Page 15 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

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W hile Blake talks with his coach, I quickly lay a towel over my lap and grab his phone, hiding it under my leg next to mine. With our phones close, a special app on mine starts downloading spy software onto his phone.

The app hasn’t finished installing and configuring the software, so I reach for one of his racquets and start asking him questions to delay him.

Fortunately, he doesn’t suspect what I’m really doing, and I successfully install the software. Now we can track where he is, capture his text messages and his emails, and so much more.

I betrayed him by invading his privacy. My guilt is offset by the possibility he’s involved in criminal activities. But if he’s innocent and finds out, he’ll never speak to me again.

The vibration pattern on my leg signals the upload is complete. I need to leave before Blake becomes suspicious but use all my restraint not to bolt from the court. Instead, I carefully slip his phone back into his bag before he notices it’s missing.

Fortunately, Marco provides an added distraction, but my nerves are starting to fray as I make a hasty departure.

Erin rushes to keep up with me.

Once we slip into the waiting SUV, I let out the breath I’d been holding.

Erin waits until the driver pulls onto the road before asking, “What’s up with the hurry?”

“I’d had enough of Marco. He’s a bit of a jerk.”

That’s true even if it’s not the whole truth. It’s so hard keeping Erin in the dark when we’ve been friends since childhood and now she also keeps me safe. It’s unsettling to think I’m betraying her too, just in a different way.

Erin nods. “I see your point. Your schedule looks fairly open this afternoon. Is there anything you need my help with?”

“No. I’ll be staying at the house for the rest of the day. You should take some time for yourself. I plan to work out in the home gym, rest, and then meet with Blake and our coaches for a strategy session later tonight.”

“Excellent. I’ll see if Fausto needs anything.”

Once we reach the house, I hustle up the stairs.

Fortunately, Blake stayed behind for singles practice with his coach. That gives me a chance to search his room.

I grab my cosmetics bag that’s loaded with miniature electronics and slip into Blake’s room. Soon we’ll be monitoring more than just his phone.

In his bathroom, I pull on a pair of latex gloves and start setting up my cover story in case someone walks in.

Blake gave me the perfect excuse when he offered me the use of his bathtub.

I turn the faucets on full blast and pour in enough bath gel to build mountains of bubbles.

While the tub fills, I carefully lay out the surveillance devices on a towel on the bathroom counter.

A quick glance confirms I have a USB drive device to download information from Blake’s laptop, plus two listening devices, three cameras, and five trackers. I double-check that my phone app connects to the devices. Fortunately, it works perfectly.

With that done, I turn to see the tub is nearly full. Perfect. I shut off the water and get to work.

Moving quickly, I attach a listening device behind the toilet.

A camera in here will be even more invasive, so I search for a spot that will still afford him a little privacy.

Noticing some decorative items on top of the cabinet, I hide the camera there and aim it at the sink. That should cover the bathroom.

Back in the bedroom, I tuck the second listening device into a crevice behind the bedside lamp.

I look around the room for the best spots to hide the two remaining cameras. One needs to face the door, the other the bed. Yes, the bed. So much for protecting that part of his privacy.

My heart races, remembering that Blake didn’t bother with clothes when we were together. I wonder if he wears anything when he sleeps alone. That thought sends a wave of warmth between my legs.

There’s no time for that. I have a mission to complete.

I place a camera in the artwork hanging over the bed. It’s the perfect angle to capture the rest of the room, including the door. The other camera fits snugly in a visible black bracket holding the TV that faces the bed. He’ll never notice the tiny device.

I’m glad someone else will be monitoring the video feeds. Watching Blake in bed—especially if he brings someone back—would be way too awkward.

Now for the search. I start with the antique two-drawer desk. It doesn’t match the rest of the modern furniture. I’d guess it belonged to the homeowner’s grandmother, and they can’t bear to part with it. Every nick and scratch probably holds a memory.

I rifle through the short stack of papers on top.

It’s a jumble of receipts, schedules, and a few random notes with dates and times.

I snap photos just in case they turn out to be useful.

I’ll take a closer look at them later. The drawers hold blank notepads, crossword puzzle books, and old greeting cards.

It looks like Blake hasn’t touched them.

Dropping to the floor, my gaze catches an envelope taped to the underside of the desk.

A muffled gasp escapes me. In training, they always told us to check under desks and drawers, inside refrigerators, and under mattresses.

But I never expected to actually find something in such a cliché hiding place.

Running my gloved hand over the envelope, I feel the outline of a key. Why would Blake hide a key?

Luckily, the flap is loose. I slide the key out, snap a photo, and grab paper from the desktop to trace its shape. That should be enough information for our team to figure out what type of lock it fits.

Crawling back under the desk, I tuck the key back into the envelope. As I push the flap inside, heavy footsteps pound up the stairs. My body freezes as adrenaline courses through my veins. I listen intently while holding my breath, not daring to make a sound.

It can’t be Blake. He’s still practicing.

A deep, slightly muffled voice says, “I need to answer some emails. It’ll be easier on my laptop than my mobile. When I’m finished, I’ll meet you in the study.”

