Bait (14 page)

 

Chapter Fourteen

T
H
EY
SPENT
THE
next day exploring the villa, mansion, whatever it was. It was old, and that meant lots of hallways, lots of rooms, and plenty of places to hide. Gabe had them run through scenario after scenario, getting to know the layout and the exits. To his relief, Christina did not argue or fight him on any of his tactics, though she treated him with icy disdain. He'd tossed and turned the night before. The tactile memory of her smooth skin, scorching heat, and passion-­glazed eyes were seared into his brain.

He'd royally screwed the pooch last night. The sheer overwhelm of his emotions swamping him had scared him to death. He couldn't remember ever feeling that way before. Instead of admitting the intensity of his feelings, of opening himself to her, he'd pulled back, locked himself away, and tried to make it just about sex. It hadn't worked, and he'd hurt Christina on top of it. He was a jerk, no doubt about it.

All seven of them trooped into the informal dining room for luncheon. Well, he and his men clumped in, looking ridiculously out of place in their plain clothes and practical shoes. Deni Van Praet strode in, an air of authority surrounding her. And Christina presented her grandaunt with a bouquet of flowers, kissing her cheek and seating herself next to the Viscount and Viscountess of Nabourg like she'd done it a hundred times before. He and his team were relegated to the bottom end of the long mahogany table, away from the nobles. That suited him just fine. It gave him the opportunity to watch Christina.

Calling the room informal felt silly to him. The table could easily seat fourteen. Table arrangements of fruit and candles decorated its length. Red oak paneling on the walls, dignified portraits, a chandelier above the table. Informal? His ass.

There was the slightest echo in the Bluetooth earpieces they all wore, due to their close proximity. The situation was unique. Normally, the principal wouldn't hear the bodyguards' chatter. It distracted Christina. She finally flicked the tiny earpiece into her napkin, fast enough that the Nabourgs didn't notice. Gavin followed suit. “Don't make sense,” he muttered, “we all being here.” Gabe nodded, and the rest took them out or turned them off.

Lunch consisted of a lamb-­and-­vegetable stew, followed by chilled shrimp salad and another selection of cheeses. As he ate, Gabe only half paid attention to the conversation going on around him. Mostly he watched Christina.

There was something different about her, some small thing about her demeanor that pinged at the back of his head. When she ducked her head and chuckled, he realized what it was. Sure, she still acted like Princess Véronique. But a subtle difference manifested itself: she fit in. Her body language mirrored the Nabourgs', her inflection, her facial expressions. Despite the Nabourgs' stilted English and Christina's pretense, he almost forgot that she wasn't a royal joining her relatives for an intimate luncheon. It impressed him.

Come to think of it, she'd done the same thing with his team, when she hadn't been arguing with him. She had adopted their mannerisms. She had blended. They had accepted her easily.

After lunch, the Nabourgs retired to their rooms to rest. Gabe took his team onto the grounds and through the wild gardens, and they repeated the drills of the morning. Before they knew it, it was time to dress for the anniversary ball. Gabe escorted the ladies back to Deni's room, where Christina's glass slippers awaited. Then he went next door, reflecting that he fell far short of Prince Charming.

I
T
T
OOK
THE
better part of an hour to dress Christina. Deni had already changed into a floor-­length sheath dress with matching jacket.

“You look beautiful,” Christina told her. Deni only smiled, and went to work.

She swept Christina's hair back from her face and into a series of larger and larger intertwining rolls. It wasn't a bun, exactly, but it was neatly coiffed and elegant. Deni placed a hair comb made of a spray of crystals just above the rolls of hair.

Then came makeup—­more makeup than Christina had ever worn in her life. Deni would not allow her to look in the mirror.

“Just wait,
petite
. You will see soon enough, eh?”

Before she slipped on the dress, Deni covered her scar in a sheer bandage, then blended it into her skin with more foundation.

“It is virtually undetectable,” she pronounced. “No one will notice this.”

The jewelry Deni presented to her took her breath away. The diamonds in the necklace echoed the crystal spray of the dress, teardrops dripping into an inverted triangle. Deni added square-­cut diamond earrings and a triple-­banded diamond bracelet.

