Читать книгу Born To Protect - Virginia Kantra - Страница 11

The man was impossible.

And nearly impossible to get rid of.

Christina marched into the office she shared with three other postgraduate fellows and snatched her mail from her cubbyhole.

Jack Dalton strolled through the door behind her, exuding pheromones and disapproval. “You should lock your door.”

She would not let him see how he rattled her. “Would it do any good?” she asked sweetly.

He grinned, that sharp, attractive grin that hooked her insides. “Trying to get rid of me, princess?”

She barricaded herself behind her battered metal desk. “Not very effectively, obviously. I haven’t had this much difficulty shaking my bodyguard since I was thirteen years old and had to climb the garden wall.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, taking a slow survey of the shabby room. “What were you running away from that time?”

What harm could it do to tell him? “A British film crew. They were making a documentary about my mother.”

“Did you get caught?”

She lifted her chin. “Not until they finished filming for the day.”

He eyed her appraisingly. “That must have gone over big with your parents.”

“My mother was very understanding. Besides, the crew got what they came for. My parents were gracious, my brother was dashing, Anna looked adorable and Julia impressed the interviewer with her grasp of public affairs.”

“The perfect family.”

“The perfect royal family. Yes.”

“And where do you fit in?”

She almost said, “I don’t.” She shrugged instead. “Is it necessary to fit in?”

“For most kids, yeah. Julia… That’s your older sister, right?”

“Two years older and wiser and prettier.”

“Jealous?”

“No. Not really. When I was thirteen, perhaps. Julia had so much more poise. And breasts,” she added, surprising both of them with her honesty. “Julia had breasts.”

He laughed, sharp and quick, and heat surged to her face. What had she been thinking, to blurt that out?

“You’ve got breasts,” he drawled.

She looked down at the mail on her lap. “I didn’t then. What I had was baby fat.”

“I bet you were cute.”

She shook her head. “Thirteen-year-old girls do not want to be cute.”

“What do they want?”

She didn’t want to remember. She was beyond that now. She was a respected member of the academic community, with a purpose and identity that reached far beyond the confining walls of the palace. The awkward, pudgy princess had morphed into cool, assured Dr. Sebastiani. And she did not discuss old dreams, old hurts and her breasts with her father’s hired keeper.

“This is an inappropriate discussion,” she said stiffly.

“Why? What did you want, princess, when you were thirteen?”

She straightened her shoulders and told him part of the truth. “To be left alone.”

He hooked a chair from behind an empty desk and straddled it, his blue gaze steady on her face. “So, some things don’t change.”

“No,” she agreed, and ignored the pang at her heart. “Some things never change.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“We don’t.” She began to sort her mail, stacking the first-class envelopes on her desk, setting aside the department memos to be dealt with later. “There is no ‘we.’ I expect you to report back to my father that you found me well and safe and happy, and that your services are not required.”

“I don’t report to your father. I report to mine. And until I hear from him, I don’t know what’s required.”

Christina fidgeted with the neat stack of envelopes. There was one from the Harborside Hotel in San Diego, which she hoped held her conference confirmation, and a plain white envelope with no return address. Responding to either seemed preferable to dealing with Jack Dalton right now.

She tore open the white envelope and unfolded the single sheet inside. A newspaper clipping fell into her lap. She scanned the headline, her heart thumping unpleasantly.

And all her brave assertions turned bitter in her mouth.

Something was wrong.

Jack felt it in his gut.

And yet Christina hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word. She breathed slowly, in and out, and her spine and her eyes were straight. But there was tension in her shoulders, and her gaze did not focus on the paper she held. The edges trembled in her tightened grip.

Inside him, something lurched in acknowledgment, both of her distress and her determination to hide it. But Christina had already made it clear she didn’t want his sympathy. Or his admiration. Or anything to do with him.

“Somebody die?” he asked.

She stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He gestured toward the letter she still held. “Something’s upset you.”

She gave him one of those “Me, princess. You, peasant” looks she was so good at. “You’ve been upsetting me since you got here.”

He almost grinned. “Something else.”

“It’s nothing.” She grimaced slightly. “Fan mail.”

He held out his hand. “Let me see.”

When she didn’t respond, he leaned forward and tugged the paper away.

U.S. Embassy Bombed, the headline read.

