Page 30 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Twenty-Six

A very similar misty rain thickens the air in Scotland as we drive on a windy road. Alesana is at the wheel of the SUV, which seems too large for the narrow roads, with Ash and me in the back.

Chris has returned to LA since he was supposed to have the next two weeks off. His replacement—a woman named Sheila—didn’t join us since security was being provided by the Crown. The Crown . What a crazy way to put it.

My nose wasn't broken, and the swelling only lasted a day.

The bruising is mild and Zade covered it easily.

Well, they weren't easy about it. Zade was merciless about what the fuck happened.

They didn't believe me at first, but Ash backing up my story about slipping in the bathroom and smashing into the door convinced them. Ash's word is gold for Zade, I guess.

Ash being more believable than me dings my ego. I'm the professional here. Though, as I glance over at him, the gold-green Scottish hills undulating beyond his stoic profile, I remember that the man is a professional too. But it doesn't feel like there are many lies left between us.

Stone walls etch gray lines in the green landscape—as if the cloud-rich sky dragged a finger across the hillsides. It's gorgeous, otherworldly.

We enter a village, the buildings stone and medieval looking. If it weren't for the people walking around in modern clothing, I could imagine I'd been transported back in time.

My hand drops to the space between Ash and me, hoping he will put his there too. So that I can feel that sparking connection. This whole trip has me unmoored.

I made the decision so quickly. Called Omar and told him I'd come. Rashid, Ash, and Lloyd arranged the rest. And now here I am. Lloyd and Zade went home with Chris. I'm only here for three days. I can do my own makeup. Decide on my own outfits.

Zade and Lloyd did help me pack, though. By which I mean, they packed for me while I sat on my bed smiling, pretending I wasn't freaking out about the decision I'd made to throw myself into this mess. To choose the game rather than be a pawn in it.

I'm not here just for Omar—to embed myself with him to help Rebecca Levi. I need to talk to Victoria. She’s the intended recipient of the kompromat on Grand. What do they even hope to do with it? His supporters can't be swayed by proof of corruption. They only believe what he tells them.

My threats to Linda echo through my mind. Doubts that I could actually do anything swamp me. The hopelessness that's haunted me for the past few years seizes my chest.

What could possibly take him down? And what is Victoria supposed to do with the compass? She didn't try to create a moment to take it off me at the Globe Theatre. But she's obviously okay with my invite here, which seems sure to provide greater opportunity for a hand-off.

Victoria’s grandmother is out of the hospital. Dehydration is not to be fucked with, but the queen was apparently fully recovered. Or at least as recovered as a woman of her “advanced years” can be.

Elliot Kendricks’s appearance at my hotel in London made me suspicious of the dehydration story.

But he could have just been using it as a way to speak with me.

Could have even been sent by Temperance to not so subtly let me know he was no longer my handler…

he could have done that through Ash, though.

We leave the village. Trees grow taller, crowding the road. Signs for the castle appear on the roadside—directing tourists to the attraction. Parking lots crowd the side of the road, empty now, since the royal family is in residence.

A single lane bridge with green wrought iron railings spans a river running fast and hard, brown and frothing. On the other side the gatehouse of Balmoral Castle greets us. It looks like a lovely English country home in its own right.

A guard speaks with Alesana and then we’re through the gate. Our wheels crunch on the long drive as it serpentines through manicured woods. It looks like someone has gone through the trees and cleared out the underbrush, gentling the forest floor.

Balmoral Castle appears. Silver-gray turrets, ivy-flocked walls, golf-course-green lawn. Pewter clouds roil behind it. A man in a tuxedo waits with his hands behind his back next to the imposing wooden doors. A butler out of a film.

I take in a deep, fortifying breath as we roll to a stop.

The man comes down the few steps to open my door. His face is long and wizened. His hair is black and streaked through with silver—the same color as the castle’s stone walls.

“Welcome to Balmoral Castle, my name is Hamish Cunningham,” he says in a rich Scottish brogue while offering a white-gloved hand.

I accept it, a warm smile taking over my face. "Thank you."

"I will be at your disposal for the length of your stay."

Alesana and Ash confer on the other side of the car as Hamish escorts me to the steps. A young man passes us, dressed in a navy suit with a tartan tie. I glance back to see him in front of Alesana, offering to take a black duffel bag. Alesana smiles down at him, shaking his head.

My eyes flick to Ash and snare on his, waiting there for me. The connection jolts my head forward.

Hamish leads me over the threshold into an echoing room. It's like something out of a museum…or castle. The floors are an intricate parquet. A grand staircase wider than Ash is tall winds away to a second story.

Stag heads line the walls, and light falls from tall windows halfway up the staircase.

There are three life-sized marble statues.

Two are shrouded women set into nooks built for them.

