Bait (5 page)

Christina scowled. Gabe had excluded her. By rights, she should be part of his group right now, should be hearing the details of his plan as he outlined them. It galled her to know he didn't consider her part of his team. Just as she prepared to march over and demand to be involved, the four Delta Force operators broke apart. Two went into the princess's bedroom, emerging seconds later with two suitcases apiece.

Gabe pointed a finger at Christina. “Stay here. I'll be back in five minutes.”

Christina scowled and made a rude gesture. Too bad he'd already turned away and didn't see. Seconds later, Christina and Deni were alone. The huge apartment vibrated with silence.

 

Chapter Four

L
O
ADING
THE
PRINCESS
into the black panel van proceeded smoothly. She sat on the floor, on a blanket he insisted she have, her legs crossed. Dressed as she was, she reminded him strongly of Christina.

Damn it! Why had he barked at her? She'd been distracting Alex, and he needed his team firing on all cylinders. Still, his reaction made him every bit as unprofessional as she, and that didn't sit well with him.

Now that he'd seen Ronnie and Christina side-­by-­side, he could never mistake one for the other. A subtle sensuality punctuated every motion Christina made. What would she be like in the throes of passion, completely abandoned, her head thrown back and her body flushed . . .

He snapped his thoughts back to the here and now. Alex climbed into the back with the princess, a radio in one hand and a Glock in the other. Gabe looked at Ronnie. “We'll get this mess straightened out,” he said. “I promise you'll have your life back soon.”

She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Keep Christina safe, Gabriel. And also yourself.”

Gabe gave a sharp nod and closed the doors with a snap. Mace climbed into the driver's seat, and Tag rode shotgun.

“Eyes sharp,” Gabe said, leaning into the passenger window. He didn't need to say it. His men knew what they were about. Still, it made him feel better. “Ping me when you get settled.” He slapped a hand onto the roof of the van and stepped away. Gabe itched to return upstairs, but he waited until the van drove to the corner of the ser­vice drive and idled. Only then did he bound up the inside staircase leading to the second floor.

Entering the apartment without knocking, he found Christina and Deni in the study. It was a silly name for an open room some thirty-­by-­fifty feet. The twenty-­five-­foot ceiling actually had a mural painted in the center, one of those celestial scenes of ­people frolicking among clouds, with cherubs and whatnot.

Near the center of the room, the two women sat on a weird-­looking curved thing he vaguely identified as a settee, discussing the schedule of appearances to which the princess had committed.

“Tomorrow at nine, a dressmaker will be here for the final fitting. She has not been here before, so will notice nothing amiss. In the afternoon at two, you will visit the oncology ward at National Hospital,” Deni said. “Wednesday at noon, you are scheduled to speak at a women's caucus. You will give a speech, in English, but answer no questions. At three, you will open the construction site for the new wing of the Veteran's Hospital.” She glanced up from her notes. “Friday, we will travel to the city of Grasvlakten. It is not too far. About one hour thirty minutes to the east. We will be in the villa.” She shrugged apologetically.

Christina cocked her head. “I take it the party will be at the villa? Not a hotel?”

Deni flicked her fingers to the side. “The Nabourg villa is large, with its own ballroom,” she explained. “On Saturday evening at six o'clock, you will dress for Lord and Lady Nabourg's celebration. It will be small. Not more than one hundred guests. Most will be far . . .” Deni stopped, brow furrowed as she searched for the right word. “ . . . erm, distant relations, and friends and neighbors of the Nabourgs.”

Christina's mouth pulled down and her brow furrowed. “Sounds like fun.” She settled herself against the back of the settee. “The hospital visit tomorrow. Will I be speaking?”

“
Non
. Just touring.”

Gabe leaned against the doorframe and crossed one foot over the other. “The hospital visit isn't going to happen,” he told them. From the way the two women jumped, it was obvious neither had heard his entry.

“Let's go,” he added. “I thought I made it clear that when the princess left by the back route, we would leave publicly.”

She stiffened, but didn't say a word as she thanked Deni and retrieved her heels, slipping them on. God help them if they were forced to move fast.

He stepped into the corridor ahead of her, scanning both ways before allowing her out. As soon as the door snicked shut behind her, she closed the distance between them and grabbed his forearm, wrenching him to a halt. What the hell? That was his gun hand. He yanked himself free.

