Page 131 of The Thing About My Prince

“Ma’am.” My head snaps around at the sound of an American male voice behind me.

It takes a second to process what I’m seeing. It’s something so out of context, like spotting a zebra at the North Pole, that my brain needs a moment to catch up with my eyes.

Standing there is Dane, in khakis, a linen shirt, and Ray-Bans, looking exactly like the royal security guard he is. Hecouldn’t stick out more if he’d walked in here wearing a Santa suit, jingling bells and shouting, “Ho, ho, ho!”

“Oh, hello.” Agnetha grabs her camera.

I hold up my hand to stop her. “Absolutely not.”

“If something’s about to happen to this guy, I want to catch it.” She directs her gaze around the room, where every head has turned to stare.

Fuck. Is this dangerous? He does look like he’s Secret Service protection for the US president.

“Dane, what the hell are you doing here?” I pull out a spare chair. “Sit down so you look less…conspicuous.”

“Not staying, ma’am.” He widens his stance and clasps his hands in front of his belt. “I’m only here to take you to the airport.”

“Theairport?” Has Oliver sent him to get me out of here? No fucking way am I having a prince on a white charger with two jet engines swoop in here to save me from myself. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Seriously.” Agnetha raises her camera. “If you’re being kidnapped, I need pictures.”

“No one’s kidnapping anyone, ma’am,” he says with a respectful nod. “I just need to borrow Miss Lane for an hour or so. There’s someone at the airport who needs to speak with her.”

Goose bumps shoot down my arms and legs. Oliver ishere?

Wow.

But regardless of how far he’s traveled, I’m not running when he snaps his fingers.

“I’m not being summoned, Dane. Ifsomeonewants to speak with me,theycan come to me.”

“This person cannot come here, miss.”

“Why not?”

“Security reasons.”

Convenient answer.

“How did you get an entry visa?” Agnetha asks.

“I know people, ma’am,” Dane replies.

Mouth now utterly parched, I take a glug of Coke.

It also buys me two seconds of thinking time.

When I put down my glass, I pick up my phone. “Could this person not have just texted me from their house? Or called me? Like a normal person without access to private jets might?”

“The person needs to see you in person, ma’am.”

“Tell him, I meanthe person, that I’m not coming.”

Dane pulls out his phone, sends a message, then stares at the screen.

The seconds that tick by as the entire room watches him until his phone buzzes with a reply are excruciating. And I’m more than a little bit terrified by the way some of the locals are eyeing him.

He puts his phone away and resumes his solid stance.