowing smile. It wasn’t an I-know-you’re-there-and-I’m-posing smile. It was as if she’d been smiling at something else—the horse, probably—and had just happened to turn right when the shutter clicked. Her eyes, which the unknown cameraman had focused on, were green. Not hazel, true green. And Trace had always been a sucker for green eyes ever since he was four and a half years old and had fallen in love with an older woman—the five-year-old girl next door.

That was also the first time he’d been fascinated by female intelligence, but certainly not the last. Maybe that’s why he and Keira had hit it off as partners. She had definitely excelled in the brains department, and together they’d solved cases no one else could solve. But Keira wasn’t just a pretty face and a quicksilver mind. She had courage and determination, and a deadly aim with a gun. All of which made her nearly impossible to replace as a partner in the two years since she’d married Walker.

Trace had trusted Keira as he had never trusted anyone else in his life, even his ex-wife. But he hadn’t been in love with her. Maybe it was because of Keira’s strong reserve, her insistence on being taken as seriously in her job as any male agent. Maybe it was because he hadn’t wanted to screw up a great partnership with the uncertainty of a romantic relationship. Or maybe it was just that she didn’t have green eyes.

A plane with the markings of the royal Zakharian air force pulled up to a stop in front of them. Two ground support personnel rushed forward to place chocks in front and behind the wheels, while two other men pushed a mobile staircase toward the plane’s door. It took a few minutes, but eventually everything was secured and the door opened.

The first to descend the stairway were four young men with a military air about them, even though they were dressed in ordinary suits and ties. But Trace wasn’t fooled by their casual stances at the foot of the stairway.

“Her Zakharian bodyguards,” he murmured to the Jones brothers, who both nodded in agreement—and approval. Trace knew the bodyguards were armed beneath their jackets, same as he was. Same as the Jones brothers were. There was just something about the way they held themselves—their bodies alert, their eyes sharply watchful of their surroundings—that reminded him of...himself. Especially the way he’d been while guarding a witness during his stint in the US Marshals Service. A man never forgot that mental toughness, not really. For just a moment he let a tiny smile escape. You can always spot a bodyguard.

The next person down was a short middle-aged woman—definitely not the princess. She carried a square case in her hands as if it contained the crown jewels. 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 heard her cruel words earlier, not without giving away he understood Zakharan. And that would defeat half his purpose in guarding her. I’d better tone it down, he told himself. No matter what I think of her personally, I’ve got a job to do.

When she was seated inside, he turned to the bodyguard who had tried to help her earlier. “If you want to sit in the front with the driver, go ahead. I’m going to ride shotgun.” And he slid into the seat beside the princess.

The cavalcade had already begun before the princess asked him, “Ride shotgun?”

Trace chuckled at the innocently curious note in her voice. He couldn’t help himself. “It actually means sitting beside the driver of a vehicle, providing armed protection. Like me, now. You’re not driving, but I’m still sitting beside you, armed and ready to do whatever’s necessary to protect you.”

She said something under her breath he had to strain to hear. “Even though you do not like me.”

“Yeah,” he said, “even though.” Her head snapped up, as if she was surprised he’d heard her. Or surprised he openly acknowledged his dislike.

She stared at him for a moment, her green eyes widening. Then she drew a deep breath and said, “I think we have somehow started incorrectly.” There was honest contrition in her face. “If I have offended you in some way, I apologize.”

Trace couldn’t hide his surprise. An apology? From her? That didn’t jibe with her insulting words earlier to her Zakharian bodyguard. But he couldn’t have misunderstood. It was a knack he had with regard to languages. Just as he had been able to soak up the Afghani language during his tour of duty there, not to mention the various tribal dialects that confused the hell out of most of his fellow soldiers, it hadn’t taken him more than three months to master the rudiments of the Zakharian language. And by the time he’d left Zakhar three months later he was speaking the language like a native.

No, he couldn’t have misunderstood her. But maybe, just maybe, there was an explanation. It’s not like me to jump to conclusions, he thought. Why did I? He had a suspicion, but he didn’t want to admit it. Especially not with the effect those green eyes were having on him. Safer to dislike her. But it was a tenuous safety at best.

