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DANGEROUS RESCUE
By
Evanne
Lorraine
©
copyright by Evanne Lorraine, November 2008
Cover
art by Alex DeShanks, November 2008
ISBN
978-1-60394-243-0
New
Concepts Publishing
Lake
Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This
is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the
author's imagination and
not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or
events is merely coincidence.
Dedication
There were
three women, who contributed to immeasurably to making this story
better, Missy, Sheila and Tobi. I owe them all for many hours of
reading, commenting, and handholding.
Chapter
One
Seattle, Washington
April 29th 6:00 PM local time
Had anyone ever died
of horniness? Ian wondered, thinking grumpily that he certainly
didn't want to be the first. How had he wound up celibate in
Seattle? This was not him. This was not what he'd wanted. This was
absolutely not what he'd planned. He'd loved sex--what he
remembered about it. He frowned at the irritating patch of blue sky
visible through the clouds from his office. Working on the seventh
floor meant the sky usually looked dark, from being in the shadow of
the taller buildings, which surrounded the Justice Center.
His phone played the
opening notes from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. He reached for it,
checking the caller ID. "Hey bud, it's great to hear from you,"
Ian grinned for no particular reason, other than hearing Clyde's
voice.
"You still at
work?"
"Damn, you caught
me at it again," Ian said with mock chagrin. "So what's
going on with you?"
"Headed your
way."
"Coming my way
from where?" Ian asked.
"SeaTac."
"You're in town?"
"Got in a half
hour ago," Clyde said. "Got your computer on?"
"Always, though
it's not like you ever email me."
"First time for
everything, Romeo. Check your inbox. I'll wait."
"Okay, bud."
Ian cradled the phone against his shoulder, clicking on the email
from C. Jefferson, which had miraculously appeared in his inbox.
"It's blank, Clyde. See, the whole idea of email is actually
writing the other person a note. But since you're techno-challenged,
and we're already talking, you could always tell me about it."
"Very funny.
Isn't there an attachment?"
"Matter of fact
there is, but I can't open it because I don't have the right program
or maybe the right clearance? What the hell are you sending me,
bud?"
Swiveling around, Ian
eyed the silver of blue sky still gleaming hopefully, the days were
getting longer. Spring was coming, even the rain felt warmer.
"Okay, I faxed
it. Did you get it?" his friend asked impatiently.
Turning back to his
desk, Ian observed that sure enough the fax machine was slowly
pushing out an ink-heavy page. He plucked it, still damp, from the
tray, and then dropped it as fast as if it were tainted evidence.
"Yeah, the picture of Regan came through fine. Is this your
idea of a joke, Clyde? Because if it is ...," he growled,
letting the threat trail off harmlessly.
Laughing, Clyde
reassured him. "No joke Romeo. And that's not Regan, that's
the one and only infamous Princess Halle."
"Who the hell is
this princess? Regan's long lost twin?"
"What's the
matter, don't you folks get the tabloids out there on the West
Coast?"
"I'm sure we do.
But I don't read them," Ian said dryly, getting his emotions
back under his usual firm control. "Why don't you fill me in?"
Clyde chuckled.
"Maybe I should."
"What the hell
are you talking about?"
"You really don't
know about Princess Halle--the pampered daughter of Qsani's royal
family? When she became engaged to Svensberg's heir to the throne,
every detail of their courtship is front-page stuff on the gossip
sheets.
"Am I bad, for
not keeping up with the Daily Tattler," Ian muttered.
"If you had then
you would know the Princess is coming to Seattle."
"The Princess is
coming here?" Ian sat straighter, keeping his back to the
rapidly darkening sky, as he scowled at the phone.
"I'll talk to you
about it when I see you--should be in about ten minutes," Clyde
said with another deep chuckle.
After hanging up the
phone, Ian rummaged through his wastebasket, retrieving the discarded
fax. Aside from the fancy hairstyle and the tiara, he could have
been looking at a bad picture of Regan, his ex-partner--easily the
most stubborn, infuriating, and seductive woman he'd ever met.
Thinking about her,
even now, after eighteen months, made him feel like someone was
tightening an iron band around his chest. There was nothing more
pathetic than a case of unrequited puppy love. He crammed a lid on
humiliating and painful memories, which were best left alone. It was
all ancient history, nothing to do with him now. He'd moved on.
Gotten over her. Way over.
