McKinnon's Royal Mission (Man on a Mission 1)

Trace felt his forehead tighten in a question.

“Oh, hell,” Walker said. “There’s no delicate way to put it.” His eyes met Trace’s. “They picked you for a variety of reasons, one of which doesn’t have a damn thing to do with anything other than the fact women find you attractive.”

Trace uttered a pithy Anglo-Saxon curse. Then he gritted his jaw and pinned his boss with an uncompromising stare, his voice soft but deadly. “I can’t believe you have the stones to say that to me. If State wants some sort of honey trap they’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“I told them you’d say that,” Walker said with the glimmer of a smile.

“I’ve done a lot of things for my country,” Trace said fiercely. “Some of those things keep me awake at night. But I’ve never done anything I was ashamed of, and I never will.”

Walker held up a hand, palm outward. “Calm down, okay?” he said.

“Damn it, Walker—” Trace growled. His handsome face was a sensitive subject, especially within an agency whose agents prided themselves on fading into the woodwork. And Trace was a damned good agent in every other way. It was just harder for him to avoid standing out in a crowd.

“Forget it,” Walker said quickly. “I’ll give State your answer, and if they don’t like it I’ll tell them the agency will pass on their request entirely.”

Trace took a deep breath and expelled it slowly, forcing down his anger at the same time. “Sorry,” he told his boss roughly. “I should have known you’d back me on this.”

“What about the rest of the request? Will you accept the assignment?”

Trace hesitated, then nodded. “You’ve convinced me. If State still wants me under the circumstances, I’m on board. When do I start?”

“The princess will be here in about a month.” Walker stood up and held out his hand. “Thanks, McKinnon. I knew I could count on you.” Trace shook the outstretched hand, and Walker continued in a completely different vein. “So Keira wants to know, are you going to make it to your goddaughter’s first birthday party this Saturday?”

Trace’s first real smile since he’d walked into this office spread over his face. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve already bought her birthday present—she’ll love it.”

“You spoil her.”

Trace laughed. “Like you don’t?” He headed for the door, his mood lightened by the thought of his goddaughter, Alyssa Tracy Walker. He’d been blown away when his former partner asked him to be her daughter’s godfather. He hadn’t had to think twice about accepting. And Alyssa was a darling, just like her mother. She already had all the men in her life wrapped around her baby finger.

“McKinnon!” Walker’s voice stopped him just as he was going through the door. “You’d better take this.” This was the folder that had been sitting on Walker’s desk, the one he’d referred to from time to time as he’d convinced Trace to accept the new assignment. Trace’s thoughts were dragged away from his goddaughter, reminding him of what he didn’t want to think about...not until he had to. He sighed and took the folder, tucking it under his arm.

A princess, he thought as he walked out. Great. Just what I need.

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.