* * *

The cavalcade drove through the iron gates of the palatial estate the king of Zakhar had purchased in the Boulder foothills and furnished for his sister’s year-long stay. Even though Trace had been here weeks earlier checking out the security measures and having new ones installed, he still couldn’t help mentally whistling through his teeth at the size and grandeur. But now that he’d seen the number of people accompanying the princess he realized the estate wasn’t too big—not if it had to accommodate a small army.

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

Mara 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.

“I’ll take the first rotation, starting tomorrow,” Trace said. “Decide between the two of you who’ll take the second rotation—just let me know what you decide, and I’ll post a schedule. If something comes up and you need to switch off, I’m okay with it as long as I know in advance. There might be occasions when I’ll have to switch off with one of you myself—I could be called to testify in a couple of trials that are still pending on an old case, but I’ll know well in advance and we’ll work something out.”

He looked at Liam and Alec and saw no objections, so he continued. “You both have rooms here on the estate, as do I. I’ve already been over the entire house, as well as the estate’s outbuildings and the grounds, and I’ll show you around in a minute. You can stay here every night, or make your own arrangements for the days you’re off duty—it’s up to you. Again, this has all been prearranged with the king, so I don’t expect any opposition from the princess. And in order to carry out State’s request we’re going to need to be around her as much as possible, even in the house.”

“Understood,” Alec said promptly. “What kind of security does the estate have?”

“Active and passive. Some of the systems were already here, some were just installed two weeks ago. I’ve got a list of the specs, and when I brief the princess and her staff later on, I’ll give both of you copies. This really shouldn’t be anything new for them—I’m told the palace in Drago has a similar setup. But there might be some little quirks, and I don’t want anyone to set off an alarm accidentally. Just in case someone does, you’ll both have all the keys and codes necessary. Anything else you need to know?”

“That’ll do it for now, I think,” Liam said with a quick look at his brother.

“Oh,” Trace said. “One more thing. I plan to spend much of my time here, even when I’m not on duty. I live in Denver, but I’m subletting my condo for the duration, so I’ll be around a lot. I’ve also got a cabin outside Keystone, so if I’m not here or visiting your sister and my goddaughter, that’s most likely where I’ll be. I’ll give you the address later.” He fixed them both with a sharp look. “You’ve already got my cell phone number. If anything happens, the second thing you do is contact me.”

“And the first?” Alec asked.

“Protect the princess.”

* * *

Night had fallen and Trace was exhausted as he made the rounds of the estate. The day had been even more hectic than he’d expected, mostly due to the fact that the princess wasn’t what he’d expected. In addition to the dispute over the bedrooms, she’d taken immediate exception to Trace’s insistence that she be guarded every time she stepped out of the house.

He’d caught her walking out that very afternoon, cool as you please, dressed for riding and heading for the stables—her horses had been shipped by sea and rail and had arrived the week before—and Trace had taken her to task. That had started a battle royal, which he’d won only by invoking the name of the princess’s brother. “You may ride,” he’d told her in no uncertain terms, “but not alone. Period. End of discussion.”

That hadn’t been the end of the discussion, not by a long shot. But when Trace had finally told her the orders weren’t his, they were the king’s, she had stopped arguing instantly. I’ll have to remember that for the future, he told himself now with a wry smile. He wasn’t sure whether it was the king or the brother she was deferring to, but either way he’d discovered the magic word. “In the future, Princess, let me know when you want to ride,” he’d told her, “and I’ll make sure one of us is prepared to ride with you.”

Unfortunately, when he’d raised the issue with Alec and Liam, he had a rude awakening. “Sorry, McKinnon,” Alec had said with regret. “We don’t ride.”

That just left him to accompany the princess, and he foresaw a curtailment of his free time if she insisted on riding on the days he wasn’t officially working. He didn’t think she would be amenable to riding only three days a week, and not even the same three days each week at that.

Then there had been the issue of meals. He, Alec and Liam all had rooms in the estate’s guest house, which came complete with an adequate kitchen and a well-stocked pantry. Trace had planned to fend for himself at mealtimes, and had assumed Alec and Liam would do the same. But the princess had other ideas.

“That is silly,” she’d told him. “There is a perfectly good meal already prepared, and will be every night. My chefs are Le Cordon Bleu trained—artistes—and they would be insulted to think you prefer to eat your own cooking instead of theirs.”

