Page 11 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Ten

Prince Omar bin Rami waits 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 exactly accommodating .

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 standing in 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?"

Omar laughs and I feel his sparkling gaze on my face. He has a good laugh, deep and honest. "I like that," he says. "Adds another layer to the 'what is art' conversation."

"Ah, yes, that debate." As if it's one I've engaged in regularly.

"You didn't discuss the nature of art with your tutors?" Omar asks, teasing. I laugh. "How very common of you." He's obviously joking and it's endearing. "We can argue about it at lunch, I'll bring you up to speed."

"I appreciate you taking pity on me."

"Always happy to help."

My eyes drift down to the label under the box. Fountain by Marcel Duchamp . "It is an interesting piece," I say. "Asking the question of what makes something a sculpture? Does putting a urinal on a stand make it art? I guess we know the Tate agrees it does."

"It's almost like asking what is acting?" Omar says. "Must it be done on a stage or in front of a camera? Or is any pretense a part of your craft?"

"Another debate I've never had." I smile at him.

"Tell me what you think." He shifts, taking his lingering attention off “Fountain" and narrowing his focus to only me. He's playful but powerful—the force of his gaze potent.

I tilt my head, looking up at him. In my heels I'm 5'10, and he's still at least four or five inches taller. And so much broader. Just bigger than me.

But not bigger than Ash who stands about twenty feet behind him—his dark suit stark against the white wall. His cobalt gaze scans the empty space, avoiding falling on us. Like a good, invisible security agent.

"Where is the line between acting and just the normal lies of human interaction?" I clarify the question. Omar nods. A subtle smile tugs at his lips—they are so ready to smile for me. To laugh.

I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe you should call up your tutors. I bet they've got ideas." Omar's smile broadens but he doesn't speak, waiting for me to say more.

"I think we are all acting all the time, Omar." When I say his name, his pupils widen—that spark of attraction igniting.

"Are you acting now?" he asks.

I drop my chin so that I can gaze up at him through the lace of my lashes. "A girl never tells." He laughs, eyes ablaze. I'm giving him the kind of challenge he likes. Am I acting like a woman he wants, or am I actually that woman?

Exactly an hour and a half after we left my Bentley, we walk out of the Tate. Our lunch was simple but delicious in the museum’s restaurant kitchen at the chef's table—a jovial man who hugged Omar and bowed to me like I was royalty.

Omar poured me chilled white wine and we dined in the busy atmosphere, the clang of the commercial kitchen background music to our conversation about the meaning of art and acting.

The prince was charming, handsome, and funny. What more could I ask for in a date? He was also punctual, checking his watch to make sure to get me back within the limits I'd set. "I respect your time," he said when I teased him about it. "I want to make sure you'll agree to that dinner."

"You're definitely earning it."

"That's what I like to hear."

We stared at each other across the table.

My eyes dropped to his lips first, but it was his hand that reached out and cupped my cheek.

It was Omar who closed the distance between us.

He's the one who deepened the kiss. The one who made me want to climb into his lap and the one who pulled back—the prince left me wanting more.

Outside the Tate a fresh drizzle has started, the recent bout of sunshine gone. It feels especially cold after the warm embrace of the kitchen. "You'll have dinner with me?" Omar asks again as Alesana opens my door for me.

Still flush from the wine, kiss, and general awesomeness of the date, I bite my lip. Do I want to start this? It’s just another Julian—another amazing man I could never be close to, not really.

Another heartbreak. Or maybe just a few quick fucks to get him out of my system and then move on with my life. "Do you want to come back to my hotel with me?"

"Yes." Omar's answer is fast and sure. He takes a step closer to me, moving into my space, his hand reaching out to rest on my waist. His eyes bright, eager. Ready.

He's on me the moment we are through the door, his hands in my hair, pushing me up against the wall. He tastes good, so fucking good. He smells amazing—like frankincense, wine, and something all him.

Omar bin Rami might be a perfect gentleman on the street, but in the privacy of my hotel suite, he's an animal. A beast. Just the way I like my lovers.

He pulls back, holding me in place, pressing his forehead to mine. "I'm sorry," he says.

"For what?" I'm panting, each breath pushing my chest into his.

His eyes find mine in the gloom—the shades are open but the lamp’s off so the only light is the weak rays of a cloudy afternoon. Rain patters against the windows, quiet compared to our harried breaths and the beating of my heart thudding in my ears.

"I don't want to push you."

I laugh. "You're not. Trust me. I can handle you."

Oh, he likes that. His eyes glow with a dangerous glint. When his lips come back to mine, it's slower. Gentler. But his grip on me has tightened. The mad passion replaced by calculated seduction. I shiver from the shift. From his control.

"You'll have dinner with me?" Omar asks, his voice deep, using this intimate moment to go after what he wants…because I guess this, his hand trailing up my side, his tongue pulling my earlobe between his teeth, isn’t all he’s after. I hiss, press against him. Fuck, I need this.

"Maybe," I answer, my voice hoarse.

He stops, pulls back, meets my gaze—dark eyes serious. “Angela." My name comes out quiet. “I want to get to know you. Not just fuck you.” The smile that steals over his lips isn’t shy.

I swallow. "Our schedules. I'm not really… it's hard."

"That was very eloquent," he says, the hand in my hair slowly massaging my scalp, that not shy smile toying with his lips.

I huff a laugh. "You know what I mean."

"I don't let schedules or anything else get in the way of what I want." His voice is stern. As if I've challenged him. "I want you to have dinner with me."

"What if I say no."

He smiles, those lush lips of his spreading, showing just a glint of teeth. "I'll say please."

Fuck, why is that so hot?

One hand still tangled in my hair, the other slides up my side, slipping under my sweater. His fingers brand my naked flesh, turning my words breathy. "I do like a man unafraid to beg."

His smile grows. "I beg you, please, agree to dinner with me."

"It means that much to you?"

"It does."

I can't tell if it's a genuine desire to extend our relationship beyond an afternoon in a hotel suite or just that my reluctance to offer my continuing companionship has him so hungry for it. Pulling against his hold in my hair, I reach for his lips.

He lets me capture them. Lets my hands wrap around his neck. Lets me press my body flush to his again. Hands run down my body and grip my ass, lifting me up, so that my legs wrap around his waist. Then he walks, still kissing me, into the bedroom.