Free The Makeover Mission by Mary Buckham

in a kaleidoscope she saw his gaze lock on her lips
then slide lower, causing the wine she'd just sipped to feel like liquid fire
scorching her throat.
    He looked like a man waging a war with himself, skin stretched
taut over his cheekbones, eyes narrowed, gaze hidden. She could feel her own
immediate response, one that nothing in her years as a librarian had prepared her
for. The fluttery feeling in her stomach, the sudden aching heaviness of her
breasts, the rasp of silk against sensitized skin with every breath she
inhaled. She felt hot and chilled at the same time, caught in a no-time space
that seemed to stretch out forever, but that must have lasted only seconds.
    It was broken, like glass against a marble floor when, with a
sound that rivaled a cannon blast, a servant cleared his throat before entering
the room, a covered silver tray in his outstretched arms.
    Jane very carefully set her glass down, thankful she managed it
without spilling its contents across the pearl-white tablecloth. She felt as if
she'd been caught in an indecent act and didn't know where to look, what to do
while her cheeks flamed and a trio of servants rustled around her, serving food
she neither saw nor smelled.
    Automatically she thanked each and every one of them, surprised
when her dinner companion remarked, "You'll have them talking in the
kitchen for a week."
    Her gaze shot up to lock with his, sure he was referring to the
servant catching her staring at him like an infatuated teenager, appalled that
she'd given herself away so easily. Until he added, "They're not used to
being publicly thanked for doing their job."
    "Oh." She glanced toward the far doorway, feeling as if
she'd failed her first exam in the art of impersonating the rich and
sophisticated. "I didn't know."
    "An error we can remedy. Tomorrow we'll focus on more of the
details to your position." He gave her a sharp-eyed look, not like the
earlier one, but said nothing more.
    How was she ever supposed to impersonate Elena if she couldn't
even get through a simple meal? Not that the meal before them was simple. It
wasn't. It was exquisite, with a cold tomato-red soup, a salad of a dozen
different greens, a poached white fish sautéed in what smelled like a mango and
papaya sauce and more. And it all could have been sawdust as much as she was
able to taste any of it.
    Each bite stuck in her throat, like a lump of ineptitude that
wouldn't go down no matter how much she swallowed. She'd taken to just moving
piles around on her plate when one of the women servers asked her, "It
does not meet with mademoiselle's approval?"
    Before she could reply, the woman continued, "I will have the
cook prepare something new. Something better."
    "Oh, no please." Jane reached her hand to the one
removing her half-eaten meal. "Please, it's a wonderful meal. It's just
been a long day."
    When the woman looked at her as if she'd sprouted horns, Jane
glanced toward the major, who regarded them both. "Do something. I don't
want the cook to feel insulted."
    He glanced from her to the servant and nodded his head. "Tell
the cook the meal was exquisite. As usual. Mademoiselle has had a long day so
we'll skip the dessert."
    The woman nodded and silently retreated, still looking befuddled,
but before Jane could ask why, another person walked into the room. A man she
recognized only too well though she'd seen him only briefly, through a haze of
drugs and fear.
    "It really is remarkable," Viktor Stanislaus Tarkioff,
King of Vendari, remarked, striding into the room, his medals shooting spears
of light with every step he took. "Simply remarkable."
    He moved to stand across from her, placing himself behind and to
the left of the major, silently watching Jane as if gauging her reaction to his
nearness.
    That alone kept her from revealing it. At least she hoped it did,
because she didn't think the king would appreciate knowing his pretend fiancée
loathed him right about then. Like a magnet for all the turmoil this