Page 31 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I let out a big laugh—only half fake. His Royal Highness, Benjamin Arthur—who insists I call him Ben—is charming and, after adding whiskey to my tea “for the chill”, has been telling a story about the time when he and Omar first went riding together.

It ended with both of them in the mud and their horses returning to the stables unmounted.

"The queen was not amused," Omar says, playing the straight man to Ben's boisterous orator.

Victoria and I laugh into our spiked tea.

These three are clearly good friends. And the fact that I'm the only other guest is wild.

This is an intimate evening before the rest of the hunting party is set to join us tomorrow afternoon.

I'm basically on a sleepover double date. The only non-royal here.

Though it's always been said that celebrities are America's royalty.

The sitting room is huge with several seating areas—the carpet is tartan, the walls dark green.

A fire rages in the ornate fireplace. It gives off an intense heat.

I've stripped off my wool sweater and am down to a button-up shirt and jeans, my shoes kicked off, legs tucked up onto the couch—mimicking Victoria's pose.

She's wearing black slacks and a thin cashmere sweater that brings out the blue in her eyes. Blonde hair up in an elegant chignon, pearls circling her willowy neck, the princess is effortlessly graceful. "Do you ride?" she asks as our laughter fades.

"Not in a long time." I sip my tea. "But I'll be getting training for my next role."

"Oh, what is it?" she asks, tone eager.

"Promise not to tell anyone," I tease. She grins, her smile whiskey wide.

"Of course."

"We can be trusted with state secrets," Ben says, in a faux serious tone. He's wearing pleated evergreen khakis and a camel hair sweater vest—somehow he makes it work.

“ The Last Guardian . It's a sci-fi thriller with lots of sword fights and horseback riding."

"Sounds fun!" Victoria says.

"I'm looking forward to it."

"You should have Omar help you with the sword fighting," Victoria says. "He's a fencing champion."

"Is he?" I say, turning my attention to him.

His dark eyes twinkle at me. "Victoria overestimates my skill."

"Nonsense," Ben says. "He was a champion at Oxford."

"You went to Oxford together?" I ask.

"Yes," Victoria answers. "Omar introduced me to Ben."

"But she refused to date me," Ben adds. "Rejected me outright." Victoria laughs. "It wasn't until she saw me shirtless in Dark Symphony that she deigned to accept my advances."

Ben refers to his breakout role—a coming-of-age film about college-age kids in London that was critically acclaimed. And had a ton of sex in it. My memories of the film are hazy, but I do remember Ben's sculpted body slick with sweat in a dance scene.

Victoria shakes her head. "Absolutely untrue. We were friends. And I'd seen you without a shirt on plenty of times before I agreed to go on a date with you." She turns to me. "He was too much of a player for me."

Ben shifts from where he's standing by the fire to sit next to his wife, putting an arm around her. "I've aged like fine whiskey, wouldn't you say, lass?" He uses an excellent Scottish brogue. Victoria laughs again, leaning into him.

They seem so normal. Cute. When I glance over at Omar, he's smiling at me as if to say: We could be like that. You and me. Happy, normal royals.

Hamish materializes behind the couch. “Your highness.” He bows to Victoria. “The queen is on the phone.”

Surprise flits across Victoria’s face. It doesn't look like she was expecting a call from her grandmother. "Okay." She sits up, Ben's arm falling to her waist. "I'll take it in my office."

Hamish bows and moves away. "Excuse me," Victoria says, the skin around her eyes tight with worry as she slips her loafers back on.

"Of course, I hope everything is okay," I say, my own feet coming to the rug.

She gives me a nervous smile. "I'm sure it is, thank you." Victoria hurries out of the room. Ben watches her go.

"How is the queen?" I ask. The scent of the powdered electrolytes my grandmother's doctor recommended for her dehydration drifts across my consciousness.

Sharp lemon and herbal stevia. The spoon clinking against the glass as I stirred it in.

The way it would sit next to her bed untouched until she said it was too warm and I had to make another.

Another she'd barely sip. Every time I visited her, I made her dozens of glasses of pale yellow electrolytes she barely touched.

"She's doing well," Ben says, leaning forward to grab one of the crustless sandwiches on the coffee table. "I'm sure everything is fine."

"Good." I nod, smiling.

"We should go for a ride tomorrow morning," Omar suggests. "The park is best seen from the back of a horse."

"I'm not sure I've got the skills," I say. "Or the clothing."

