Page 31 of The Unlikely Spare

How refreshingly straightforward that must be.

Rather different from my existence, the complexities of being the spare heir, forever caught between prominence and irrelevance.

I drain my whisky and close my eyes. We have ten hours until we land in Sydney. Ten more hours of limbo before I step into the spotlight, ready or not.

I’ve never been afraid of flying. But as I drift toward uneasy sleep, I can’t shake the sensation that I’m falling, endlessly, with nothing solid to break my descent.

Chapter Nine

Eoin

The tarmac at Sydney International reminds me of movie premieres I’ve seen on TV. Cameras flash like strobe lights, diplomatic vehicles idle in perfect formation, and members of the public press against the security barriers.

All to see Prince Nicholas, the most infuriating man on the planet.

Of course the crowd isn’t aware he’s the most infuriating man on the planet. All they see is a handsome prince, second in line to the UK throne, giving his royal wave from the bottom of the aircraft stairs.

I scan the crowd, cataloging faces, movements, potential threats.

Unfortunately, the bright Australian sun is beating down with an intensity that means my dark suit with my concealed bulletproof vest is instantly a personal sauna, sweat pooling between the Kevlar panels. Thank Christ I packed loads of deodorant.

Nicholas doesn’t seem affected by the wilting heat. He’s all easy smiles and perfect posture, looking irritatingly fresh in a tailored light-gray suit as he greets the waiting dignitaries.

The Governor-General of Australia. The British High Commissioner. Various other local officials whose names blur together in a haze of honorifics and overheated protocol.

“Your Royal Highness, welcome to Australia,” the Governor-General says, extending her hand.

“Thank you for such a warm welcome,” Nicholas replies. “I’m delighted to be here in Australia representing Her Majesty.”

On the surface, Nicholas always looks completely composed and relaxed when he’s on royal duty. But I’ve watched him long enough now to see the small differences from when he’s truly relaxed, like when he’s talking to his brother, compared to when he’s on royal duty. When he’s performing, there’s a slight stiffness to his smile, tension around his eyes, and he seems to unconsciously touch the ring on his finger.

Off to my right, Rick Cavendish is speaking into his wrist mic. He, along with half of the team, flew ahead to set up the security before Prince Nicholas’s arrival. Sadly, I wasn’t one of the team members chosen for that particular mission, so instead, I had to endure twenty-four hours on a plane with His Royal Highness Up His Own Arse.

Officer Blake shadows closely on Nicholas’s left while Singh scans the outer perimeter. There are also Australian Federal Police who provide the outer security ring.

The fact that our full team is back together doesn’t reassure me. In fact, it makes me even more on edge.

According to the best intelligence from Scotland Yard, one of them is likely to be a traitor.

I usually pride myself on my gut instinct. My ability to read people, to sense when something isn’t quite right, has saved my life more times than I can count.

But my gut has gone stubbornly silent on this assignment.

Nicholas works his way down the receiving line like a well-oiled machine of royal protocol. Step, smile, handshake, pleasantry, step, repeat.

His fingers must ache from shaking so many hands, yet his smile never dims.

“Remind me to bring sunblock next time I’m scheduled to stand on a tarmac that’s approximately the temperature of the surface of the sun,” he says in an undertone as we move toward the waiting motorcade.

I don’t respond. My attention is focused on scanning the crowd. A man with a telephoto lens adjusts his position too quickly. I track him with my eyes until I confirm he’s press, not a threat.

“I see we’re continuing our riveting conversations from the plane,” Nicholas continues under his breath. “Do try to contain your enthusiasm, O’Connell. Your exuberance is overwhelming.”

“Just doing my job, sir,” I reply flatly.

It feels like I repeat this phrase to Prince Nicholas a lot. Maybe I should get the words tattooed on my forehead?

Those icy blue eyes meet mine. “And you’re doing your job with such passion.”