Page 10 of The Falcon and the Flame (The Birds: On Her Majesty’s Sapphic Secret Service #2)
Soft light bathed the reception area with understated refinement.
Lush greenery filled the space. A waterfall tumbled from way up in a four-floor atrium, and flowers—swathes of jasmine, cascades of desert roses—and rice-paper lanterns completed the picture.
A string quartet played somewhere on a terrace.
The cool Mediterranean breeze drifted through an open pavilion and waiters milled around a murmuring crowd.
This was a kind of wealth that didn’t need to prove anything. Lottie’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she caught herself.
Confidence, Finch. Confidence .
A waiter passed with a tray of crystal champagne flutes and Lottie almost grabbed at one, just for something to hold.
Almost.
She didn’t need to give off new girl energy.
She adjusted the strap of her dress—the one that had had her looking like an icon when she’d checked herself out in the mirror back in her room.
Now, surrounded by this crowd, in this place, it felt…
trashy . Cheap, despite the amount of the Circle’s money she’d dropped on it.
In fact, all of Malik’s party looked a little too bright.
Hemlines too short, sparkles too crass, voices too loud.
They were plastic baubles amid the silk—and it was clear everyone except Malik knew it.
Still, Lottie Finch knew how to pivot. She could read a room, and this one didn’t scream so much as discreetly murmur ‘ understated elegance’.
No problem. Fuck, she could even do understated.
Possibly. Maybe .
If she concentrated.
Her eyes flicked to Malik’s entourage ahead of her, a noisy contrast to the other guests. His laugh cut through the refined hum of conversation, and Lottie reined in a shudder. Of course he’d treat this like it was his own party.
She followed him into the crowd and scanned the room for her real target. The Qasira. She had a princess to charm. One who was already gone for her, if the Nightingale’s photo reel was anything to go by.
Lottie’s usual cocky attitude returned as if it had never left.
The princess wouldn’t know what hit her.
When she finally saw the Qasira, Lottie wished she’d had more of that champagne.
She posed herself prettily beside her Russian and faked polite interest all the while listening and cataloging the players, their governments, their corporate affiliations, their plans and ambitions.
Malik guffawed loudly and the Saudis brayed in reply.
Lottie saw Bili in the middle of the broligarchy, nicely positioned to collect intel.
She was beginning to worry she’d never meet the Qasira when she turned and suddenly found herself facing her.
The world stopped.
Lottie knew instantly that everything she’d guessed about the Qasira was wrong.
Not merely shy of the mark, but profoundly, deeply and hopelessly misinterpreted.
Devastatingly intelligent eyes bore into Lottie’s own—the power of her gaze easily a hundred times more brilliant than every other mind in the room.
One glance in her eyes and Lottie knew this woman was a million miles above all their petty machinations and infantile games.
The Qasira soared where others stumbled, and Lottie found herself staring up with her mouth open.
And she was breathtaking.
Lottie had caught a glimpse of a hot woman in a dark club in Blackcroft.
There’d been an expensive suit, a loosened tie, a luxury watch.
But somehow, in her head, the word princess had messed with that confident vibe.
Princess meant a tiara and something sparkly in Dior.
But this was full-blooded Armani—ultimate power exquisitely tailored to compliment curves that only emphasised her authority.
A midnight blue shot-silk suit, a shirt so crisp it snapped Lottie’s brain, and— god help her —unbuttoned to a point low between her breasts, the collar kissing a sharp jaw.
It was a self-assured look that meant Her Royal Highness, Qasira Zynara of Ain Zargiers would forever reign supreme over every thought in Lottie’s head.
Four inch heels, too. Fuck, that was ballsy. Lottie nearly fell to her knees.
The Qasira looked at her and remained utterly expressionless.
No—as soon as Lottie could breathe again, she realised that wasn’t true.
Lottie saw a microscopic twitch at the corner of her eyes.
And—far more telling—the tiniest, merest flare of her nostrils.
If Lottie hadn’t been so skilled in recognising her opponents’ tells, she might not have noticed.
The Russian next to her certainly didn’t.
He shook the Qasira’s offered hand with enthusiasm, and the woman shifted her faultlessly polite attention to him without the slightest hiccup in her act. It was an extremely poised performance.
