Page 134 of The Unlikely Spare

“I’m saying that my mother’s family, the Preston-Alexanders, don’t know I’m not currently being held hostage by an irate Irishman. Obviously, I’ll have to loop in Callum and Oliver on our little charade since we’ll need their help pulling this off.

“My idea is to contact Callum and Oliver, explain what is going on, and get them to start background negotiations to secure my release from my ‘kidnapper.’ And I believe it should involve a substantial transfer of money from both sides of my family. Then, the terrorist group can’t exactly keep trying to kidnap me when they have already succeeded in achieving their goal, can they?”

Eoin’s forehead stays creased with enough lines to rival the London Underground map. “Do you actually think your families will be convinced to give away a significant portion of their wealth? And your brother and his husband will be happy to help you?”

“You know who Oliver is, right? He must be the most anti-monarchist prime minister since Cromwell. I’m willing to bet he had spreadsheets labeledOperation: Eat the Richwhen he arrived at Number 10.

“In fact, I’m quite certain that his falling desperately in love with the Prince of Wales was just the universe’s idea of an epic practical joke. I know he finds our family’s wealth obscene, and Callum and he have talked about ways to redistribute it once they inherit it.”

“But isn’t the Queen still in control?”

“That’s where Callum and Oliver get to work their magic. Once Grandmother realizes they’re planning to empty the royal coffers anyway, she might prefer to do it herself. Can’t have the history books saying she left it to her grandson to fix centuries of colonial plunder, can we? Much better optics if she does it while still breathing.”

“So your grandmother would willingly part with billions of dollars just to maintain control of her legacy?” Eoin’s voice is loaded with skepticism.

I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. “My grandmother is many things, but sentimental about wealth isn’t one of them. A lot of the royal wealth is actually untouchable because it’s part of the Crown Estate, and one can’t simply pop down to the ATM and withdraw a few castles. But the Sovereign Grant? Her personal billions? That’s fair game. I think Callum and Oliver could convince Grandmother to cement her place in history as the monarch who acknowledged colonial injustice rather than the one who ignored it until the bitter end.”

The road ahead of me is straight, so I steal a full glance at him.

Wrong move. Now I can see the gold flecks in his gray eyes, the exact spot on his jaw where stubble’s starting to shadow. My fingertips itch with the memory of touching him there.

I swallow hard, dragging my eyes back to the road, and return to the task of persuading him.

“She’s ninety years old, Eoin. At this point, she’s more concerned with Wikipedia entries than investment portfolios.

“And it’s not just about the money. It’s about acknowledgment. I think these people want recognition of historical injustice as much as they want financial reparations. They want someone with a crown to actually say ‘Yes, we robbed you blind and built our palaces with your resources.’”

“Let me get this straight.” Eoin’s voice is thick with disbelief. “You want to negotiate your own ransom, convince your aristocratic relatives to part with billions they’ve hoarded for centuries to establish a reparations fund for colonial injustices, and do this while we’re on the run from both law enforcement and actual terrorists?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds rather ambitious, doesn’t it?”

“It sounds bloody insane,” he mutters, but I’m fairly certain admiration is lurking beneath his words.

“The best plans usually do,” I say. “And having a brooding Irishman as my pretend kidnapper adds a certain dramatic flair.”

“I’m not brooding,” he growls.

“You’re doing it right this second. That jaw clench, the furrowed brow, the general air of Irish melancholy. It’s textbook brooding.”

His lips twitch, fighting a smile.

For a moment, we’re just us again. Not the prince and the liar, not the protected and the protector. Just Nicholas and Eoin, and God help me, I want to live in this moment. Want to forget everything else and just be this.

But I can’t.

I suddenly pretend to take an intense interest in the road ahead, refusing to glance at him.

“How exactly do we contact your brother without Pierce intercepting the call?” Eoin asks.

“We use the other burner phone. Callum has a private phone that’s supposed to be unhackable, and no one else knows the number besides me. It’s an emergency thing we set up when those tabloids were hacking everyone’s voicemails a few years back.”

“Right then. Let’s find a safe place to call your brother.”

“Why don’t you look at the map for somewhere with nice scenery to pull over. If I’m going to orchestrate the dismantling of centuries of colonial wealth, I’d like a view,” I say.

Unfortunately, I don’t think any view will make me forget the reality of Eoin and me.

Two people who found each other at the worst possible time, in the worst possible way.