It was an undated Associated Press wire clipping from Montebello. Jack read it carefully, comparing what the reporter knew with what his father had told him. No group has claimed responsibility for the bombing, although several terrorist organizations in the region are known to be hostile to the U.S. military presence in Montebello…

Right. Jack’s dad had said Sheik Ahmed Kamal of Tamir was the most likely suspect. King Marcus was convinced of the neighboring ruler’s guilt. And Kamal was well known for his anti-West sentiment.

Jack read on. A source close to the palace reveals that the bombing could have been a diversion to cover a kidnap attempt on Princess Julia.

Oh, boy. A leak at the palace must have made the old man unhappy, Jack thought. But he was going to be really ticked about the straggling line of cut-out letters pasted below the article, like a ransom note in a B movie: THIS COULD BE YOU.

Hell.

“We’ve got to get this tested,” he said.

Christina raised her eyebrows. She had her emotions in check again. He couldn’t help wondering what it would take to shatter that calm control. “Tested for what?”

“For fingerprints. ID. To find out who’s threatening you.”

She sighed. “No one’s threatened me.”

Exasperation spiked his voice. “What do you call this?”

“An unfortunate consequence of my family’s fame. I get them all the time, Mr. Dalton, even here. Requests for autographs, marriage proposals, nude videos, pleas for money… I refuse to get rattled by one more crank who likes to cut things out of the newspaper.”

But she had been rattled. He’d seen it in her eyes.

“You better start calling me Jack,” he said. “I have a feeling we’re going to get to know each other pretty well.”

“No. I told you, I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“And I don’t need a princess with attitude. But it looks like neither one of us is going to get what we want. Will you at least cooperate until we establish whether or not you’re a target?”

She bit her lip. He couldn’t tell if she was responding to his jibe or considering his offer. “How long would that take?”

“You want the truth?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a report from the major hitting my post office box, maybe today. Background stuff. Probably an update on the bombing investigation. I can go over that and tell you what kind of risk I think you’re taking. And then we get lab results on your little love letter here. If we establish a tie to Kamal, I’d say you’re in real danger. After that, it’s up to you whether you accept help or not.”

“Your help.”

He shrugged, trying not to care that he was being judged and found wanting. Trying not to care whether he saved her pretty neck or not. He was out of the save-the-world business. “Doesn’t have to be me. Get yourself a nice professional with a suit and a shoulder holster, if you want. Maybe a woman. I’m just passing through.”

“On your way to where?”

Nowhere, he thought.

“Does it matter?” he asked bleakly. His shoulder ached, a promise of pain tomorrow. “All you need to know is whether I’m available and if I’m qualified.”

She tipped her head to one side, showing off the long, elegant line of her throat. “I believe we determined your qualifications yesterday. And you have made yourself annoyingly available.”

He grimaced, thinking of what that availability had cost him. Damn near everything. “Oh, I’m available, all right.”

She nodded. “Very well, then.”

“Very well, what?”

“I accept your protection until my danger is disproved.” His surprise must have registered, because a small, remote smile touched the corners of her mouth. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Dalton…Jack. Just stubborn. I don’t want to get kidnapped, and I don’t intend to be used as a bargaining chip in whatever feud Sheik Ahmed has with my father.”

“So, you’ll…cooperate?”

“Yes. With the understanding that you will not interfere with my work.”

He looked at the neat stacks of paper on her desk, the sharpened pencils and a hunk of glittering rock. “What kind of work do you do? You’re a microbiologist, right?”

A brief gleam appeared in her blue eyes. Amused, but not malicious. “Microbial ecologist. My research focuses on isolating and identifying microorganisms—bacteria—in the soil that could help plants thrive in metal-contaminated areas.”

“Yeah, I can see how you couldn’t let that slide for a few days,” he drawled.

“Actually, microorganisms are crucial to ecosystem function. An understanding of their role in plant success could have huge implications in developing land-reclamation strategies.”

Her enthusiasm was kind of cute. He wasn’t going to argue with her. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he understood her.

“Fine. You do that. After we go to the post office. I want to pick up the report from the major so I can read up on the situation. And we need to send this letter in for prints.”

“Send it where?”

“To my old man. Might as well use the connections we’ve got. Do you have plastic bags in that lab of yours?”

She nodded. “I use sterile bags to collect soil samples.”

“Great. We’ll bag this and the envelope it came in. I’ll need to send our prints, too, so they can eliminate them.”

Her eyes widened. “You carry fingerprint equipment?”

“No, but any unglazed paper will hold prints, and they can lift them with ninhydrin.”

“How do you know that?”

“You have your area of expertise, I’ve got mine. You pick up a lot on counterterrorist ops.”