She shifted her grip on her glass though. Lottie saw her knuckles whiten, a ring on her thumb with a monstrous blue stone shaking in a barely noticeable shiver.
“Antonin. A pleasure to see you here. How is your lovely wife? And the kids? Your youngest has started school, hasn’t she?
” Her voice was low. Smooth like an expensive whisky.
It slid down Lottie’s spine like butter.
She was back on that stage next to Harry’s piano with the words of every song slowly leaking out of her head.
The Qasira was fucking sensational and Lottie has miscalculated so badly that if she had any humility she should take herself back to London, throw herself on the Nightingale’s mercy and resign from the Circle in disgrace.
Luckily, humility had never been Lottie’s bag. She clung to her composure.
Next to her, Petrov was rambling about green hydrogen, whatever the fuck that was. Malik had boasted Petrov was all about screwing over western Europe and making them pay through the nose just to warm their houses in the winter. What the hell was he doing talking renewables with Zynara?
Had Zynara stolen one of Malik’s own investors right out from under him?
Lottie smiled. This wasn’t some spoiled princess play-acting on the world stage. This was some viciously cunning manoeuvring on a global chess board.
This was going to be fun.
She let out the breath she’d been holding.
Antonin Petrov made no effort to introduce her. Lottie had to jump.
“Charlotte Finch,” she said, thrusting out her hand.
She nearly swallowed her own tongue. That was her real name! She had a cover! She had a whole story memorised. What the fuck had happened to her brain?
The Qasira’s eyes flicked down to Lottie’s outstretched hand and immediately up to her eyes.
Up close, Zynara’s features were striking, almost severe—high cheekbones that could have been sculpted by the desert wind, a jawline that dared you to argue with her.
Her eyes carried the colours of Ain Zargiers—the deep tones of the Atlas Mountains, flecked with the lightness of desert sands.
Lottie fell into them, drowned, came up gasping for air and was instantly swamped again.
And then the woman took her hand.
Lottie checked out of reality entirely.
Something fizzed in her palm. She could feel— at the molecular level —each of the Qasira’s fingertips on her skin.
The heat of them raced through her body, hitting her brain and somewhere deep between her legs at precisely the same time.
The Qasira was stunning in the way cathedrals broke your mind, in the way the Alps inspired awe, in the way stars spun into galaxies and time stretched toward infinity and everything else felt small.
There was nothing in existence except the woman in front of her—and she was the Qasira —soon to be Q’sar, if Lottie could get her shit together—and damn it, nothing in Lottie’s life was ever going to be the same.
Fuck.
That had never happened before.
There was an amiable-looking man beside the Qasira who took up the polite chatter with the Russian when everything else seemed to stop. The Qasira’s head tilted to an assistant standing just behind her shoulder, and the woman leaned in to whisper in her ear.
Lottie didn’t have to guess what the Qasira was hearing. She had to say something. She wished she’d read the briefing material.
Be witty , she told herself. Make her laugh. Holyfuckingshit, you’re still holding her hand!
“A conference of contradictions,” she managed. “All this talk of renewable energy and yet everyone arrives by private jet, am I right?”
The Qasira’s expression flattened even further. She was chiselled ice. Her assistant gave a small cough.
Lottie blundered on, horrified at what was coming out of her mouth. “But you must be thrilled to be hosting the summit and having the chance to finally show the world what Ain Zargiers is capable of.”
Even the Russian choked at that. Lottie winced.
Her perfect opportunity crashed and burned in slow motion.
The Qasira’s endlessly deep and intelligent eyes shifted their focus and saw right through her.
Something knowing and scornful settled in them, and the polite distance between them gaped like a canyon.
It was a look that tore through Lottie’s confidence and left it shredded at her feet.
Every play she’d ever made since she was a girl, every act, every dream, every costume and pretence was stripped from her skin and burned away by those eyes.
She was naked in a room full of strangers.
Her skin was flushed, her chest heaved—and Lottie wanted nothing but those eyes on her forever.
Sweet fucking heaven, she suddenly cared about nothing else.
The Qasira took her hand back. Her brows flicked with a tiny, controlled and insanely refined irritation, but her eyes lingered on Lottie.
Lottie would take what she could get.
“Finally?” the Qasira repeated softly. “My country has been the global leader in renewable energy for over a decade. Perhaps you should familiarise yourself with the facts.”
“I recycle!”