When Trace had tried to explain that the hired help didn’t expect to share her table, her green eyes had flashed. “I do not eat in solitary splendor,” she’d told him firmly. “There are many in my household who eat with me.” He’d given in with as good grace as he could muster, not wanting another battle, but then he’d realized she’d actually done them a favor. Their presence at her table would be the perfect opportunity to listen to the conversations between the princess and the rest of her household, whether spoken in English or Zakharan.

Then, when they were all at the dinner table, he’d noticed she wasn’t eating. Not much, anyway. She’d passed on several dishes that were offered to her, settling for a plain piece of bread without butter and a dish of custard. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it, and no one else in her household had seemed to think it worthy of comment, but he’d noticed. And wondered. It wasn’t until he was wandering through the kitchen after dinner and overheard her cooks—chefs—he’d reminded himself, talking to each other in voluble French about that very same custard that he learned why.

Motion sickness.

Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? He’d been concerned when she first appeared in the plane’s doorway, had suspected something was wrong, but then had let himself be distracted by her peremptory demand that her Zakharian bodyguard let her go. Maybe that even explained her curt response to the man’s offer of help. Maybe she hadn’t meant to be so cold, but was just feeling out of sorts the way anyone might when they were sick.

The princess was full of contradictions. Maybe that’s why he felt so tired—he never knew what to expect. Guarding her had become an impossible mission already, and it was only the first day—things could easily get worse. Trace murmured to himself, “‘Your mission, Jim, should you choose to accept it,’” using a phrase Mission Impossible had made famous, making the impossible seem possible. Then he laughed ruefully. If they could accomplish impossible missions, so could he—he’d done it before, hadn’t he? All he needed was a little cooperation from the princess.

A shadow moved out of the corner of his eye, and he turned sharply, his right hand automatically reaching for his SIG SAUER. Then he cursed softly under his breath when he saw who it was. So much for cooperation. “Princess!” he called.

Startled, she turned toward him. “Oh,” she said. “Special Agent McKinnon. I did not see you in the shadows.”

“What are you doing outside the house...alone?”

Her brow wrinkled. “I do not understand. I am not riding alone. That is what you told me my brother said, yes? I am not to ride alone?”

He sighed. “Look, Princess, your brother’s orders were quite explicit. You’re not to step outside the house alone.”

“But—”

“No, no, and no. Do I agree with him? No. Do I think you’re in danger here within the grounds? No. But am I going to let you go against his express orders? No.”

She stared at him, her green eyes betraying her contrition...and uncertainty. “I would not...that is not what I...” She stopped then started again. “So I am a prisoner here?”

Now it was Trace’s turn to look puzzled. “What do you mean, a prisoner? You’re not a prisoner. You’re free to go wherever you want, so long as one of us is with you.”

Her face contracted. “I thought...here...where I am not known...I would not be in such danger.”

“I don’t know what kind of danger you were in at home. But even in this country there are dangers for people like you.”

Her voice was very small when she asked, “People like me?”

“Rich. Well known. Well connected. Putting aside any threats against you because you’re a political target, there are crazies out there who kill for no other reason than to become famous by killing someone who is already famous.”

She glanced away, staring toward the Rockies in the distance, hulking dark shadows against the night sky. “I was guarded at Oxford. Every minute of the day. And in Zakhar, of course. But I did not realize here, too...” She closed her eyes for a minute and sighed noticeably before her eyes opened again. “I was hoping my life would not be so restricted here in Boulder.”

Trace felt a flicker of pity for her. “Don’t worry, Princess. That’s why you’ve got me. To make sure nothing happens to you. But I’m not your jailor. With just a little cooperation on your part, you can be nearly as free as you’d like to be.”

“But I can’t just be Dr. Marianescu, can I?”

“Who’s that?” The question slipped out before Trace made the connection.

A peal of laughter escaped her, and it startled him. It was such a normal thing...but not for her. The sound of her laughter slid inside his defenses, just as her eyes did. “I am Dr. Marianescu,” she explained, still laughing. “That is my family name. Mara Theodora Marianescu. When I received my doctorate from Oxford two years ago, I became Dr. Marianescu.”

Her laughter faded away, and a wistful expression came over her face. “Andre was there. He was so proud of me—earning my doctorate so quickly. If not for him I doubt I would have accomplished it. At least, not when I did.” At Trace’s questioning look she added swiftly, “I cannot explain...there are reasons...it is not something I want the world to know.” She shook her head as if shaking off an unpleasant memory. “But I achieved my PhD despite everything. And if not for Andre I would have had no one with whom to rejoice.”