But his hungry eyes
moved toward the faxed image, hoping for one more glance of her
beautiful face. Even in a grainy black and white photo the richness
of her dark hair, the sparkle in those lovely eyes, and her remote
smile gleamed at him infuriatingly. The loss still aching after all
this time. And it wasn't even her.
The crack in his
control was unacceptable. He was not about to waste his time
regretting the past or mooning over any woman. He was a man of
action. A man who knew what he wanted and how to get it.
He had always known
what he wanted--a worthwhile life. Not all the falderal, which meant
so much to his grandmother and certainly not the irresponsible gypsy
existence his parents led.
After finishing
college, taking a couple of detours, and finally moving back to
Seattle, he'd hired on with the Police Department and he'd bought a
house. The place was too big for a single man, but he'd never
intended to be a bachelor for long. He'd even bought a summer place
at the beach. It was past time for him to get married and start
filling up those houses with kids.
Regan loved kids. He
knew this for a fact. He'd seen evidence of it time and again when
they worked patrol together. In some ways, he knew her, knew her
better than he'd ever known any woman. Yet, when it came to really
understanding what made her tick, he still didn't have a clue.
He stood, and then
paced the length of his office. It was past time to put her out of
his mind and move on for real. He'd been alone far too long. Julia,
the woman he'd been seeing for a few months, was certainly willing to
take care of his needs and he was certainly horny.
But involvement with
Julia came with expectations. She shared many of his dreams. She
was attractive. Yet he hesitated, was the attraction he felt for
sweet Julia enough? It would be if he managed to get past Regan's
rejection. A little payback would help--then he'd have real closure.
And that was sick. He wasn't a revenge kind of guy. Maybe that was
his real problem. Too much nice guy and not enough ruthless bastard.
Damn, he needed to
find a way to evict Regan from his head. The idea of having sex with
one woman while thinking about another didn't sit well and he was
damn tired of not having sex.
Clyde was right,
though he'd eat ground glass before he'd admit it. If he had slept
with Regan back when they were together then she'd be nothing but a
hot memory by now. His pride had gotten in the way, wounded by her
refusal of his marriage proposal. Time had cooled his anger but the
damn woman stayed lodged in his thoughts, like an itch he couldn't
scratch.
It had been his own
damn fault. Regan had offered an affair--like sex was a consolation
prize-- after she'd turned down his offer of marriage.
He'd showed her. He'd
refused, walking out of her life for good. He'd been miserable ever
since.
Stupidly, he'd fallen
in love with Regan. Much worse than that original mistake--he'd made
an utter jerk of himself. When she'd countered his proposal by
suggesting they love making instead, he'd been so stunned by her
refusal that he'd barely heard what she'd said.
With
his ears still stinging from her flat-out ‘no', he'd lashed out
at her. He'd said things he wished he'd never thought, let alone
voiced. Thanks to his own temper, he'd ruined any chance for them to
remain friends.
He wasn't excusing his
mistakes. He'd been guilty of poor judgment, poor timing, and plain
idiocy.
It was beyond cruel
that the first female to turn him down was a heartless ice-queen
bitch--one he'd wanted more than he wanted any other woman. He
nursed his resentment, keeping it alive with the memory of Regan's
cold refusal of his love, unwilling to let the pain go.
Fortunately, his
grandmother wielded considerable influence in local political
circles. He'd humbled himself enough to ask for her help and she'd
been delighted to get him out of patrol and into a high visibility
position as the mayor's liaison.
But neither wealth nor
power had healed the wounds Regan had carved into his heart. Only by
getting even would he ever be able to make it right. He needed to
heal his wounded pride before he would ever be able to move on to
someone else.
The Princess's uncanny
resemblance to Regan had been exactly the wake up call he'd needed to
stop moping and take charge.
He'd been going about
this all wrong, avoiding Regan when he should have been seducing her.
Sex was definitely the answer to everything that ailed him. Then,
finally, he would be able to walk away and forget her.
By the time Clyde
arrived, the sky had turned gray and sullen--the lovely spring day as
over as the final note of an aria.
His friend cuffed
Ian's shoulder affectionately. "It's good to see you, Romeo."
Hearing his college
nickname made him wince inwardly, painfully aware how undeserved it
was lately. "It's nice to see you too, bud. You look great."
A little overwhelming,
but then that was Clyde. Memory always normalized him. Seeing him
again carried an element of shock. Over seven feet high, more than
three hundred pounds and not an ounce of it flab, everything about
Clyde was bigger than life. Underneath the daunting exterior was a
loyal friend and one of the best men Ian had ever met. Not that he'd
ever embarrass either of them by mentioning his admiration.