She didn't seem to notice what she'd done, getting up in his face with belligerence, fists slamming against her hips. “Do not,” she snapped, enunciating every word, “treat me like that. Speak to me like that.”

Gabe glared down at her. This squabbling needed to stop. He couldn't protect her from outside threats if he was also trying to garner her cooperation.

Christina stood her ground. Not many had the balls to stand up to him. She was so close that the puff of her breath warmed his face as she threw her head back. Her posture also thrust her breasts forward, though he doubted she recognized her own provocative pose. Unable to stop himself, his gaze flickered down her body. His nostrils flared while breathing in the light floral scent of her perfume, and against his will, he found himself tilting his head and leaning forward to suck it deeper into his lungs.

She slapped her palms onto his shoulders and shoved, rocking him back an inch. She did it again, and he had to force himself not to react, to keep his arms at his sides rather than spinning her around and slamming her into the wall.

“Stop,” he ordered, jaw tight.

“You stop!” she hissed. “Big strong he-­man intimidates weak little woman. Asshole!”

He turned abruptly and put a lot of distance between them before daring to face her again. She'd misinterpreted his unexpected wash of desire as an attempt to cow her. Thank God. If she knew he found her attractive, she would waste no time shredding his ego.

“If you can't handle this, say so now,” he bit out. “This isn't about you. It's about catching the person or ­people who are trying to assassinate the Crown Princess of Concordia.”

“I'm aware of that.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, shoulders so tense they were practically up around her ears.

Great. Gabe sighed. Might as well set the ground rules right now. “My job is to stop the assassin from killing you while Carswell investigates. You need to follow my orders to the letter. If I say move, you move. If I say get down, you pancake. Got it?”

Christina, predictably, lost her temper. “No, I don't
got it
,” she mimicked, her voice tight with anger. “You pompous ass. I'm not a dummy. I'm a full partner in this.”

He laughed his disdain. “Partner? You're a liability.”

She leaned back against the wall, brows furrowing. “I've done nothing to make you doubt me. I fooled you into thinking I was Princess Véronique, and you've met me. Why am I a liability?”

It was a valid question. Gabe rubbed his chin, trying to buy some time.

“Well?”

He exhaled hard. “I don't trust your kind. I've been left bleeding once too often.”

She straightened, smoothing the silk of her outfit. “Now we're getting somewhere. My
kind
being women, or my
kind
being my employer?”

He could lie and tell her he didn't want to work with her because she was a woman. He settled for a partial truth. “I've worked with the CIA before. Nothing good ever comes out of it. You coming?”

He pushed through the double doors without waiting for her answer.

C
HRISTINA
TOOK
SEVERAL
deep breaths, then several more, trying to calm her racing heart and regain some equilibrium. Suddenly, the prospect of working with Gabe Morgan for possibly weeks or months on end seemed impossible.

About to fluff her nails through her hair, she remembered the careful style at the last moment, and lowered her arm. Drat. She settled for straightening her spine, lifting her head, and gliding down the corridor.

She sailed past Gabe without so much as a glance, relegating him to the role of servant. That meant she also ignored the House Guard at the door to the royals' living quarters. Ronnie always greeted them. She forced herself to slow down.

She descended the stairs with her fingers trailing along the bannister so she wouldn't trip in Ronnie's shoes, aware when tourists and paparazzi noticed her and started to whisper. Cameras and cell phones snapped photos, and she paused, turning to accommodate them. Inside the
palais
, she felt safe, though she knew that was a fallacy. The danger could come at any time, from any direction. Still, she inclined her head and gave Véronique's gentle smile.

The Household Guard escorted her to the front entrance, through the breezeway with its rows of columns, to the waiting limousine with its double flags. Crown Princess Véronique de Savoie merited the second-­largest limousine in the fleet, which bore the flags of Concordia on the hood and the royal family crest on the doors. Gabe cleared a path through the cameras. He maneuvered around her and opened the rear door. She sat at an angle, then swung her tightly closed legs inside.

The guard clicked the door closed. Gabe swung into the front passenger seat. The driver pulled away immediately.

“Where to?” he asked.

Until now, Christina hadn't given it a single thought. Gabe, however, answered immediately.