“What about your father? Wasn’t he alive then?”

She went still all over, emotion erased from her face as if a curtain had fallen over it. “Yes,” she said, her voice flat and unmusical. “He was still alive. He did not die until two months later.” She stood there for a moment without saying anything else. Then she turned and walked back to the house, leaving Trace standing there staring after her, a hundred questions running through his head. But no answers.

Chapter 3

The estate’s active alarm system went off in the dead of night three days later. Alec was on duty, but both brothers responded immediately, guns drawn. By the time they made their way from the guest house to the main house, the princess’s household had been roused from sleep by the blaring alarm. Her staff was milling around, but surprisingly no one had tried to turn off the alarm. Her entire contingent of Zakharian bodyguards—only two of whom had actually been awake and on duty when the alarm went off—were already stationed in and around the princess’s sitting room, armed and dangerous. Two of them whirled and drew down on Liam and Alec before they recognized the two DSS agents.

“Don’t apologize,” Liam told them when the two bodyguards stiffly began to do so as he and Alec entered the princess’s sitting room. “You did the right thing,” he said, pitching his voice to carry over the noise. “What’s the situation? Has anyone seen anything?”

Alec left the room for a minute, then the raucous alarm was mercifully turned off. When he returned he said, “The passive alarms didn’t go off. I noticed that right off the bat. So whoever or whatever set off the active alarm didn’t come from outside the estate.”

Both Alec and Liam focused on the princess, who’d been drawn from her bed by her bodyguards and spirited into her sitting room, and was perched in an armchair in the corner of the room farthest from the window, surrounded by three of her bodyguards. She was still in her nightdress, but someone had handed her a silk dressing gown in a deep shade of peach, which she had quickly wrapped around her person. And her long hair had been bundled up, tidily out of the way. Alec glanced around and asked abruptly, “Does anyone know what set off the alarm?”

No one answered at first. The Zakharians in the room turned to the princess, and she shook her head, taking charge in a calm and composed manner. “I do not know,” she replied in a steady voice. “I do not think it was one of us.”

Liam already had his cell phone out and was pressing a speed dial button. Everyone was startled when a cell phone rang nearby, and all eyes were drawn to the doorway from the bedroom into the sitting room, to the tall man who suddenly stood there as if he’d materialized out of the darkness.

“I set it off,” Trace said in his deep voice, as he casually silenced his cell phone and leaned against the doorjamb, his gun safely in its shoulder holster. But there was nothing casual in the way he took in the status of the room, and he nodded approvingly to himself. Everyone had reacted exactly as they should. The princess’s bodyguards had quickly moved her from her bedroom to the safest, most defensible place in the sitting room, and were shielding her with their bodies. Alec, who had the duty today, had responded promptly. His brother, Liam, who Trace had known was sleeping in the guest house even though he wasn’t on duty, had also responded exactly as Trace had hoped—guarding the princess wasn’t the kind of job where a man was ever really “off the clock,” not if he was anywhere around her.

And the princess? She obviously wasn’t hysterical. She wasn’t even frightened by the alarm, not that he could see anyway, just alert and wary. And that surprised him. Somehow he’d thought she’d be the weak link, terrified at the potential threat, and he grudgingly gave her points for remaining cool under duress. He wondered if this was the first time she’d ever faced this kind of situation, or if there had been attempts on her life before. There hadn’t been anything about that in her dossier, but then he’d already realized the State Department’s dossier on her was woefully incomplete.

Both Alec and Liam had holstered their weapons at Trace’s initial statement, and now Alec said with a touch of humor in his voice, “Fire drill?”

“Yeah.” Trace straightened and walked farther into the room, heading right for the princess. “I’m sorry,” he told her gently, “but it was necessary. I had to be sure everyone knew what to do in an emergency. Your men and mine.”

She stood up, and her bodyguards deferentially moved to one side. She tightened her belt around her waist with a decided snap, then she looked up into Trace’s eyes. “It was a test?” she asked levelly.

“Yes.”

Her next question was unexpected. “Did we pass?”

“With flying colors.” When her brows drew together, questioning what he meant by that proverbial phrase, he explained, “Honorably successful.”

“Ahhh.” She nodded as comprehension dawned. “Good.” She tore her gaze away from his and glanced around the room at everyone there. “Does this mean we can all go back to sleep now?”

