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Who are you, Trace McKinnon? she wondered. What have you seen in life that makes you the man you are?
She remembered the dossier on him that her country’s secret intelligence service had prepared when they’d been told who would be guarding her during her stay in the United States. There had been dossiers on all three men, but Trace McKinnon’s had been the one that intrigued her right from the start.
Was it just his incredibly handsome face and honed physique that had caught her attention? She didn’t think so—she wasn’t that susceptible to a handsome face, no matter what kind of body went with it. She’d encountered her share of physically attractive men before, and they’d all left her cold. The other two US agents assigned to guard her were attractive men, too, with tall, reassuringly muscular builds and watchful eyes that told her they took their jobs as seriously as Special Agent McKinnon did.
No, it wasn’t just the way he looked. And anyway, his pictures didn’t do him justice. The pictures hadn’t prepared her for the sledgehammer impact to her senses when his large, masculine hand had engulfed hers, and those bluer-than-blue eyes had stared down at her from a tanned face that could have been carved by Michelangelo. And his slightly shaggy dark hair hadn’t detracted from that perfection. It merely added just the right touch of dangerous masculinity, which kept him from being too perfect.
She was tall for a woman, but next to him she didn’t feel tall, she felt just right somehow. As if she would fit into the protective curve of his shoulder without the slightest need for adjustment. As if she belonged there, in his arms.
And for the first time in her life she knew what it meant to be a woman, understood why nature had designed men to be hard where women were soft. For the first time she had met a man who made her realize something vital was missing from her life. Even though she’d still been recovering from the motion sickness that always overwhelmed her whenever she flew despite the numerous medications doctors had prescribed—none of which really worked for her except by knocking her out, and that she refused to allow—even though she’d still been a little shaky, something deep inside her had responded to his blatant masculinity and those gorgeous blue eyes. Her breath had caught in her throat and her heartbeat had stuttered.
But then he’d said that one word, Princess. The deliberate insult had been unmistakable. And her daydreams had been 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.
