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Trace considered things for a moment, correlating known facts with this latest intel. No one had been following the princess, he was sure of that. And no one had attempted to penetrate the estate’s perimeter. So the reason for the surveillance—if there had been any, he reminded himself—was unknown at this point.
He didn’t like it. He didn’t like unknowns, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, except kick up their state of readiness, just in case. He made a mental note to discuss the situation with Alec and Liam. Before he mentioned anything to the princess and her Zakharian bodyguards, he wanted to get the Jones brothers’ take on it. He had to be careful about how much he revealed regarding his government’s secret intelligence reports—especially if they showed his government in a poor light the way this one did. He considered how he might word a warning to the Zakharians as he folded the pages and tucked them securely in an inner pocket of his jacket before he walked outside.
The princess’s chauffeur had parked the brand-new midnight blue Lexus SUV in front of the main house in preparation for her, leaving the keys in the ignition, and Trace took a minute to look the vehicle over. On the one hand it wasn’t a vehicle many college professors could afford to drive. But on the other hand it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility, either. If she wanted to fit in, as both Alec and Liam had made a point of telling him, at least the SUV would be less noticeable than the limo and driver.
The princess had already driven the two DSS agents to and from the university, getting a feel for the SUV and learning her way about town. They’d both assured him she was a good and careful driver, if a little nervous at times. Only to be expected, he thought. Zakhar doesn’t have the kind of traffic we take for granted, and she probably didn’t have much opportunity to drive herself there anyway. The same goes for the time she spent in England.
The front door opened and the princess walked out alone. She was dressed as casually as he was in jeans topped with a pale green blouse open at the throat, exposing a creamy expanse of skin. A brown leather purse was slung over one shoulder, she carried a leather briefcase in her other hand and brown leather flats were on her feet. A delicate gold necklace, a discreet gold watch and tiny gold studs in her ears were all the jewelry she wore. Her hair was pulled back into the chignon she customarily wore in public, a style that begged for a man’s hands to undo to let her wavy tresses flow free.
Her makeup was understated, as always, as if she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. And the disguising horn-rimmed fake eyeglasses were firmly in place—they really did make a noticeable difference in her appearance, although they didn’t really hide her lovely green eyes. Not from him, anyway.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling hesitantly.
His heartbeat quickened when her eyes met his, and he had to steel himself to be brusque. “Good morning, Princess.”
Her smile faded, and she took a deep breath. “Please do not call me that. Not today. Today I am Dr. Marianescu. Only that.”
She’s right, he thought. She’s gone to a lot of trouble to fit in, and it would defeat the purpose if anyone overhears me calling her Princess.
He knew why he called her Princess. It was his only defense against her, against the way she tugged at his emotions, the way his body responded to her. It was the only way he could remind himself of who and what she was. Not to mention who and what he was. She was a royal princess, sister to a reigning monarch. He was a man who didn’t even know his father’s name. And while Trace was as egalitarian as they come, there was still a vast gulf between them. Too vast to cross.
“Dr. Marianescu it is,” he told her. Her smile returned, and it was like the sun rising over the horizon. He almost smiled back, but then stopped himself and added, “At least while we’re at school.”
An odd expression flitted over her face and her eyes darkened behind the clear lenses, but she kept the smile in place with an effort. Something about that forced smile made him feel as if he’d kicked a defenseless kitten—not a good feeling at all. Trace wished he hadn’t said it, but it was too late for that. “We’d better get going,” he said curtly. And despite telling himself not to, he couldn’t keep the mocking inflection out of his voice when he added, “You don’t want to be late on your first day, Princess.”
Chapter 4
That day set the pattern for Mara for the days that followed. She was teaching four classes this semester. One, a calculus course, was what her fellow professors at the university called “general education,” or “gen ed” for short. This class contained upwards of a hundred students, and was taught in a large lecture hall five days a week.