“The baroque gardens at Nanten. Take Rue de Bouclé to Rue du Destin. Follow the signs from there.”

“Gotcha.”

She leaned forward, checking the driver in the rearview mirror. He returned her look briefly, then turned his attention back to the road. Despite the gray suit and tie, gloves, and cap, this was clearly no chauffeur. Gray colored his temples, but his haircut, at least what she could see, was military-­short. He was deeply tanned. Strong lines bracketed his mouth and slashed across his forehead and between his eyes. Christina had no doubt if she checked the fall of his suit, she would detect the slight bulge of a weapon under his arm.

“What's your name?” she asked him.

“Gavin Selle.”

She settled back against the butter-­soft leather, disgruntled. This grew more ridiculous by the moment. Everyone around her knew exactly what was going on. She was the only idiot in the dark.

“You and I are going to talk.” She addressed the back of Gabe's head. He did not react.

As the miles unwound, Christina registered the shrewdness of Gabe's choice. The highways were long and straight, with few trees to distort the landscape. It would be difficult for a tail to remain invisible, and there was little cover or concealment for a sniper, assuming anyone knew their destination. She would bet her last dollar Gabe told no one where he was taking her.

In less than half an hour, Gavin pulled off the highway and wound his way through thick trees to a parking area. The lot was barely half full. He shut off the engine and hopped out, opening Christina's door while scanning the area around them. She drew the sweet spring air deeply into her lungs. Should she get out? Was she supposed to wait for a signal?

“Princess?”

The title caused her to start. Gavin held out a hand, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Did he know about her? Undoubtedly. No way would Gabe fail to fill in everyone on his team. There seemed to be no condemnation in his eyes, however, as she extended her arm, remembering to place her fingertips into his palm and allow her wrist to arc gracefully downward. His forearm corded under his sleeve as he helped her from the limousine.

Gabe came around the hood of the car and positioned himself to her left. “Let's go. We'll talk inside.”

They left the driver behind as they entered Nanten's famed baroque gardens. Gabe paid the entry fee and ushered her inside the double set of curved columns before anyone could react to Christina's presence. They walked down a smooth brick path through more trees, then emerged into the open. Christina gave a soft gasp of pleasure.

“This is gorgeous!”

Directly in front of them was a fountain, nestled in the center of a flat octagon that was easily thirty feet on each side. Past the fountain, acres and acres of flower beds spread out before her. She stopped at one of the informational plaques.

“ ‘Famed landscape architect Sébastien Lalor designed the gardens 1673, in the French baroque style,' ” she read aloud.

“Fascinating,” Gabe said. “Keep walking.”

Christina barely had time to admire the vast beds of perfectly symmetrical curlicued hedges interspersed with flowers and statuary. Gabe hustled her off the main paths, avoiding groups of ­people, leading her away from the grand central fountain, a breathtaking triple-­tiered construct of golden water nymphs, fish, cherubs, and other figures she could not identify, all spouting water or frolicking about.

He finally slowed, far from the entrance and on an unoccupied side path. Christina lifted her face to the warm sun, inhaling the mixed fragrance of greenery and blooms. After two weeks sequestered inside the princess's apartments, the fresh air felt heavenly.

“I thought you might need to get out of there for a while. Two weeks cooped up anywhere, and I'd be chewing my arm off. Gavin'll let us know if anyone suspicious comes in, but I think we're safe enough here.”

Christina flicked him a look of surprise. They were here because he'd been concerned about her? “Thank you.”

They ambled past an enormous urn, flowers circling its base.

“What happened in Iraq?”

The question came out of nowhere. Christina jerked, swiveling her head around to squint at Gabe. She clamped her lips over her first response: It's none of your business. It was, though, really, wasn't it? He had the right to know if she was reliable. Trustworthy. Competent.

“The mission was a bust,” she said, trying for matter-­of-­fact.

“Keep going.”

She fought the impulse to clear her throat. “My mission was to make contact with a smuggling ring, posing as an American importer who didn't care where the merchandise came from.” Her hand fluttered in the air. “Every year, more than thirty-­two thousand exotic birds exported from Singapore and Indonesia make their way into American and European markets. The birds are declared as captive-­bred, but strong evidence suggests Singapore, in particular, doesn't have the breeding capability that the exports would suggest. It's a scam to circumvent international trade regulations.”