“Holy crap. What if I lose these? What if a diamond falls out? What if I decide to steal them and retire to Rio?”

Deni quirked a shaped brow. “Then I should miss you very much.”

Finally, butterflies flitting through her stomach, Christina stepped into Ronnie's Manolo Blahnik satin pumps, dyed to match the dress.

Deni guided her over to the full-­length mirror. “Now you may inspect.”

Christina felt her mouth drop open. “My goodness.”

“I echo the sentiment,” Deni said, giving a rare smile. “You will, 'ow you say, knock their socks off.”

“It's too fancy,” she said. “Aren't I going to stand out like a sore thumb?” The dress had not seemed so overwhelming when she had tried it on before, but now, with hair and makeup, she looked like she should be attending the Oscars. Next to her, Deni almost disappeared.

Deni gave her a puzzled look. “Sore thumb? I do not know this idiom. But no, you are not too fancy. The Nabourgs are a very old family, and very traditional. All will dress like this.” She slapped her hands together briskly. “And now,
princesse
, we face the fire together, yes?”

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Christina smoothed her hands down her waist. “Yes.”

Deni preceded her out the bedroom door, clearing her throat to alert the team. And then it was time. She stepped through the doorway.

All conversation ceased. The team, spread throughout the room, came to their feet as one. Christina's gaze unerringly found Gabe. Her stomach roiled with conflict; hurt and anger sat at the fore, but confusion shifted in the back of her head. He stared at her with the same stupefied expression as the rest of the team. No one moved or spoke. Then, a slow wolf whistle broke the silence. Mace stepped forward.

“
Magnifique
,” he said. “You are truly magnificent.” He raised her fingers and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

She felt her shoulders relax and she gave his hand a tiny squeeze before letting go. It was good of him to reassure her. The tension in the room broke.

“Holy Christ,” Tag muttered.

Gavin gave her a thumbs-­up.

“Boo-­yah.” Alex grinned at her. She grinned back at him.

Gabe still stared, not moving a muscle. Maybe not even breathing. She couldn't even hazard a guess as to what he was thinking. Her gaze slid down his body, and she found that she, too, was speechless. He—­like most of them, she noticed—­was wearing a tuxedo. The black fabric hugged his shoulders and emphasized his lean waist and hips. The black bow tie over snowy-­white shirt should have made the rough, tough operator look silly, but instead he reminded her of James Bond.

“You all look very handsome,” she said to the room at large, but she couldn't tear her eyes from him.

Gabe finally took a ragged breath and exhaled hard. “I'll be fighting off every man under eighty. You look . . . amazing.”

She looked down. He shouldn't say things he didn't mean. He wouldn't fight for her. “We should go.”

“Wait. Let me check in first.” He pulled out his phone and hit a button. “Who's this? Archie? What's wrong? Where's Trevor?” He laughed. “Hell of a time to take a leak. Any updates?” He hit another button and an Irish voice came on the line.

“Conall can't stop gawking at Her Highness's diddies. It's true she's a fine bit of stuff, but she's sound. He's a fecking eejit. Ow! Leave off, Conall. I was just having a bit of fun.”

Mace laughed. “You're on speaker, asshole.”

“Ah, Christ. Tell a fella next time. Your pardon, ladies.”

Gabe spoke with exaggerated patience. “Are there any updates on Her Highness's list of possible enemies?”

“One or two.” Archie's voice deepened as he got down to business. “There's a gent named Escamilla who lost Her Highness's patronage for his halfway house because of liberties with the accounting. He was skimming. Also, FYI, the Nabourgs are broke. Heavily in debt to any number of businesses. God knows how they're funding that fancy hooley you blokes are popping into. Any use?”

“Yes,” Gabe assured him. “Do we know where Escamilla is?”

“Aye. His wife left him and he went back to Madrid. Interpol is keeping an eye on him for us.”

“Thanks. Call if anything comes up.”

“See ya after,” Archie said. The line went dead.

There was complete silence for a moment.

“We're bound to catch a break,” Christina said. She kept her expression bright and optimistic. “Trevor's team will find answers for us.”