“I’m sure you do,” she said dryly. “Excuse me if I don’t have your experience.”

He couldn’t resist. It was a knee-jerk reaction to the challenge of her, the precision of her speech and the delicacy of her scent and the angle of her chin.

“Princess, anytime you want experience, I’m your man.”

Jack pushed open the door to his motel room. The trapped air rushed to greet them, smelling like mildew and pine cleaner and sex by the hour.

Christina recoiled.

He looked over his shoulder impatiently. “Problem?”

Her nerves jangled. She took a deep breath and a step forward. Chin up. “Not really. I’m just not in the habit of accompanying strange men to their motel rooms.”

He grinned and tossed the package from Uncle Jonathan onto the cheap dresser. “Well, that’s a relief.”

She lifted her eyebrows in question.

“As long as I’m responsible for your safety, it’s good to know you don’t indulge in high-risk behavior.”

She couldn’t think of anything riskier than this close association with Captain Experience. Except maybe getting herself kidnapped by Ahmed Kamal.

Jack Dalton was too much. Too big, too blunt, too muscled and far too sure of himself. He made her feel like a trembling virgin. The feeling wasn’t helped at all by the depressing knowledge that she was a virgin and far too close to trembling….

“I’ll leave the risk taking to you.” She looked around for someplace to sit. There were clothes folded on the room’s only chair. She felt it would be presumptuous to move them, to handle his pants and his socks. Primly, she sat on the very edge of his bed. “From now on, you can catch all the bullets and infectious diseases.”

“You’ve got the wrong idea about my lifestyle, princess.”

“It’s possible.” She crossed her legs, enjoying a faint, unfamiliar thrill when his eyes followed the movement. “It’s also possible you have the wrong idea about mine.”

“Maybe we both have something to learn.”

His rough voice snagged all her nerve endings. Maybe. Maybe Jack Dalton could teach her all the wild, wonderful, wicked things other women learned from men.

And maybe she should take a rock and knock some sense into her head first. It would be equally painful and ultimately less destructive.

“Not from each other. This situation is difficult enough without our playing at some ill-judged sexual attraction.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Ill-judged, huh?”

“Extremely ill-judged,” she answered firmly.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But, princess—” he waited until she dragged her gaze up to his “—if and when I do make a move, I won’t be playing.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. “I’m going to pack my kit,” he called. “Make yourself at home.”

Well.

Christina sat on the shiny motel spread, her knees crossed, and wondered if she should be flattered by his near pass or run screaming from the room. Neither, she decided. Dalton was probably just trying to sweet-talk her into going along with whatever he wanted. And if Sheik Ahmed were after her, running away was the worst thing she could do.

She needed facts. A scientist did not draw conclusions before compiling all her data. She needed information to assess her own danger. And the information she needed was sitting in an overnight mail envelope on the dresser three feet away.

She uncrossed her legs and stood. She picked the packet off the maple laminate and weighed it in her hand. Jonathan Dalton’s name was on the return label, along with an address in Texas. She turned the envelope over. Tape sealed the flap. She was testing it with her fingernail when she got that feeling again, the warm sensation of being watched.

She looked up.

Jack stood in the bathroom doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb. His face was expressionless. His eyes were annoyed. “Was that addressed to you?”

Heat swept up her cheeks. She lifted her chin.

“If it’s about me,” she said, “then it’s my business.”

He prowled forward and tugged the envelope from her grasp. “Wrong. You told me you didn’t want me interfering with your work. Well, don’t interfere with mine.”

“I have a right to know what your father has found out. I should know if the situation warrants my taking precautions.”

“You don’t have the experience to judge that. I do. But if there’s anything in there you need to see, I’ll show it to you.”

It was more than she expected. Better, perhaps, than she deserved. She sat again, cautiously, on the bed.

Jack sat beside her. She tried not to notice how his jeans pulled across his thighs, how the mattress sank under his weight and rolled her toward him. Ridiculous. She was twenty-seven years old, and she’d never sat with a man on his bed before. She inched away.

“Uncomfortable?” he murmured.

“No,” she lied.

“Because we can wait till we get back to your place to do this.”

“I can’t.” She laughed shakily at herself, at the whole situation. “I couldn’t even wait for you to get your things together. Besides, if we find out you’re mistaken—if there is no real danger—then there’s no need for you to come to my place.”

“Right, then.” He ripped the envelope open.