Trace couldn’t help it, a smile tugged at his mouth as she asked the question in a practical, no-nonsense tone. “Yes, ma’am,” he told her, for once not using the word princess. “Everyone can stand down.” Before she could ask, he added, “That means suspend and relax from an alert state of readiness. Return to normal. And since it’s—” he glanced at his watch “—two-fifteen in the morning, yes, everyone can go back to sleep.”

Everyone but me, he thought, but didn’t say. He had a report to write. And since the report would no doubt end up in the hands of the king of Zakhar, passed along by the State Department, it needed to be thorough...and reassuring.

* * *

From a short distance away, the three armed men treading in the shadows of the estate’s perimeter had heard the alarm go off. They circled back to their prearranged meeting point, shot questioning glances at each other, then shrugged their shoulders without speaking a word. They were as certain as they could be that no one had breached the estate’s walls—if anyone had attempted that they would have known—and none of them had set off the alarm.

There was little or no movement around the estate that they could see from their vantage point, even with the advanced technology that night-vision goggles provided. And though the men were prepared to disappear if necessary—considering the amount of illegal equipment they carried—no police responded to the alarm. That was a telling point. All three men noted the time, the exact responses...and the lack thereof. These details would be included in their report, which would be forwarded up the chain of command.

Their orders were clear, although none of the men knew the exact reason behind them. But they didn’t need to know. As were all the men who worked in their organization, they were intensely, militarily devoted to the man at the top. They believed. Arrest and incarceration was a definite possibility, but it wasn’t one that concerned them unduly.

Shortly thereafter the alarm was silenced. When the estate had finally settled down and the normal night sounds returned, the men resumed their catlike stalking from a distance, notating each potential weakness in the estate’s defenses for future use.

* * *

On the first day of the semester Mara woke early, with a sense of excitement barely contained. Today she would begin teaching again, but this time things would be different. For the past two years she had taught at the University of Zakhar in the capital city of Drago. She was a good teacher—she knew it—but she had never been able to fit in. Everyone at the University of Zakhar had known who she was. The faculty hadn’t been able to separate the princess from the professor, not to mention her students. Everyone there had kept her at a distance, just as she’d been isolated at Oxford. That wasn’t going to happen this time. Not if she could help it.

Ever since she could remember her secret dream had been to be an ordinary woman. Not a princess. Not an icon. And certainly not someone whose face and life story were used to sell magazines. And such stories! She made an expression of distaste at the memories of the fictional stories—all supposedly true—that had been written about her over the years. Andre had told her not to read them because they upset her so much, but she’d never been able to resist. It was almost a morbid fascination. Then she would throw the magazine against the wall, or rip the pages into tiny fragments, muttering dire threats she wished she could carry out. If only the world knew the truth! No one would want to read about her real life, so the tabloids were forced to make things up.

But that was all behind her now, and Mara hummed to herself as she dressed. She had taken note of what the women professors at the university here wore, and had gone shopping with a vengeance. No one at school except the president of the university and the dean of her college knew that Her Serene Highness Princess Mara Theodora and Dr. Mara Marianescu were one and the same person. Mara was determined to keep it that way, even though it meant camouflaging herself by wearing clothes bought off the rack and donning eyeglasses with plain glass lenses instead of prescription ones she didn’t need. All her adult life she had downplayed her looks; preferring to remain in the background rather than stand out. Now she was glad of it. Most people saw only what they expected to see. And even though her photograph had been plastered across the pages of magazines for years, no one would expect to see her here in Boulder, a simple math professor in a university that ranked in the top hundred in the US, but not in the top ten or even the top fifty.

Mara smiled to herself, remembering the battle she’d fought with Special Agent McKinnon over her insistence on being just like everyone else. That meant the limousine and chauffeur had to go. It had required a phone call to her brother, but in the end Andre had relented. She would be allowed to drive herself to and from school without her Zakharian bodyguards in tow—just one of the special agents assigned to her “riding shotgun.” Mara laughed with delight as she thought of it. English was such a colorful language, full of imagery and idioms.

Then her laughter faded. Special Agent McKinnon would be guarding her today. She was already on excellent terms with the other two special agents, the ones from the Diplomatic Security Service, Alec and Liam. She called them by their first names now, and although they had both refused to call her Mara, and she had refused to allow them to call her Princess Mara, they had laughingly agreed to call her Dr. Marianescu.

