Chapter 1

      “The princess’s plane is arriving!” the US State Department’s representative said unnecessarily as she bustled over to where Trace stood on the tarmac in the sweltering summer sun with the two Diplomatic Security Service special agents Walker had arranged to work with him—Keira’s brothers Alec and Liam Jones. While they’d been waiting for the princess’s plane to taxi in from the runway, Trace’s gaze had been constantly on the move, making sure the security measures the State Department had put in place to keep the curious—and potentially dangerous—at bay were doing the job. So far so good.

      When Trace realized the self-important woman in front of him was expecting some sort of acknowledgment of her statement, he said, “Yes, ma’am. We know. That’s why we’re out here already.” As if it wasn’t obvious.

      Then he zoned the woman out, and his thoughts returned to the reason he was here—Her Serene Highness, Princess Mara Theodora. Thinking of the princess brought his favorite picture of her to mind, a picture that had been included in the detailed dossier he’d received, one that had not been formally posed. The princess was dressed in traditional riding kit, standing beside a magnificent black thoroughbred. Her riding helmet was hanging by its strap from one hand, and the other was tangled in the horse’s black mane. Her long, wavy hair was casually tossed over one shoulder, as if it had tumbled down when she removed her riding helmet and she hadn’t bothered to tie it up. And she was smiling in the general direction of the camera.

      It wasn’t a knowing smile. It wasn’t an I-know-you’re-there-and-I’m-posing smile. It was as if she’d been smiling at something else—the horse, probably—and had just happened to turn right when the shutter clicked. Her eyes, which the unknown cameraman had focused on, were green. Not hazel, true green. And Trace had always been a sucker for green eyes ever since he was four and a half years old and had fallen in love with an older woman—the five-year-old girl next door.

      That was also the first time he’d been fascinated by female intelligence, but certainly not the last. Maybe that’s why he and Keira had hit it off as partners. She had definitely excelled in the brains department, and together they’d solved cases no one else could solve. But Keira wasn’t just a pretty face and a quicksilver mind. She had courage and determination, and a deadly aim with a gun. All of which made her nearly impossible to replace as a partner in the two years since she’d married Walker.

      Trace had trusted Keira as he had never trusted anyone else in his life, even his ex-wife. But he hadn’t been in love with her. Maybe it was because of Keira’s strong reserve, her insistence on being taken as seriously in her job as any male agent. Maybe it was because he hadn’t wanted to screw up a great partnership with the uncertainty of a romantic relationship. Or maybe it was just that she didn’t have green eyes.

      A plane with the markings of the royal Zakharian air force pulled up to a stop in front of them. Two ground support personnel rushed forward to place chocks in front and behind the wheels, while two other men pushed a mobile staircase toward the plane’s door. It took a few minutes, but eventually everything was secured and the door opened.

      The first to descend the stairway were four young men with a military air about them, even though they were dressed in ordinary suits and ties. But Trace wasn’t fooled by their casual stances at the foot of the stairway.

      “Her Zakharian bodyguards,” he murmured to the Jones brothers, who both nodded in agreement—and approval. Trace knew the bodyguards were armed beneath their jackets, same as he was. Same as the Jones brothers were. There was just something about the way they held themselves—their bodies alert, their eyes sharply watchful of their surroundings—that reminded him of...himself. Especially the way he’d been while guarding a witness during his stint in the US Marshals Service. A man never forgot that mental toughness, not really. For just a moment he let a tiny smile escape. You can always spot a bodyguard.

      The next person down was a short middle-aged woman—definitely not the princess. She carried a square case in her hands as if it contained the crown jewels. Hell, Trace thought with sudden amusement, maybe they are the crown jewels. When the woman reached the bottom he saw a movement above her head, and the princess appeared in the doorway.

      He recognized her instantly. Even if he hadn’t seen her pictures, he would have known who she was—there was just something in the way she carried herself. Regal. Not superior. Not conceited. Just...regal. And composed, as if she knew the eyes of the world were always upon her. She was wearing a kelly green skirted suit that shrieked money. Her long, honey-brown hair was pulled back into a soft chignon at her nape, and there was a small green hat with a curled brim perched atop her wavy locks. She looked complete to a shade and exactly what she was—the kind of woman the paparazzi buzzed around for a very good reason.

      There weren’t any paparazzi here—this area of the airport had been cordoned off, ensuring the princess’s safe and inconspicuous arrival—but Trace made one last check of their surroundings to be sure. The king of Zakhar had made that condition quite plain, despite being couched in diplomatic terms, and the State Department had been quick to agree. Trace wasted a few seconds hoping the princess maintained her anonymity—it would make the job of guarding her so much easier if the general public and the press had no idea who she was. Not to mention anyone who out-and-out wished her harm.

      Then the princess clutched the handrail for a moment to steady herself, and Trace took a step forward, wondering if she was just about to tumble down the stairs. The faint smile remained plastered on her face, but she was deathly white beneath her delicate, understated makeup. He was a second away from making a dash up the stairway to catch her if she fell when she pulled herself together with iron determination, pressed her lips together in a firm line and descended the stairway with her chin tilted up, her hand only lightly touching the rail. One of her bodyguards moved forward to take her arm on the second to last step, but she said something to him in Zakharan. Her voice was clear and light, but cold, and it carried.

      “Do not touch me—I do not need your help,” Trace translated easily. The bodyguard stiffened and stepped back, freeing her arm. She turned abruptly from him toward the US State