"I'm sure we can rustle up a kit for you," Ben says. "It will be fun. There are several horses who will take good care of you."

"You just told me a story about how your horses were spooked by a stag and dumped you into a mud pit."

"I will remind you," Ben says, "that we were quite drunk."

I laugh. "Well, if you keep giving me cups of tea this strong, I'll hardly be sober."

"Don't worry," Omar says. "They don't spike the morning coffee."

"Of course not," Ben says, feigning insult. "We wait until noon to start drinking like all civilized people."

"Unless it's Bloody Marys," Omar points out, his tone serious. Grave almost.

"That goes without saying." Ben waves the comment aside. "Bloody Marys are not considered alcoholic. Too many vegetables."

"I didn't realize the vegetable count of a beverage had anything to do with its intoxication effects," I say.

"Happy to enlighten you." Ben grins at me.

I laugh.

“Do come riding with me tomorrow,” Omar says. “We will find you clothing. Do you have everything you need for the hunt?” he asks.

“I think so; Rashid and Lloyd conferred, I believe.” I knew for a fact they had talked in great detail about the necessary boots, tweed suit, and walking stick I’d need for tromping around the Scottish countryside.

“Excellent,” Ben says, nodding with approval.

"How did you like Rome?" Omar asks me, changing the subject.

"I didn't get to spend any time outside of work, unfortunately. Besides a few dinners that were lovely. Though I'm back on a strict diet as I prepare for training. So I mostly lusted after my friend’s pasta."

Both men laugh. "It must be hard for you to go out in public, sightseeing," Omar says.

I shrug. "Yes and no. I've been known to don a pair of sunglasses and a hat to enjoy some time in public.

" Omar's eyes wander down my body. How do you cover that up?

And he's not wrong. Even with a hat and sunglasses people stare.

Men stare. "In LA mostly people leave you alone even if they recognize you, unless they're a tourist."

"Your security seems to be quite good," Ben notes.

"Yes, I have a great team. But they can also draw attention. And I do miss going out alone."

"A joy that Victoria has never known," Ben says, his tone still jovial, but the words are cruel somehow. She's spent her entire life in castles like this one. In large rooms hung with oil paintings of her ancestors scowling or hunting. I have yet to see a painting with a smiling subject.

"Don't feel too bad for me," Victoria says from the doorway.

"I do have a fifty thousand-acre estate in Scotland.

" She smiles broadly as she comes back to the couch, settling in with Ben, leaning into his side.

He kisses the top of her head. "Not to mention a really fabulous place in central London. "

"Everything okay, darling?" Ben asks.

"Yes." She tilts her head to look up at him. "Though it's probably time to go dress for dinner."

"Yes, I think you're right," Ben agrees. Omar glances at his watch and a subtle smile steals over his features.

Ben stands, holding out his hand to pull his wife up next to him. "We will see you both at seven-thirty for cocktails." I glance down at my tea, realizing it is not considered a cocktail. All sorts of interesting nuances here.

Victoria and Ben leave, their pace quick, his hand on her lower back, their heads bent together.

Omar looks over at me, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.

"What?" I ask.

"We have two hours before dinner."

It dawns on me. "Oh." I let my cheeks heat and cast my eyes to the rug—tartan again.

"They are very much in love," Omar says, leaning back into the big armchair.

"They do seem happy."

"As happy as royals can be, I think."

“It's hard to be happy as a royal?" I inject a note of teasing into my tone, but also curiosity. Tell me a joke, or a truth about yourself.

“Royalty is not a choice. And if you don't have choices in life, you're less likely to be happy, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes." My stomach knots and I swallow the anxiety that tries to close my throat. All the choices Grand has stripped from people, and the ones he craves to steal, turn my tea to acid in my gut. I sit forward to place the half-empty cup on the table next to the platter of crustless sandwiches.

"Victoria was lucky she fell in love with a man who was acceptable and prepared for the lifestyle.”

"Right," I say, sitting back, tucking my feet again. "Though how many opportunities did she have to meet men who weren’t?"

"She could have fallen in love with the chauffeur." His tone is light, but his point is clear.

"Of course." I laugh at myself. "I was thinking of some tattooed biker, forgetting an honest working man would not do."

"It would be a good story though," Omar says, sipping his tea. "If she'd fallen for a member of the staff. Insisted on marrying him."

"Would her family have disowned her?" I ask, my tone still humorous—as if love being conditional is a laughing matter.