Page 38 of The Unlikely Spare

I glance at Nicholas, who is still staring out the window with a scowl on his handsome face.

Fuck.

The threat against Prince Nicholas is no longer theoretical.

It’s here in Australia, and it’s already testing our defenses.

Chapter Eleven

Nicholas

The world’s greatest living structure sprawls ahead of me, the bright blue and greens making the Crown Jewels seem dull by comparison.

After my less-than-enthusiastic welcome to Australia, things have been quite sedate for the past week. After a few days in Sydney, I flew north to Cairns, where I proceeded to cut ribbons at two community centers, unveil a plaque commemorating something I’ve already forgotten, and listen to the Governor of Queensland explain the economic importance of sugar cane for what felt like several centuries.

I now know more about sucrose production than any human should reasonably need to.

Yesterday’s rainforest excursion was the visual highlight but physical lowlight—hiking through oppressive humidity while wearing a shirt that quickly transformed me from “crisp royal” to “participated in a wet T-shirt contest.” A large bird relieved itself perilously close to my shoulder, which the Australian press would have undoubtedly interpreted as some profound republican statement had Officer Blake not pulled me aside just in time.

Now I’ve got a trip to the Great Barrier Reef to round off the Cairns leg of the trip before I head to the desert in the center of Australia tomorrow.

“The captain has advised me that we’ll be mooring in five minutes, sir, if you want to come and get yourself sorted for the snorkeling excursion.” I don’t need to look to recognize O’Connell’s voice.

But I do turn around so I can take him in. He’s in a dark shirt that strains across his shoulders, the wind plastering the fabric against his torso like it’s trying to reveal the topography of every muscle.

His gaze on me is intense like usual.

Because this is the thing about Officer O’Connell. He’s always watching. He doesn’t miss anything.

Which is something that profoundly irritates me.

And yet.

Every time I enter a room, my eyes automatically find him, like I’ve swallowed some bizarre compass that points unerringly toward the most infuriating Irishman in the hemisphere.

And I find myself monitoring his movements, along with the minuscule shifts in his expression, noting how his eyes darken when he’s annoyed, how his jaw tightens when I push too far, how his accent thickens when he’s trying to maintain composure.

I know the cadence of his footsteps, can identify his silhouette in a crowded room before my mind has even registered why my pulse has quickened.

“Thank you, Officer O’Connell,” I say formally now. Then, because for some reason I want to extend the encounter between us, I ask a question. “What do you think of the reef?”

O’Connell meets my gaze.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

The words are benign, easy words that mean nothing. I want to shake him, to demand he give me something real, a glimpse of whatever thoughts are churning behind those steel-gray eyes.

“It’s hard to believe it’s dying,” I say. “Nearly thirty percent of the coral already gone. Another thirty severely bleached.”

He moves beside me at the railing.

“You’ve done your research.”

I shrug. “Callum put together comprehensive briefing materials. Contrary to popular belief, I occasionally read things that aren’t nightclub VIP lists or the racing form.”

I don’t know why I want this man to see me as more than just a playboy prince. I don’t understand why his particular judgment cuts deeper than any tabloid headline, why I find myself performing for an audience of one who refuses to applaud.

O’Connell doesn’t respond immediately. When I glance sideways, he’s studying the horizon, his profile strong against the bright sky. The wind has slightly mussed his usually impeccable hair, making him look marginally more human.