banished as swiftly as if they’d never been.
Her father had been like that. Sometimes he had called her Mara, and when he did she knew he’d forgotten to hate her. But the other times, when he’d called her by her full name—Mara Theodora—then she’d trembled at the implacable hatred in his eyes, the bitterness in his voice. She knew why her father had felt that way. She just didn’t understand why a man she had never met before today would feel such contempt for her.
She turned back to the bedroom window, gazing out at the mountains. He was right, she thought. The Rockies remind me of the mountains in Zakhar. She stood there a long time, letting the peace of the mountains settle over her. “ ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,’ ” she whispered to herself in Zakharan, quoting from a favorite psalm, a litany that never failed to soothe her.
Calmer now, her thoughts returned to the man who had stood beside her earlier—Trace McKinnon—wondering again what forces had molded him. She knew the facts of his life, but not the man. He was thirty-six and handsome in a way that would only improve with age. That was obvious. He had served in his country’s military with honor and distinction for four years, and had worked for one branch of his government before switching to another.
He had been married at one time, but no longer, and she wondered about that now. What had caused the breakup of his marriage? Had he been unfaithful? With his movie star looks and his dangerous air of masculine strength, most women would melt at his feet. Married or not, he would be a challenge most women would be unable to resist, and they would fall all over themselves trying to attract his attention. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to resist temptation himself and his wife divorced him—divorce was common here in the States, but not so much in Zakhar.
Zakhar. Special Agent McKinnon had spent six months in Zakhar as a young military man. Had he loved it the way she did? Had he been sorry to leave it, as she was now? A familiar wave of homesickness swept through her, but she fought against it. Her brother had wanted her safely out of Zakhar for a time, and so she was here. She would have done anything to make Andre’s life easier, and if that meant suffering the pangs of homesickness—as she’d done all those years she’d studied at Oxford—that was the way it had to be. For the next year she would be teaching mathematics at the University of Colorado.
Other than Andre, her few close female friends, and her horses—especially her favorite, Suleiman—mathematics was her only love. There was something comforting about the preciseness of mathematics; something reassuring about its unchanging nature: a squared plus b squared always equaled c squared. You always knew where you stood.
Even as a small child she had known this. She had devoured her math textbooks, demanding more and tougher problems to solve from her tutors and her teachers, racing ahead of them, and then soon outstripping their abilities. She had delved into mathematical intricacies instead of playing with dolls; had challenged herself to achieve scholastically instead of dating the highborn men her father found for her; had attended Oxford in pursuit of her PhD instead of marrying the man her father had tried to force upon her. The only equation she hadn’t been able to solve was the one dealing with human hearts. No matter what she did, no matter how she excelled, she could not win her father’s love. And now she never would.
* * *
Trace rendezvoused with the Jones brothers Alec and Liam in the privacy of the sun room. A year apart in age, they looked like two peas in a pod—tall, rangy; honed to muscle, sinew and bone, just as he was. Both had that competent air instilled in them by their years in the US Marine Corps and the Diplomatic Security Service. And both had auburn hair, which they kept close cropped. Not for them their sister’s red-gold tangle of curls, although neither had the milky complexion and freckles that usually accompanied hair that color.
Alec at thirty-four was a year older and a shade taller than his brother, whereas Liam was a tad broader in the shoulders. But both inspired confidence on sight, something Trace had been relieved to see. They were Keira’s brothers and former marines, so they had to be damned good, but still...
“So the plan is,” Trace explained, “to guard the princess whenever she’s out and about. We’ll get regular threat assessments from the State Department and your own agency, the DSS. My agency is also in the loop, and I’ve been assured we’ll get all the cooperation we need along those lines—or anything else for that matter. All we have to do is ask. And State has requested the NSA keep them and us posted on any chatter it comes across on terrorist channels. You know what I’m talking about, so I don’t have say anything more on that topic.”
“Anything pop up on the radar yet?” Alec asked.
“Not so far. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Trace replied. “You’ll know the minute I know anything.” He glanced toward the sunroom’s closed door, reassuring himself they still had privacy. “The princess has her own Zakharian security team to guard her here on the estate, as I’m sure you’ve already noted. State cleared them for concealed carry, so I’m not worried too much about an assault on this house. But she doesn’t step outside the door without one of us in attendance. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear,” Liam said, answering for both of them. “But does she know?”
“She should, but if she doesn’t, she soon will,” Trace said. “And her limo driver knows he doesn’t drive her anywhere unless one of us is in the limo with her. This isn’t coming from the State Department—this is coming from her brother, Zakhar’s King Andre Alexei the Fourth. I don’t know how much you know about Zakhar, but—”
Alec smiled and cut him off. “We’ve been briefed. We’ve learned enough to know that Zakhar isn’t a constitutional monarchy, the way Great Britain is. The king is Zakhar, and vice versa, so a command from him carries considerable weight.”
“Exactly.” Trace was glad he wasn’t going to have to paint them a picture. “I know neither of you speaks Zakharan, but—”
“Lubyentok marsai cherentziune todai,” Liam said.
“I’ll be damned.” Trace stared at him.
Alec tossed in, “Makopescht lycobeschy petzeque.” He grinned. “We had a three week crash course. Can’t say we really know the language, but we’ve got the basics down pat. Enough to get by.”
Trace’s admiration for the DSS shot up dramatically, not to mention his admiration for the Jones brothers. “You’ve even got the accent and inflection nailed,” he said.
He asked each of them several questions in Zakharan, and their answers proved they understood what he was saying. Their responses were more simplistic than his questions, but he’d expected that. Mastering an unknown language starts with understanding what you’re hearing. Speaking the language takes longer and fluency even longer than that. And thinking in the new language, which was the talent he had, is something few people ever really achieve when the language is learned as an adult.
Still, understanding what they heard would be a definite plus when it came to the second part of their assignment—noting anything important the princess or her entourage might say in Zakharan and reporting it to the State Department. He figured they’d already received instructions on this from the DSS, but he went ahead and outlined things anyway.
“I’m not expecting a blow-by-blow translation of everything anyone says in Zakharan. But anything meaningful needs to be reported. And I want to see the reports before they go in. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Liam and Alec answered in unison.
“Oh, crap,” Trace said. “We’re not in the Marine Corps anymore and I’m not your commanding officer. I’m not even a DSS special agent. I’m the head of this team, that’s all. So cut out the ‘sir,’ okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Liam and Alec both grinned unrepentantly at him.
Trace’s eyes narrowed and he uttered an earthy curse. In Zakharan. Alec glanced at Liam, who shook his head. “Me, neither,” Alec said.
Trace