"I hope we're
still friends when this operation is over," Clyde mumbled.
Ian reassured him
automatically. "Certainly we'll be. Hell, we've been friends
since I found your sorry ass struggling with freshman calculus and
threw you a lifeline."
"Yeah, well I
taught you about jazz and how to dunk."
"Skills every
modern man needs."
Clyde's answering grin
was brief, and then he got down to business. "You've heard of
the Sons of Allah?"
"The terrorist
group that claimed credit for the drinking water disaster in
Washington DC--the ones that make Al-Qaeda look moderate?"
"Correct. Our
sources tell us they want Princess Halle and they're coming to
Seattle to get her."
"And you want to
get them." It was an easy conclusion. But already Ian felt
distinctly uneasy.
"That's what I
love about you, Romeo. You catch on quickly."
"Princess Halle
is the perfect bait to capture this nasty bunch of bad guys.
However, there's one teensy little problem with that excellent plan.
The Qsani royal family might be mad as hell at their little girl, but
she's still their princess. The Jaeger royal family likewise, while
less than thrilled with Prince Peder's betrothed, would still be
outraged if anything happens to their future daughter-in-law while
she's under our protection. Factor in our need for the oil fields in
Qsan, and Svensberg's controlling interest in the North Sea drilling
operation, both of which we need a whole helluva lot more than
anything they need from us, and you begin to see the problems with
using Princess Halle as terrorist bait."
Ian absorbed Clyde's
summary, knowing what was coming next and already hating it without
bothering to analyze why. While he wanted to torture Regan and make
her regret rejecting him--he didn't want her dead. He reached for
the remote that controlled the table lamps and turned them on. The
electric lights helped chase the gloomy shadows from the room but
they did nothing to brighten his mood.
"Aside from all
the diplomatic bullshit," Clyde continued with disarming candor.
"I've already spent two hours with the Princess and that was
way too long."
"When is this
royal visit scheduled?" Ian asked, forcing the words through
the tensed muscles of his throat.
"Two weeks. I
gotta tell you I'm really glad you're going to be my liaison--nice to
share the heat. Lots of egos involved, more brass, and plenty of
opportunities for royal snits and every form of cluster fuck you can
imagine. Fortunately, the bad guys seem to be strictly an
amateur-hour act. I don't think they've ever been within sight of
the real Sons of Allah. But there's always the chance they're
the real deal." Clyde grinned cheerfully.
"Lucky me, it
must be all my clean living," Ian commented with painful
honesty. "Lay it on me. What's the plan?"
* * * *
Officer Regan
Longstreet closed the chief's door, and then glared at the innocent
blond wood. She would have slammed it, except it would've been noisy
and would've revealed her bad attitude. She wasn't going to let a
fit of temper ruin her dream. She was in line to run the new Teen
advocacy department. Not just in line, but so close she could smell
the imitation leather chair, metal desk and fresh paint of a new unit
head's office.
Chief Logan stuck his
head out and called after her. "Passport up to date?"
Regan took a moment to
study her future boss. It was hard to believe that this man who
looked like a kiddy train conductor was really a tough-minded cop and
master of all the political games necessary to run the
high-visibility police department. His expression was unreadable.
"Yes sir,"
she said crisply.
"Good."
Logan stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him and lowering
his voice. "Then stop looking like I asked you to do something
dirty. It is two weeks of playing princess--not a torture session.
Then you're everyone's hero and your terrible teens get a new
advocate."
She'd kept a tight
rein on her smart mouth, holding back the angry words that would get
her into big trouble. But judging by the chief's expression, she'd
failed at keeping disappointment off her face. She sought for
something to say that wouldn't make him regret recommending her for
the position that she wanted so much.
"It was a
let-down," she said honestly. "But you know you can count
on me to do whatever job the department needs done." Regan met
the Chief's gaze, hoping for understanding and tolerance.
Chief Logan's
expression remained guarded as he narrowed shrewd baby blues in her
direction. "These things are more complicated than you realize.
The department needs team leaders." Then his voice softened.
"Don't worry. No one is backing out of anything. Think of it
this way: by taking this assignment, you're winning friends for the
department and for your unit. Those teens need all the help they can
get."
