Page 22 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)
He holds me gently, gentler than you'd think hands that big and scarred could be. Our breaths mingle, the heat between our lips a living thing.
Camera flashes explode, leaving halos in my vision even behind the dark lenses of my sunglasses. I drop my head, leaning into Ash's side, hiding under his right arm. My silk scarf flutters in the rain-spattered wind.
"Angela!"
“How are you feeling?“
"Are you dating the prince!"
"How serious is it?"
Alesana's broad back wrapped in a navy suit jacket leads the way. Ash's left arm extends forward, blocking photographers crowding way too close. My heart rate doesn't spike. Fear doesn't flood me. This is nothing. Nothing compared to what I've been through.
I watch my booted feet cross the pavement, wet from the ever-present rain in this country.
A country I'm set to leave today. The press tour continues on, and I'm not missing it.
The police questioned me this morning—a male and female detective who assumed my innocence and had their assumptions confirmed.
I can't wait to get the fuck out of here. The scent of the hospital clings to me even though I'm showered and in fresh clothing. The only thing stronger than that antiseptic stench is Ash's scent—safe, close, necessary.
Alesana shifts to the right, pushing photographers away with his back, creating a path for me to where Chris stands next to the open door of an SUV. He's frowning, all focus on the crowd. Ash's hand drops to my lower back, warm through the tweed jacket I'm wearing, as he guides me into the vehicle.
The door slams, and for a brief moment I'm alone in the dark interior. The tinted windows mute the flashes and yells. I stare straight ahead, no expression on my face. I'm not offering those vultures anything.
Not that I have cause to judge. We all do what we need to survive. But I'm not carrion. Not yet, anyway.
Alesana and Chris get into the front seats and Ash slides in next to me, the photographers following him around the car and flooding into the street. Chris leans on the horn, inching forward. Ash's expression is grim as he watches.
We make it through the throng, depart the hospital grounds, and merge into traffic. Motorcycles whiz alongside, darting between us and other cars. In my peripheral vision photographers hang off the back seats of bikes, legs locked around the driver while they desperately click.
Horns honk, voices yell. Paparazzi swarm like flies on a carcass. My left hand lies on the leather seat between Ash and me. His lands next to it. My entire awareness drops to the space between our pinky fingers. Everything disappears but those scant inches. Magnetic energy thrums.
We enter a tunnel, the world outside the SUV plunging into darkness interrupted by yellow lights at set intervals, throwing stripes over us each time we pass one. The flies continue to buzz.
Ash's skin touches mine. The side of his fingers lightly pressing.
My eyes close behind the dark lenses. Heart hammering, stomach clenching. I'm frozen in this moment. Totally transfixed by the intensity of his touch. How can this be so strong? So fierce?
Because it's dangerous? Forbidden? Or is it because it's him and me? Because he shouldn't be loyal to me but I want him to be so damn badly? I want to believe that he will throw caution to the wind for me. The fantasy of the loyal knight devoted to one queen.
He didn't kiss me in his hospital room. Ash held me, rolling us so that I was on top of him, and then cradled me to his chest. I fell asleep in the cocoon of his arms, and I woke up back in my own room. In the cold, narrow bed with the sun flooding in.
Part of me wondered if it was a dream—a hallucination created by my exhausted, terrified mind.
Lloyd arrived with my clothing and the concern of a mother hen.
He brought Zade who covered my bruises and brightened my eyes, their expression grim.
“If I had known that royal motherfucker was going to get you blown up, I never would have suggested you go on another date with him.”
They left and Ash showed up, dressed in a gray suit with a crisp white shirt. The scruff decorating his jaw was gone, the circles under his eyes diminished. Stubble darkened his scalp. The wound at the base of his skull was covered in a white bandage.
His eyes met mine and electricity leapt between us, as real as the bruises decorating my throat, the burn on my arm, and the beat of my heart. Ash swallowed, an expression of pain passing over his stalwart face. And I knew it was real. I knew that last night something changed.
And now here we are, the barest contact between our skin making me feel every inch of my body. Making me feel real in this very unreal situation.
Ash's phone rings. He pulls it from his jacket with his free hand, not breaking our contact. I swallow, keeping my gaze forward. “Fraser.” Unintelligible squawking comes over the line. "Understood. I will forward the message." He hangs up. "That was Rashid Talib, the prince’s equerry."
I turn to look at him as we come out of the tunnel. White light halos him. Ash moves his hand away, as if my focus on him broke the spell. That or the mention of Omar. "The prince wants to speak with you. He's tried your number repeatedly."
"Oh." I pull my hands into my lap, twinging my fingers—cold now. "I…"
"You don't have to speak with him," Ash says, his gaze on the paparazzi revving next to us.
"Yes, I know. Lloyd is getting me a new phone. I'll wait and check my messages."
"You can use my phone now if you prefer." He turns to look at me then, the first time he's met my gaze since we've been in the company of others. His eyes are locked down, cold ice.
I clear my throat, turn away, uncomfortable with how good he is at acting.