She saw a dark blue portfolio with her name on the cover and an eight-by-ten glossy of the formal portrait commemorating her twenty-first birthday. The girl in the photo wore a long white gown and a glittering tiara and what Christina thought of as her “public” face: eyes straight, chin up, mouth bent in a smile.

Jack studied it. “You tick off the royal photographer, princess?”

She was surprised. “No.”

“Because a portrait is supposed to engage the viewer with the subject. This shot is dead. You look like you’re posing for the five-dollar bill.” He turned the glossy over. “No wonder you don’t like having your picture taken.”

He didn’t know the half of it, she thought ruefully. He had no idea how hard she worked on that invulnerable, plastic, public pose. She didn’t want him to know.

“I’ve got your bio here,” he said. “You don’t need to see that. Transcripts—UCLA, Montana, very impressive—physical description, distinguishing marks…” He grinned suddenly. “No tattoos?”

Reluctantly, she smiled back. “No. But I have a scar on the inside of my elbow from playing Saracens and Crusaders with my brother.” She twisted her arm for him to see. Concentrating on an old hurt to conceal the fresh pain of her brother’s disappearance.

“Nice,” Jack said. “When we get to know each other better, I’ll show you mine.”

She wondered where under his clothes he carried his scars. And blushed again. She cleared her throat. “You were wounded?”

“Yeah.” He riffled through more papers.

“Recently?”

“Four months ago.”

“Where?” she asked, and then held her breath at the inappropriateness of her question.

But Jack didn’t appear to notice. “Philippines,” he answered briefly as he continued to scan the contents of the envelope. “Here we go.”

She breathed again. “What?”

“An account of the bombing. This guy they caught in conjunction with the embassy bombing, this Muhammad Oman, is some kind of freelance terrorist.”

“And?”

“And when he was interrogated, he fingered Sheik Ahmed Kamal as his boss. Which means your father has good reason for his suspicions.” He fell silent, eyes and fingers skimming the page.

“What are you reading now?”

“Background on the feud between Montebello and Tamir…real soap opera stuff, isn’t it?”

She drew herself up. “You can say that. But Sheik Ahmed’s claim to our land raises issues of natural resources and regional stability. And your government in Washington agrees, or they would not be so anxious to keep the peace.”

“Plus there’s the little matter of a U.S. military base on the southeastern end of the island,” Jack drawled.

She didn’t back down. “Precisely.”

“Look, I’m not getting paid to worry about national security anymore. I’m supposed to worry about yours.”

“Unless there’s a connection, you’re wasting your time.”

He flipped over another page. “Time’s one thing I’ve…” His voice failed.

“What? What is it?”

He was staring at the portfolio on his lap. The angle of the cover hid its contents from her, but she saw a corner of newsprint and knew, suddenly, sickeningly, what he had found.

The other picture taken the year she turned twenty-one.

She couldn’t see the headline. It didn’t matter. The same enlarged, grainy image had appeared on the front cover of every tabloid and on the inside pages of every entertainment rag in the world. Six years later, it still had the power to freeze her stomach and make a man look at her with hot speculation in his eyes.

Jack didn’t look at her at all, and that was almost worse. “More background,” he said tersely, and closed the folder.

Damn, she was beautiful.

Even when she was swathed in a white lab coat, with her hair pulled back and plastic goggles around her neck, Christina had what it took to make Jack sweat.

But the image he’d just seen—Christina topless, emerging from a lake at dawn, with every fantasy-inspired curve gilded by the sun—was enough to make him drool.

To make him ache.

To make him beg.

The shot must have been snapped with a zoom from a distance and then blown up to meet tabloid requirements. But picture quality wouldn’t have been the first thing on the photographer’s mind, or the mind of any man who saw the final product. Christina stood knee-deep in the dark water, proud head lifted, legs apart. She looked like a pagan goddess rising from the lake to claim a human lover. Her full, proud breasts glistened. Her wet hair poured down her back like sunshine. Her wet bikini bottoms clung to her like skin. And the water was obviously cold.

Jack’s tongue felt too big for his mouth. His jeans felt too tight.

Christina was saying something. Asking him something. “What is it?”

“More background.” He closed the folder before he embarrassed himself.

Confronting Christina’s sheer physical perfection made him sharply aware of how much he had lost. The sniper in the Philippines had blown away more than his shoulder and his career. The terrorist bastard had hacked at his confidence.

He could still walk away, he thought. He was just passing through.

“Let’s go to your apartment,” he said. “I need to call my old man.”