The chief had a point,
much as it hurt to admit it. She tended to push too hard, which was
not the way to win department popularity contests. A unit head
needed to be politically savvy.
Regan swallowed her
disappointment. "You're right, sir."
The Chief ignored her
admission. "Your ex-partner has been doing his share. He's
your biggest cheerleader. Ian is good man. Give him my best."
Ian McKnight was
her biggest cheerleader? Since when? Caught off-guard, Regan
scrambled for an appropriate response. "You've got it, I
definitely will, the very next time I see him, sir."
She hadn't heard a
word from Ian in ages. She'd guessed that he'd forgotten she
existed, which was just peachy. It proved she was right. She'd been
nothing to him but a post-adolescent crush. She didn't think of him
much anymore either--only two or three times a day tops.
"You've waited
this long for your unit--you can wait another couple of weeks."
The implied threat in
the chief's words snapped Regan's attention back to police business.
If she turned down the princess assignment there might well be
someone more cooperative heading the unit she already thought of as
hers.
She'd been working
forever to get the new advocacy unit approved. She knew she could do
a great job running it. The assignment was a win/win situation for
Regan and for the kids, who desperately needed a break. The kids
would get a dedicated advocate and she would get to make a
difference, in a good way.
Regan swallowed any
further protest. She'd just sat through a two-hour meeting with
Secret Service Agents, State Department personnel, and Svensberg's
ambassador to the United States. She didn't need extra clues that
the high-profile princess assignment was not optional.
Since she was going
to succeed as the head of the new advocacy squad, she had to make
this work. Time for her to get busy mastering the subtle arts of
politics and fast, or she'd find herself back in Patrol. Then what
would happen to the children, who needed someone to fight for them?
"Well, don't just
stand there, go home and start packing." The Chief made a
shooing motion.
"Yes sir."
What am I supposed to pack for a princess tutorial? Damn, I'm
fresh out of tiaras.
Ian would know. The
thought blew in unbidden, something that happened all too often when
it came to thinking about Ian. Time was supposed to make painful
memories fade away. She was still waiting.
All too-often,
high-definition images of Ian plagued her. The man was a walking
temptation, his blue eyes rimmed with sinfully thick lashes, black
curly hair, and the body of sex god, he was her fondest dream and her
worst nightmare all rolled into one.
At the first red light
on the way home, Regan called Kiki, her personal trainer. Paying
someone to keep her in condition might seem like a luxury to some,
but Kiki and the gym membership were Regan's only big extravagances.
As long as she didn't count Starbucks, which Kiki would yell about if
she knew, as well as the lingerie, and pedicures, and ....
Considering she was in
her thirties and needed to be in top shape to run down felons, the
gym and Kiki were more necessity than extravagance. Pedicures were
essential for a woman who abused her feet as much as the average cop.
Anyway, who did it hurt if she pampered herself a little? But the
sad truth was no matter how much she babied her outsides--her insides
were still hideously scarred. She shoved aside the too-familiar
depressing thought.
She owed Kiki a call
as her fitness coach, but even more as her friend.
"Hi there, it's
Regan."
"Hey girl, is
this some lame attempt to slack off instead of working out?"
"No." Regan
laughed. She couldn't help it. Kiki always had that effect on her.
"But I do have to cancel on you for tonight. I'm going to be on
assignment for a couple of weeks."
"Is this more
training for the new unit? Team building and all that?"
"Sorry, I really
can't talk about it. I'll run as often as I can and keep up with the
basics. This is just a head's up that I'm going to need you to whip
my butt back into shape when it's over."
"You got it.
Take care of yourself out there. Your world can be scary."
Kiki's warm concern
made Regan feel uncomfortable.
"Yeah, like your
world's not? You better watch out for yourself. I've seen the
cellulite under some of those yoga pants. Talk about scary."
"You got a point
there, officer."
Regan imagined Kiki's
dimples flashing as she listened to her friend's teasing.
* * * *
Within minutes of
arriving at home, Regan had finished her packing and had tucked a
spare clip of ammunition into her weekend bag. Then she'd indulged
in a leisurely milk bath. After patting dry, she'd slipped into
decadent silk undies. Hiding the feminine indulgence with a
wrinkle-proof pants suit, so severe it looked almost like her
uniform. After slipping on regrettably ugly but comfortable walking
shoes and pulling her long hair into a quick twist, she was ready.
Prior to leaving the
house, she had one more important job, spider patrol.