And at the center of the room, with the staircase curving around him, there’s a man with a walking stick, his hand resting on the head of a hunting dog.

I follow Hamish up the steps to the second floor. The walls are sage green, the carpeting more of the tartan the young man wore—a gray base with overchecks of black and red. More stag heads and oil paintings of disapproving royals line the walls.

Homey.

A door opens in front of us and Omar steps out. Seeing me, his face lights up. I mirror his expression by instinct but am surprised to find I genuinely am thrilled to see him. Warmth blooms in my chest, excitement dances over my skin.

"Angela." Omar’s voice is smooth and deep. He doesn’t hesitate, comes right at me, opening his arms, inviting me into his space.

I step into them and his lips brush the top of my head as my cheek rests against his chest. Omar’s sweater is deliciously soft, the muscle underneath wonderfully solid. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” I say, easing back. He moves away, but drops his gaze to mine. "I'm so glad you decided to join us."

Omar is dressed casually in brown slacks and a sweater in greens and blues.

His black hair is pushed back, dark eyes shining at me.

He looks so handsome, so royal, even in his casual clothing.

And the way he's looking at me…like I'm the center of the world right now, the only thing he wants to look at even in this incredible place.

My heart flutters at the attention, at the focus, at the bald want. He's pursuing me and not even a little afraid to show it. "Thank you," I say. "It's hard to turn down an invitation to a royal castle."

"So my evil plan is working." He winks.

I grin at him. "Something like that."

We're standing close, the space between us subtly intimate. My eyes roam over his face; there is no sign that only two weeks ago he was the victim of an explosion. That he was knocked unconscious and carried out by his equerry.

The bruises on my throat have faded to nothing. My burn is still healing, though, the bandage wrapped tight.

Footsteps behind me draw Omar's gaze over my shoulder. I turn to follow his attention. Alesana is standing there—looking normal-sized in this giant hallway.

Ash appears at the top of the stairs. His eyes slide over me and roam to Omar. Ash’s expression remains unchanged, as if we mean the same to him. Two figures on a chessboard, neither evoking emotion.

"This is Alesana," I say, introducing him to Omar, turning slightly so the two men can meet. "And you remember Ash?" I ask as he reaches us.

Omar smiles, steps forward to shake hands with Alesana, who offers a polite, professional smile. "Hopefully we won't need you," Omar says. "But I'm glad you're here."

"Nice to meet you," Alesana says with none of his usual warmth. I get the sense he doesn't like Omar. But then again, no one who cares about me seems to want me around him.

Ash takes Omar's offered hand. "Your Highness."

Hamish has basically melted into the wall at this point. It takes me a second to place him next to a random chair—dark wood with an intricately carved straight back. Clearly a decoration not meant to be actually sat in. Though with this long of a hallway, it's possible people might need a respite.

"I'm sure you want a moment to freshen up," Omar says. "Will you meet us in the drawing room for tea? Hamish can show you where it is when you're ready."

"Yes, thank you."

Omar joins us the rest of the way to my room and then leaves me with a chaste kiss on the cheek. Hamish comes in to show me around.

A canopy bed that looks like something out of a period drama rests against one wall. Made of dark wood with thick curtains and decorative fringe, it's imposing. A fire crackles in the hearth across from it, two armchairs facing the flames. Space yawns between the sitting area and bed.

Hamish takes Alesana and Ash with him when he leaves to show them their rooms next door.

The warmth of the fire does not reach the bathroom. I take a few minutes to touch up my makeup and breathe. When I come back out, Ash is standing by one of the large windows looking out onto the gardens beyond. He turns to look at me. "Ready?"

I nod. He starts toward the door, the air between us even colder than the bathroom's chilled tiles. "Ash," I say, not following.

He turns, the fire at his back, flickering light outlining him. "Yes?"

"You think this is a terrible idea?"

"I'm not sure what the idea is," he answers, his tone implying that's fine by him. He's just the muscle. Why would I share my plans with him?

"I just…need to…" I can't find the words. Ash doesn't help, refuses to fill in the blanks for me. His expression remains unchanged, the fire behind him a stark contrast to his cold gaze. "Don't look at me like that," I say, my tone turning frustrated. Annoyed.

His head cocks slightly, as if he's trying to find a new angle to see me from, one that he can understand.

"Ash!" I hiss-whisper at him, rushing to close the space between us, stopping short a foot shy of touching him. "Come on."

He's looking down at me, blank. Empty. Cold. "I'm here to protect you, Angela. What else can I do for you?"

Tears clog my throat and burn behind my eyes. I need to pull it together. "That's how you want to play this?" I ask, keeping all the emotion trying to spill down my cheeks out of my voice. "Fine." I wrap myself in the cold mist of indifference and lift my chin. "Fine."