Page 8 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

"Your Highness." The princess drops into a reserved curtsey. Shit, was it rude of me not to offer one to the princess? Wait, did she just call Hungry Eyes Your Highness?

"Omar," the duke booms, his long arm coming out to clasp Hungry Eyes’ hand. "Wonderful to see you. We still on for the hunt next month?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Omar says, his slight accent sexy as fuck. His gaze tracks back to me, and it feels like being under a heat lamp.

"Omar," the princess says. "This is Angela Daniels. Angela, this is His Royal Highness, Prince Omar bin Rami of Jordan."

Our eyes meet. I offer my hand and he takes it, sliding his fingers around so that he can bring my knuckles to his lips.

I stop breathing as Omar's exhale caresses my skin.

His eyes continue to hold mine. Lips—soft as the silk of my dress but warm, so warm—press.

His eyes close, onyx lashes fan over bronze skin, in what looks like bliss.

My whole body lights up, and it takes every skill I have to keep a blush from blooming across my cheeks. "An absolute pleasure," he says, lips and breath brushing my skin. He straightens and lowers my hand but does not release it.

A tinkling bell pulls our focus to a pair of open doors at the far end of the room.

"May I escort you to dinner?" Omar asks. "As long as your date does not mind." He turns to Zade and Hannah, his eyes going between the two to see if either is attached to me.

"That would be lovely," I say. "Thank you." He moves gracefully next to me, and wraps my hand under his elbow and around to rest on his forearm. The duke and duchess do likewise. Hannah and Zade follow suit, giving each other a look that has me suppressing a smile.

We follow the crowd out into a wide hall where voices echo and stern portraits watch our procession to the ballroom.

"Is this your first time at Buckingham Palace?" Omar asks, voice low and intimate.

"Yes," I say. "It's stunning. Do you come often?"

"Yes. I've known Victoria since we were children. I think there was a time when our parents hoped we might wed."

"Really?" I say. "And why didn't you?"

He casts a devastating smile down at me. "She likes tall, handsome actors. And I like tall, stunning actresses with violet eyes."

I let out a surprised laugh. “Do you?” I tease.

We cross the threshold into the ballroom.

Round tables set for ten fill the front half of the room.

Beyond them is the dance floor. Red-cushioned bleachers line the walls on either side.

Two thrones sit on a stage in front of it.

Crystal chandeliers bathe the room in the same faceted gold as the music room.

“Yes,” Omar says. “I’m quite enamored.”

"Is that so?" I ask. "I imagine you meet a fair number of actresses with violet eyes in your line of…work?"

His laugh is a low rumble. "I'll have you know that being royalty is quite a bit of work."

"I understand. Truly, I do." The teasing falls away from my tone. "The weight that accompanies this kind of life, the invasion of privacy, the expectations. I chose this life. You had no other option."

I glance up at him as I finish speaking. The prince is looking down at me, his head slightly cocked, as if he's examining me in a new light.

"Yes," he says. "You're very perceptive." I break away from his gaze, my own falling to where my hand lays on the arm of his dark suit. The gold chain bracelet circling my wrist drapes across the fine fabric. The sapphire ring on my middle finger sparkles.

"It's a professional attribute," I say as we reach a table covered in a cream cloth and decorated with a flower centerpiece that climbs three feet high, bursting with red, yellow, and white blooms. The royal crest is stamped on the dinner plates.

Silverware fans out like children lining up by size.

The goblets and water glasses are rimmed in gold.

"Empathy," Omar says, his voice thoughtful. He releases my arm, and moves to pull out one of the ornate dining room chairs. They look related to the piano—clawed and feathered gold legs hold up the white-cushioned seat and back.

"What do you mean: empathy?" I ask.

Omar's hands gently rest on the back of the chair. "Isn't that what allows you to imagine someone else's life?"

"Yes," I agree. "I suppose it is."

We stare at each other for a moment longer than is polite. I'm not imagining what it’s like to be the prince, but I am picturing how good it would feel to be under him. From the subtle tug of Omar's lips, I'm pretty sure he's imagining the same thing.

“Unfortunately, we are not at the same table tonight, but I’d very much like to take you to dinner another night--just the two of us.

” Omar holds my gaze. There is no arrogance in his eyes.

He doesn't know what my answer will be. But there is confidence—a spark that tells me he wouldn't accept a no easily.

This is a man who pursues—and usually gets—what he wants.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” I tease.

“Yes.” His smile widens.

"I'll consider it," I say, tilting my chin down as I look at him from under my lashes.

"Wonderful," he says.

The feathers on Zade's left shoulder shudder as they sit next to me. Hannah sits on my other side. She raises her half-empty champagne glass at me and winks. I shake my head, pretending that a prince didn't just ask me on a date.

Our table fills with bejeweled women and tuxedoed men. Sharp English accents and narrow noses. I smile and look pretty, pretending like I belong. Like I'm perfectly comfortable. Pulling the character Hannah described in the limo around me.

Zade leans over. "So," they say, drawing out the word. "A prince. How very Grace Kelly of you."

I shake my head. "You're already planning the wedding look, aren’t you?”

"It's going to be stunning. Simple but elegant." Their eyes roam over my face. "Sasha can do the hair," they say, referencing the stylist who we worked with on my last Star Wars film. She's currently very pregnant.

"Let's hope it's not too quick a courtship, so that Sasha doesn't have to cut her maternity leave short."

"Of course. You have to make him work for it."

"Oh, I will."

They nod, totally confident in my wiles.

The room quiets, pulling our focus to the front of the room. The queen steps up onto the stage, her granddaughter following. The princess pauses at the edge while the queen continues to the podium. She is short and round with pale skin. A tiara of diamonds nestles in her short, white curls.

She smiles out at the crowd. Her power electrifies the air—silencing the room. Such a small, dour figure, yet…

"Good evening," she says, then clears her throat. The queen brings a hand to the pearls ringing her neck. Her eyes bulge. She stumbles back a step.

The princess rushes the short distance to her grandmother. The queen turns to her, then collapses—knees folding, body dropping. The princess lunges, letting out a sharp cry. She isn't fast enough. The sound of the queen's body hitting the stage fills the silence her presence created.