Regan had a thing
about spiders. She didn't like them with their sticky grasping webs
and their poisonous mouths, and they didn't like her. Much as she
loved her old house, it wasn't spider-proof. She shivered, and then
double-checked that all the sinks, shower, and bathtub drain covers
were firmly in place. Then she confirmed both toilet lids were in
the down position. Finally, she insured every window was locked and
firmly sealed.
She'd just finished
her inspection when she looked through her living room blinds to see
the Queen's stunt double walking to her front door.
"Hi there."
Regan stared as she held open the door, curious in spite of her
intention to be cool.
The woman on her
threshold looked as if she were airbrushed. Not a single speck of
dirt soiled her ensemble and not a single silvery blonde hair was out
of place. None of them would dare. Not a single rumple of her
butter-colored wool coat marred her perfect appearance. An
incongruous corsage of faux yellow roses decorated one shoulder. She
had on a tidy pillbox hat and her white gloved hands held a beige
treasure chest-shaped purse in leather as smooth as a baby's butt.
Conservative tan pumps, that probably cost the earth, graced her
small feet.
Ian would've been
right at home with this royal associate. He came from a world of
wealth and privilege as foreign as Svensberg to Regan. Pushing the
distracting thoughts of Ian out of her head, she focused on the woman
in front of her.
"Good afternoon,
Ms. Longstreet. I am Inge Lundstrom--you are to address me
Lundstrom. I have worked for Princess Halle since her engagement to
His Royal Highness, Prince Peder. It's my job to help orient you and
answer your questions. I am afraid we have a rather long journey
ahead of us. If you are quite ready?"
Not in this
lifetime.
"Sure."
Regan shook Lundstrom's hand with a quick smile.
She'd already decided
to suck it up and play nice. At the very worst, this assignment
would be good practice for all those inter-departmental meetings.
Regan grabbed her
small suitcase and her raincoat, relieved to be able skip serving tea
and cookies to her royal babysitter. As she locked the house, she
asked Lundstrom, "Where are we headed?"
The woman's laughter
managed to be both cheery and tasteful, like her wardrobe.
"We're joining
the royal family at Paradise on the Island of Tortolo."
"Where exactly is
Paradise found in the real world?"
Another trill of
tasteful laughter preceded Lundstrom's response. "Paradise is
simply the name of the Jaeger family's retreat. It's located, as I
mentioned, on Tortolo."
She looked back and
then expanded her answer in response to what must have been the blank
look on Regan's face.
"Tortolo, which
means turtledove, is located in the British Virgin Islands."
Lundstrom coughed politely, taking the sting out of her remarks.
"The Caribbean,
huh?"
Regan considered the
contents of her weekend bag, clean undies, a white silk blouse, a
stretchy dress black tee shirt, a versatile black skirt, and her
grooming kit. She'd tossed in the blood-red nail polish at the last
minute. Just in case there was time for a pedicure. She considered
going back for a swimsuit, but shrugged it off. The old Speedo was
getting thin. If she got a chance to go swimming then she'd treat
herself to a new one, maybe a bikini. Well, why not?
"That is
correct." Lundstrom paused at the limousine parked in Regan's
driveway. A uniformed chauffer held the door open.
Did you have more
questions, Ms. Longstreet?" she asked, waiting patiently for
Regan to respond.
"Hundreds. Call
me Regan." She smiled, determined to show she wouldn't hold her
companion's stuffy attitude against her.
She glanced back at
her narrow Victorian townhouse with a sudden pang, wishing she were
staying home. Allowing her bag to be stowed in the trunk, she
entered the sleek automobile, and then slid across, leaving plenty of
room for her escort. The other woman arranged herself on the
spacious backseat with smooth, economic movements, which suggested
limo rides were a frequent occurrence in her life.
The chauffer closed
the passenger door and returned to the driver's seat before Lundstrom
spoke again. "In point of fact, Ms. Longstreet, I will be
addressing you as Your Royal Highness or as Princess Halle in a very
informal setting. I will, of course, refer to you as Her Royal
Highness, Princess of Qsan, in any public situations."
The woman's voice was
low and even. Her accent was cultured and her tone gracious.
Her lecture still felt
like a rebuke.
Regan nodded, trying
to keep her face blank, and wishing, not for the first time, that she
had her brother's poker face. Zack was like a sphinx.
Privately, she
considered it a big waste of the taxpayer's money to play princess
for three weeks. Even if two of those weeks were going to be in The
Virgin Island's, all expenses paid.