And while Alec and Liam zealously guarded her, they treated her like a normal person, which was what she so desperately wanted. She knew all about their large family—mother, older brothers, younger sister and her daughter, their one-year-old niece. They had shared with her a little of their dreams and aspirations, and knew something of hers, too, and how much she wanted to belong.

But Special Agent McKinnon was different. When she was with him she always felt on edge, and it wasn’t just because his face and physique set her senses jangling. It was as if he were judging her and finding her wanting, and that hurt more than she’d ever thought possible. He never told her anything about himself, either. After more than a month she knew no more about him than she had that first day—the facts in his dossier and the effect he had upon her senses.

Because of him she had drastically restricted her rides on Suleiman, a real sacrifice. Neither Alec nor Liam rode, so if she rode she was forced to do it with Special Agent McKinnon at her side. That meant riding only on the days he was on duty, instead of every day as was her habit. The first time he had appeared on horseback on one of his days off Mara had been startled. He hadn’t said anything about it, and it was so difficult to talk to him about anything. So she’d asked Liam, who was officially on duty that day. After that she had requested a copy of the duty roster every week, and planned her rides accordingly.

But Special Agent McKinnon didn’t seem to appreciate her sacrifice. Didn’t seem to appreciate her. Sometimes in bed at night she thought about him before falling asleep. Wondered what kind of woman would appeal to him. Wondered why he didn’t like her. And she wanted him to like her. So much so that she wondered what it would take to change his mind. Wondered what it would take to make him stop calling her Princess in that subtly mocking way she hated.

She watched him when he wasn’t looking, especially on horseback. She rode English and he rode Western style, but that didn’t mean she didn’t admire the way he rode. Man and horse seemed as one, and she imagined he had been born in the saddle. He was such a superb horseman she would even have trusted him with Suleiman—and she had never let anyone but Andre ride her precious Suleiman.

But it wasn’t just the way he rode. He did everything well, from training her household on security measures—including the two additional alerts in the past few weeks and his no-nonsense dissecting of everyone’s actions, including hers—to picking a veterinarian for her horses, to dealing with the hundred and one problems that cropped up as her staff adjusted to life in a new country. Competent. Self-assured. Liked and respected by everyone, from her housekeeper to her chefs to her chargé d’affaires. Everyone in her household turned to him as the final arbiter. Alec and Liam didn’t say much about him, but she could tell they, too, thought highly of Special Agent McKinnon.

You do, too, she told herself sadly. It wasn’t his handsome face she was drawn to, although looking at it filled her with the challenge of making him smile at her. A real smile. A private smile, just for her. And it wasn’t that incredibly fit body of his, either, although her thoughts had followed a forbidden path more than once as she imagined what it would be like in his arms. No, it wasn’t either of those things, but something entirely different. Even though he made her nervous and edgy, she trusted him implicitly where her safety was concerned. She knew nothing could happen to her when he was there, the same way she felt with Andre. Safe. Secure. Sheltered.

And something more. She wasn’t sure what that was. Not exactly. But she wanted to find out. If only he didn’t dislike her...

* * *

The order to stand down two days before had come as a surprise to the men who had covertly surveilled the estate for weeks. They had quietly discussed the order among themselves, but there was no question of disobeying. The reason behind their original posting and their withdrawal order was beyond their need to know. They had filed one last report, then disappeared as if they had never been there, leaving no trace of their passing. What, if anything, had been learned from their observations would be used—or not—at the discretion of the man whose word was law to his men. Their operation was over...for now.

* * *

Trace woke late, with barely enough time to shower, shave, brush his teeth and grab some breakfast in the guest house’s kitchen. He was not in a good mood. He’d had big plans for the weekend—his first full weekend off in a month—but nothing had gone according to plan.

First, Keira had called him early Saturday to say his goddaughter was running a fever, and it would probably be best to postpone his visit to another day. He’d really been looking forward to spending time with Alyssa. Not to mention he’d wanted the opportunity to favor Alyssa’s father with a few choice words about the current assignment he’d been suckered into taking on.

Then his date Saturday night with the tall hot blonde who was subletting his condo had turned into a complete washout. Not that she’d given him the cold shoulder. On the contrary. He wasn’t cocky or conceited about it—at least he tried not to be. But he knew when a woman was giving him the green light. And the green light had been flashing all evening. The problem was...him.

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 horizon. 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.”

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