Page 55 of The Unlikely Spare

“This isn’t a joke.” O’Connell’s voice is tight.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” I sink into the nearest chair. “Who would go to such elaborate lengths?”

“That’s what we intend to find out,” Cavendish says. “We’re searching the suite now, and we’ll interview all hotel staff who had access.”

“In the meantime, we’re moving you to a different suite. Immediately,” O’Connell says.

I nod, suddenly too tired to argue or make light of the situation. The thought of a deadly spider being deliberately planted in my bathroom makes my skin crawl more than if the creature itself were running all over it.

As the team bustles around me, preparing for the room transfer, my eyes meet O’Connell’s across the suite.

Is there something in his gaze beyond professional concern? Or am I just projecting what I want to see?

Whatever option is correct doesn’t seem to matter to my heart, which decides to go on a galloping rampage.

Someone evidently wants me dead. And one of the men tasked with keeping me alive is becoming increasingly distracting for all the wrong reasons.

What a bloody mess.

Chapter Fourteen

Eoin

Heat. Royal blue eyes challenging mine. The scent of expensive cologne mingled with sweat.

Nicholas pushes me against the wall with surprising strength. His lips curve into that infuriating smirk, but for once, it doesn’t make me want to scowl.

It makes me want to taste it.

“Officer O’Connell,” he purrs, voice dripping with royal mockery, “still maintaining your professional distance?”

My hands grip his waist. A voice screams warnings in my head, but it’s drowned out by the thundering of my pulse.

“There doesn’t feel like much distance between us right now,” I growl.

“Was that a joke?” His eyebrow arches. “The stoic protection officer makes a joke? Alert the press. We’ll need a royal proclamation.”

“Shut up, Nicholas,” I say as I pull him closer.

“Make me.” His eyes flash with challenge. “That’s an order from your prince.”

I’ve never been good at following orders. But this one, I obey, covering his smart mouth with mine.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s all pent-up frustration and denied want. I guarantee his royal training hasn’t prepared him for this type of hunger, raw and unfiltered.

Or so I think until he matches me bite for bite, his hands fisting in my shirt.

“I knew it,” he breathes against my lips. “Beneath all that scowling disapproval, you’ve been wanting this.”

I should deny it. Should maintain some pretense of professionalism. But his fingers are already working my buttons, and lies seem pointless.

“You’ve been driving me mad,” I admit, walking him backward toward the bed. “Deliberately.”

He laughs, genuinely laughs. “Of course deliberately. Did you think all that baiting was just royal boredom? I’ve been trying to crack you for weeks.”

When his legs hit the mattress, he doesn’t fall backward like I expect. Instead, he pivots, somehow reversing our positions so I’m the one sitting on the bed’s edge, looking up at him.

His expensive shirt is half-unbuttoned, revealing the lean muscles beneath. I run my hands up his sides, feeling him shiver despite his cool composure.