It’s Blake. What’s he doing back so soon?

As silently as possible, I roll out from under the desk, narrowly avoiding bumping my head.

I dash into the Blake’s bathroom, push the door nearly closed, and drop the key tracing and remaining devices into the wastebasket to retrieve later.

I slip into the tub fully clothed just as Blake’s bedroom door clicks open.

Unfortunately, the tub isn’t deep enough. My wet shirt shows above the bubbles. Ripping it off along with my bra, I tuck them into my tennis skirt and close my eyes, pretending to be relaxed. Let’s hope I’m a good actor because my pulse threatens to set a record.

The adrenaline rush is both exciting and overwhelming.

This mission is finally putting my training to the test—but nothing could have prepared me for the reality.

It’s intense. It’s exhilarating. And it’s terrifying because if Blake figures out why I’m really here . ..well, I’ll be totally screwed.

He’s just checking his email, I remind myself. That should be quick. I’ll sneak out as soon as he leaves.

Through the cracked door, I hear rustling papers and the click of laptop keys.

I lay perfectly still with only my head above the bubbles. Thank goodness I had the bath ready. Worst case, he finds me soaking in his tub. That’s totally normal, right?

His footsteps echo across the hardwood floor. They stop. But I don’t hear the door close.

Suddenly, the hinges squeak on the bathroom door, and Blake shouts, “Wow!”

I lurch forward, instinctively covering my bare chest. Blake stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but tight black boxer briefs that leave little to the imagination—and are quickly revealing even more.

“What are you doing here?” I screech.

He smirks, eyeing me with a familiar, but unexpected, hunger. A shiver runs down my spine. It’s killing me that we can’t have another night together. If he’s innocent, I’m going to regret this missed opportunity. He knew exactly how to make my body hum.

I blink. He’s saying something. “What did you say?”

“Umm. If I remember correctly, this is my room.”

“Yes, but you were practicing. You said I could use the bathtub. I thought I’d be finished before you returned.”

“I can help you finish if you’re having trouble,” he says, eyebrows dancing.

“Very funny. You know what I mean. Don’t be an arse. Why aren’t you on the court?”

“Rain cut my practice short. A warm bath sounds amazing. Would you like company?”

“Not this time. Besides, I’ve been in here too long. The water’s already cool. Please give me a little privacy so I can dry off. And no, you’re not helping with that either.” I smirk.

“That’s too bad. But I have one question before I go.”

“What’s that?”

“Why are you wearing gloves?”

I stare at my hands, stunned. How did I forget to ditch the gloves?

“It’s to protect my hands from chapping,” I say, not missing a beat. “I love soaking, but I can’t mess up my tennis grip.”

“Interesting. I’ve never heard of that being a problem before.”

“Trust me. It is. Now, a little privacy.”

“Okay. Okay,” he says, backing out.

Once alone, I bury my face in my still-gloved hands, letting my heartbeat settle.

My excuse about the gloves was lame, but every tennis player has at least one eccentric habit. Hopefully, he bought it.

Now the bigger problem—wet clothes and no robe.

Climbing out of the tub, I peel off my soaked clothes and hide them in a towel. I wrap another towel around me, retrieve the hidden items from the trash, and pack everything into my cosmetics bag.

Clutching my belongings and channeling confidence, I stroll out of the bathroom. With a tone of cheery nonchalance, I say, “Thanks for letting me borrow your tub. It’s all yours now.”

I freeze. Oh no!

Blake is standing between me and his bedroom door, eyes blazing with fire and mischief

Gripping my towel a little tighter, I smile and step forward, expecting him to step aside.

He doesn’t. What the hell!

We’re standing mere inches apart. His dark gaze hovers on the gap at the bottom of my towel.

Slowly, his eyes follow the seam upward, stopping on my upper chest. His eyes seem to follow the water droplets falling from the ends of my hair, running over my exposed skin, and disappearing into the top of the towel.

My eyes track his, hypnotized by his heated stare. My cheeks flush. My breath catches. I don’t move.

Blake reaches out and drags his index finger down my arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. His voice is low and gravelly. “You can use it anytime, Princess.”

I bite my lip and lunge for the door, fleeing before I do something I’ll regret.

The tension finally begins to ease once I’m safely back in my room. I dry off, dress, and turn to the evidence I gathered.

I start with the photos of the notes. The notes are cryptic but seem harmless.

One mentions a play in London. I doubt that note is his.

Another refers to someone wanting tickets—maybe for Wimbledon or the play.

There’s a reminder to have Josh regrip all his racquets.

That note is clearly Blake’s. The rest are similar. None seems helpful.

Still, I send encrypted messages to the princes with the photos, the key info, and a summary of where I planted the devices. I’ll have to copy the data from Blake’s laptop and place the trackers later.

I check the time. It’s an hour until dinner, so I lie on the bed to relax and plan my next move.

But my mind drifts back to our time on the practice court. I smile at the way he made me laugh. His casual touch sent chills down my spine. And after the first two disastrous games, he suppressed his annoyance about playing doubles and even showed respect for my game.

If only he weren’t a suspected criminal.