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ChapterTen

Prince Omar bin Ramiwaits for me outside the Globe Theatre. He’s leaning against a classic sports car—something from an early Bond film—his ankles crossed. The prince wears a sport coat over a sweater with a collared shirt and black jeans.

The prince smiles at me as if he doesn't have a care in the world or anywhere to be except standing in the rare London sunshine waiting for me. Parked on a pedestrian-only street—except, of course, for those of us with special dispensation.

The photographers are gone. They probably followed the princess to the hospital. My Bentley waits at the curb, purring. Chris now sits in the driver's seat. Alesana opens the back door for me, but I don't move to get in. Ash stands at my back, waiting just as patiently as the prince.

Omar rocks to stand and crosses the street, his long legs eating up the space between us, his intense gaze holding me in its thrall. Alesana shifts his position, blocking me slightly.

Omar smiles, as if it's cute that such a large man thinks physical strength is anything to his aura. "It's okay, Alesana. This is His Royal Highness, Prince of Jordan, Omar bin Rami," I say. Omar grins as he rounds the Bentley's front. "Are you stalking me?" I tease.

"Mildly," he responds, his accent, combined with a smirk, doing things for me. "Victoria told me you'd be here." He stops a few feet from me, one hand in his pocket. The man is casual elegance embodied, and I am here for it. "I understand you two were meant to have lunch. I hope you'll accept my invitation instead."

"Thank you for the invitation," I say, not sure if I'll accept yet. A casual dalliance with a handsome prince might be just what I need. Or it might be a terrible idea. Hard to say which way is up and which is down…adding a date with a powerful man sounds like an awesome way to stir up my snow globe even more.

"The Tate Modern is just down the way," he says. "Have you been?"

"No," I admit.

"I took the liberty of requesting a private tour—we'd have one of the galleries to ourselves."

"Confident I'd say yes?"

He grins and it's pretty devastating. “I figured if you said no, that nothing heals a broken heart like modern art."

I laugh and his smile broadens. "I'd hate to break your heart."

"Then join me." He holds out his hand. I'll have to take a step toward him to accept it. "We can walk." He looks over at Ash. "Assuming that is acceptable to your security."

"Whatever Ms. Daniels wants, we can accommodate," Ash answers, his baritone gravelly—coldly polite but not exactlyaccommodating.

Omar's hand waits, palm up, for me to take it. His eyes sparkle with amusement and excitement. The man is chasing and enjoying the hell of out of it.

"I don't know if I have time for an entire tour," I say. "I have commitments this afternoon."

"Cancel them?" Omar suggests, teasing but not.

"How much time do I have?" I ask Ash, glancing over my shoulder at him.

His focus is on Omar, and his scowl is securely in place. Omar's ability to ignore it is impressive. Actually makes him even hotter—not being nervous under Ash's scrutiny is quite a feat.

"You have commitments starting in two hours. And we need time for transportation. An hour and half had been allotted for your lunch with Princess Victoria."

"Thank you," I say, remembering that my “commitments” after lunch were a massage in my room, followed by a bath before getting ready for a dinner. "You have an hour and half," I tell Omar as I step forward to take his hand.

"I promise not to waste it." He twines our fingers.

I'm standingin front of a urinal. It's enclosed in a glass box. In thick black letters the name R. Mutt is scrawled on the side. The year 1917 is marked under the signature. Behind it is a blank white wall, the better to focus on the urinal.

"Some people say they can see a veiled woman's face in it. Others say a seated buddha," Omar tells me.

"How poetic. What do you see?"

"A replica of a urinal."

I laugh and the sound bounces around the large, mostly empty room. Omar kept his promise, and we have this section of the museum to ourselves. It's strange to be in such a large space designed for crowds without any. "The original is lost," Omar continues.

"Funny to think about where it might have ended up. Did someone throw it away thinking it was trash?"