This assignment
certainly wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to her. The
seven days of pretending to be Princess Halle on an official state
visit to Seattle, was bound to be a royal bore. But she'd smile and
wave her way through it.
After all, how tough
could it be to play princess?
* * * *
Ian finished tying his
black bowtie, and then treated himself to scotch. A generous splash
of Malverney's single malt flowed over the two ice cubes
chilling the tumbler. The complex aroma and flavor swirled over his
palate, calming him. Regan was all but official as the head of the
new teen advocacy department. He knew this, having lobbied behind
the scenes to ensure approval of the badly needed unit, yet another
example of his misguided instincts. She should be hip-deep in
getting the operation up to speed, not pretending to be some silly
royal. Knowing Regan, she was pissed about the last-minute
assignment.
A smile teased the
corner of his mouth. He hadn't spoken to her since the transfer,
he'd asked for, had come through. But he'd been tempted a time or
two and this was definitely one of those occasions.
He didn't need to look
up Regan's cell number. His fingers still knew it. He got her voice
mail. "Sorry I can't answer the phone right now. Leave a
message."
Hearing her voice was
a turn-on. Instantly he was getting hard and losing cool. Ian
shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his evening clothes. Maybe she'd
been right--the only thing between them was chemistry. The smart
thing would've been to hang up. His home number was blocked. She'd
never know.
As with all his
encounters with Regan, his pride came into play and the smart thing
didn't happen.
He started talking.
"This is Ian McKnight. I'm sorry about the princess assignment
delaying your new department appointment." He sounded way too
formal. Did she have an edit option on her messages? He should hang
up before it got worse. "Clyde does good work. You can count
on him to ensure the operation is first rate." And that
you're the ideal target. "I'll see you in Seattle."
He clicked off, regretting the impulsive call.
Why was it that he
could speak to hundreds at a political rally, exchange pleasantries
with celebrities, diplomats, and presidents without elevating his
blood pressure, and yet it was impossible for him to manage a simple
call to Regan without tying his tongue into knots?
Next, he dialed Clyde.
"I thought we'd agreed I would be receiving regular reports,"
he gripped.
"Good evening to
you too Romeo. I've been a little busy. Your report must have
slipped my mind. Don't you have anything else to worry about?
Aren't you practically engaged to the mayor's cute little daughter?
What's her name? No, don't tell me. Jillian, right?" Clyde
ragged on him with humor Ian was in no mood to appreciate.
"Julia," he
corrected Clyde automatically. "Don't be ridiculous, Julia has
nothing to do with this. Regan was my partner. Her brother's a
friend of mine. Plus, you expect me to help coordinate all the
agencies involved with the princess's security. Naturally, I am
interested in the operation--"
Clyde interrupted.
"Hold it right there. Save your rationalizations for yourself.
You're going to need them. The answer to your question is real easy.
Regan is fine. She's being treated like a princess."
"You call that a
report?"
"What else do you
need to know?" his friend asked reasonably.
"I want you to
promise me you'll personally guarantee her safety." Although
why it was so important to keep her intact, so that he could shatter
her heart the way she had his, wasn't something he wanted to explain
to Clyde--or anyone else.
"She'll be fine.
Quit stressing, man."
Ian knew he should
play it cooler, but this was too important. "I need your word
on it, Clyde."
"Okay, if that's
the way it's got to be, you've got it. Now, lighten up."
"I'm completely
light," Ian insisted stiffly.
Clyde snorted.
"Listen, the royal tour kicks off at 10:00 AM Monday after next.
You're going be the point man in a couple of weeks. Try to relax."
Clyde's deep laugh
echoed in his ears long after Ian hung up the phone.
* * * *
Nine hours after a
smooth take off, Regan stepped off the private plane into another
world. One of balmy breezes, exotic flora, clear skies and a warm
sun. A roomy van picked up her, Lundstrom, and their luggage. A
leisurely ride over a twisting road, and then through a guarded iron
gate delivered them to the royal compound, Paradise.
The complex was aptly
named. Peacocks strolled the grounds. The stately males displaying
their dramatic tail feathers and screeching their prowess. Servants
were dressed in white, guards in khaki and unidentified guests in
colorful resort wear, and a few, like Lundstrom, in tasteful pastels.
Dressed in her sensible black pantsuit, Regan felt as out of place
as cat burglar at a jeweler's convention.
