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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?”