Alex shrugged. Gavin muttered something too low for her to hear. Tag grunted.

“We work with what we've got,” Gabe said, slapping his hands together and rubbing them briskly. “We've done more with less intel.”

“True. Let's get this party rolling,” Mace said. He showed Christina a tiny Bluetooth device. “To keep us all connected. The wire you're wearing is only a backup.” He made as though to insert it himself, but Christina put out a hand. He dropped it into her palm. She slid it into her ear canal, and they did a brief comms check.

“I'll be in your ear translating, if necessary,” Gavin said. “But I only speak French, not Dutch.”

“I understand. I'll be fine. Deni will be with me.”

Mace and Gavin, who wore suits but not tuxedos, peeled off. In a few minutes, they checked in. Mace found a spot on the roof that he grumbled “sucked less than the others,” and Gavin was with the cars, just in case they needed a fast exit.

The rest of them descended from the open balcony, where a liveried footman escorted them to the ballroom. Panels of light wood separated cream-­colored walls. Chandeliers gave the room a warm air. The dance floor dominated the room. It was formal and grand, just as Deni had said.

She joined the line waiting to go in, Deni beside her. Tag stood at the doors to the great hall. Alex and Gabe had slipped inside the ballroom. When it came her turn, Christina stepped through the doors and into the ballroom. The receiving line was to her left. Deni addressed a stiff man in formal livery at the head of the receiving line.

“Dame Deni Van Praet, Edle von Naamveld,” she told him. “Presenting Her Royal Highness Véronique, Princesse de Savoie.”

The herald turned to Lord Nabourg and repeated their names and titles. The viscount shook Deni's hand, turned, and introduced her to his wife. Then it was Christina's turn. As Ronnie had instructed her, she offered both hands to the viscount, then kissed both cheeks. She did the same with the viscountess, who then introduced her to the woman standing beside her, Lady Nerys Nolin. Lady Nolan curtsied to Christina, saying in French, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Royal Highness.” Gavin murmured a translation into her ear.

“I am pleased to meet you, as well,” she replied in English. “For tonight, I am practicing my English.” She leaned forward, eyes twinkling, as though sharing a secret. “It's for my bodyguards, so they do not feel unwelcome. Will you oblige me?”

Lady Nolin hastened to assure Christina of her cooperation. This routine continued down the receiving line, which was mercifully limited to six. By the time she and Deni stepped free, Christina felt calmer. This was going to work. She could do this.
Was
doing it, with no one the wiser. Gabe fell into place one step behind her and to her left. Alex drifted from spot to spot, looking tense and uncomfortable.

A waiter in a black tuxedo with blue bow tie and cummerbund offered her a tray of champagne flutes. She took one simply to have something to do with her hands. “We can't sit yet, not until the Nabourgs do,” she said into her earpiece. “I'm going to find somewhere out of the way to stand.” Deni nodded, not realizing Christina wasn't talking to her. “Alex, relax. You look like you're about to be devoured by raging lions.”

“I'd rather fight lions,” the farm boy groused. “These ­people stink.”

Christina knew what he meant. Dozens of different perfumes and colognes swirled around them, mixing poorly into a soup of fragrances. The ballroom was already filled with chatting ­couples, all dressed like movie stars. Women wore full-­skirted ball gowns like hers, or, less common, sheaths such as the one Deni wore. The jewelry glittered. A number of the men wore military uniforms. The brilliance stunned her.

Her plan to fade into the background failed almost at once. The guests were eager to meet her. They expressed outrage over the attempt on her life, wished her well in her marriage, and passed on tidbits of gossip. No one was crass enough to mention the viscount's infidelity in her hearing, but she noted the bright, curious looks sent his way.

She disengaged herself from several women discussing the next elections, to be held in the fall. She'd barely taken a step when a man strode up to her. Gabe stepped in front of her. Surprise and displeasure flickered across the man's face.

“Pardon me,” he said stiffly.

The man had a sharp, lean face, close-­cropped hair, and a goatee. The burn scar swept up his left cheek to just above his ear, puckered and shiny. Christina recognized him from the photo taken at the anti-­drilling protest. Anxiety spiked. This man knew Ronnie.