Page 166 of The Unlikely Spare

“Teething,” Callum and Oliver say in unison.

“Again?” Eoin winces sympathetically. “Poor Georgia. Poor you.”

“Want to see the damage?” Callum’s already pulling up more photos. “This is her with Sophie the Giraffe?—”

And just like that, my boyfriend—partner, lover, co-conspirator in Grand Theft Auto, whatever we’re calling it this week—melts into a puddle of Irish goo. His entire face softens as he coos over pictures of my six-month-old niece drooling on rubber toys.

“Look at those cheeks.” He swipes through photos with the dedication of a man studying crime scene evidence. “Has she started crawling yet?”

“Nearly,” Oliver says. “She’s figured out how to go backward, which is definitely worse than not moving at all.”

“Yesterday she reversed herself under the sofa,” Callum adds.

I can’t help smiling as I watch Eoin absorb every detail about Georgia’s latest developmental milestones. The man who once infiltrated arms dealers in Belfast turns into complete mush around my niece. She had him wrapped around her chubby little fingers before she could even properly grab things.

We were at Sandringham for Christmas last week, and Eoin offered to get up with her in the morning so Oliver and Callum could have a lie-in. When I stumbled out of bed, I discovered him in the small drawing room having a full conversation with her about the merits of different surveillance techniques while she drooled on his shoulder.

After Eoin has cooed over approximately seventeen photos of Georgia attempting to eat her own foot, he looks up at me and his expression shifts. The shift is subtle enough that most would miss it, but I’ve become something of an expert in reading the topography of his face. Now there’s that particular sharpness that means work, not pleasure.

“Excuse me,” I say smoothly. “I need to steal Eoin for a moment. Security briefing.”

Callum and Oliver exchange knowing looks.

“Security briefing,” Oliver repeats dryly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Better than ‘comprehensive threat assessment,’” Callum adds. “Remember that one? You disappeared for three hours at the Order of the Garter ceremony.”

“The threat was very thoroughly assessed,” I reply with dignity, already moving away. “Excuse us.”

Eoin follows me through the crowd, maintaining polite distance until we reach one of the museum’s private meeting rooms. I check it’s empty, then pull him inside.

To anyone watching, what happens next would look like a passionate reunion, with Eoin pressing me against the door, his body close enough that I can feel his heartbeat through the expensive fabric of his tux. His lips brush my ear, and I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the intelligence he’s about to share.

“Lord Pemberton,” he murmurs, voice low and professional despite our position. “Three meetings with our friend from Hong Kong in the last week. Transfers matching our pattern.”

I turn my head slightly, my lips grazing his jaw as I respond. “The shipping contracts?”

“Being revised as we speak. Subdivided into smaller companies, harder to trace.”

To emphasize the illusion, I let my hands slide inside his jacket, feeling the concealed weapon at his hip, the wire running along his ribs. His breath hitches—method acting or genuine response, I’m not quite sure.

“Timeline?” I ask.

“Two weeks, maybe three. The Chinese are getting impatient.”

I pull back enough to meet his eyes. “Then we’d better work fast.”

His gaze holds mine, and for a moment, the professional facade cracks. His hand comes up to frame my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.

“Missed you this week,” he admits quietly.

“Missed you too.” I lean into his touch. “How was Belfast?”

A shadow crosses his features. “Fine. Visited my parents’ graves. It would have been Da’s birthday.”

In the year since New Zealand, Eoin’s continued to keep contact with his extended family, who seem to have taken his relationship with me largely in their stride. But Malachy’s absence remains a wound that won’t quite heal.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come with you,” I say.