The ocean, startlingly
blue, was bordered by a pale cream beach. The restless tides
dominated the view. An impressive lawn and lush, but immaculately
tamed landscape, decorated the luxurious grounds surrounding the
compound. Several smaller buildings nestled into the green swells,
supporting the main structure. Each building sat serenely confident
in pink stucco, topped by terra cotta tile roof and surrounded by
rosy stone terraces. Giant urns, spilling vibrant floral
arrangements, punctuated the gracious tiled steps, which approached
the compound's main entrance.
They were ushered into
an interior done in cool sorbet colors. The rooms were kept airy
with high ceilings and tall windows. The sound of feminine voices
burbled over the slow whirling of ceiling fans and the steady pulse
of the sea, forming a distant backbeat. The seductive sweet scent of
jasmine wafted in from the outdoors.
The openness of the
building concerned Regan. Security must be a nightmare. Besides,
who knew what kind of lethal spiders lurked in the tropics?
"Aren't insects a
problem?" she asked as she rolled her eyes significantly toward
the vulnerability of the openings.
Lundstrom dismissed
her concerns with an airy gesture. "An electronic net protects
the entire compound."
Regan wasn't
convinced. But she nudged the insect worries to the back of her mind
as she met Princess Halle. She'd seen tabloid shots, but she was
totally unprepared for the real woman. Her Royal Highness was
dainty, elegant, and exquisite. Whoever had thought Regan could pass
as the Princess, was either visually challenged or else had never met
the woman.
She dropped a curtsy
with one foot behind her as Lundstrom had instructed, feeling
ridiculous.
Musical laughter
pealed through the airy room. "Do not, please. You are too
like me and I would never curtsy to anyone. If I were to do such a
silly thing--I certainly would never do so in such an awkward
fashion." More of the rippling laughter followed this
pronouncement.
"Come closer,"
Princess Halle demanded.
Her amusement rankled
and her lack of tact didn't help matters. Regan complied for her own
reasons, which had nothing to do with the rude Princess. She
surveyed her assignment. They both had long dark hair, dark eyes,
and a similar build. But that's where any resemblance stopped. The
princess wore her shiny hair in an elaborate style that Regan had no
idea how to duplicate. Her skin glowed. Every word she uttered was
in a cultured accent that Regan might learn to mimic. If she had a
month or two to work on it.
While she studied
Princess Halle, the princess returned her regard--once she'd stopped
laughing. "You are not Qsani. Tell me of your people."
Regan was shocked into
silence by the politically incorrect command. Lesson one--royalty
lives by different rules. After a brief hesitation, she decided
there was no valid reason not to comply. "I am Iroquois,
French, and English. My mother was a Native American."
"Not Qsani,"
the princess said, dismissing Regan's heritage. "Yet you could
be my twin, except for the awful clothes." The princess rose,
moving forward until she encroached on Regan's personal space.
"Lundstrom tells
me you are a police officer." The princess circled her.
Surprisingly, when she came close it was obvious that she was as tall
as Regan and less fragile than she'd initially appeared.
"Yes," Regan
agreed tersely, holding herself still with an effort.
"Perhaps you are
different kind of royalty--a warrior princess," Princess Halle
murmured. The insight both startled and pleased Regan.
Ian had called her his
warrior princess. The memory heated her neck. She turned her
thoughts about him icy with an iron discipline forged by much
practice. What sounded like her own voice issuing from the other
woman's mouth made an eerie echo to her private thoughts.
Barring a miracle,
Regan was never going to fool anyone into believing she was the
Princess. Over the next few hours, she shared her opinion. Several
times.
Absolutely no one took
her honest assessment seriously.
When His Highness,
Prince Peder popped in for a few minutes the Princess's healthy glow
became dazzling beauty.
Personally, Regan
thought the Prince no great prize. He had skinny legs, a beak-like
nose and a prominent Adam's apple. In spite of these shortcomings, a
blind woman could see he did it for the Princess.
Sadness, which she'd
never admit to, because she'd never know that kind of romantic bond
in her own life, washed over Regan. The feeling lingered as the
royal couple cooed.
Once the prince left,
the princess beckoned her close, speaking in a whisper. "This
whole operation," Princess Halle gestured to indicate Regan and
herself, "is so silly. Peder overreacts. He will calm down,
and then I will get to go to Seattle and see my cousin Danielle. Try
not to worry too much."
Good to know. But
Regan couldn't count on the operation being cancelled.
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