Page 62 of The Unlikely Spare

My smile freezes in place.

Of course. What did I expect? That the stoic Officer O’Connell would admit to anything beyond a biologicalreaction? That he’d confess to lying awake thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about him?

“A momentary physical reaction,” I repeat, my voice silky with contempt. “How reassuring to know your body’s betrayal was merely a biological glitch rather than anything meaningful. I’ll make a note in your performance review.Officer O’Connell: excellent at tackling royalty, less adept at controlling basic physiological responses.”

He gives me one last scathing look that causes me to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat before increasing his pace to walk ahead of me.

Fuck. That did not go as I planned.

Right. Officer O’Connell claims it was merely a physical reaction?

I’m prepared to rise to the challenge. I’m going to make it so the irritating Irishman cannot deny what his body already knows.

Let’s see how well his precious control holds up under sustained attention.

This calls for some old-fashioned flirting.

Luckily, I’m very adept at flirting.

Officer O’Connell is off duty in the afternoon when I visit a bush tucker cookup with Mutijula women, where I get to show off my skill at grinding wattleseed and roasting kangaroo tail. But he’s back on duty in the evening for the gala at the Field of Lights exhibition.

The desert air cools rapidly after sunset, but the gala dinner pavilion is pleasant, filled with the gentle hum of conversationand the occasional clink of crystal. Through the open sides of the structure, I can see the Field of Light installation spread out like a luminous ocean. It’s an incredible sight with thousands of glowing orbs shifting from deep violet to crimson to azure against the backdrop of a star-strewn sky.

I’ve dressed with strategic precision for tonight’s festivities. The midnight-blue dinner jacket is tailored perfectly, and the silk of my bow tie matches the exact shade of my eyes. My hair is styled with just enough carelessness to suggest I might be persuaded to abandon other protocols as well.

The Australian minister for tourism drones on about visitor demographic shifts in post-pandemic travel patterns to the Northern Territory while I nod at appropriate intervals, my gaze continuing to drift to O’Connell. He stands apart from the other security personnel, somehow managing to look both completely alert and utterly bored.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Your Royal Highness?” The minister’s question pulls me back to our conversation.

“Absolutely,” I reply without missing a beat. “Couldn’t agree more.”

When the minister eventually moves on to talk to some other dignitary, I snag a glass of champagne from a passing server. As I raise it to my lips, I catch O’Connell watching me.

I hold his gaze deliberately as I take a sip, then slowly run my tongue across my lower lip as if catching a stray drop. His eyes widen slightly before his expression hardens, and he turns away abruptly, touching his earpiece as if receiving an urgent communication.

I can’t help but smile to myself.

The chef has clearly been instructed to showcase native Australian cuisine with diplomatic fervor. Wallaby loin arrives perfectly tender, paired with roasted bunya nuts that crunch between my teeth. My attention is split between savoring mydinner and tracking O’Connell’s movements in my peripheral vision.

The minister leans toward me. “I hope you’ll take the opportunity to walk through the Field of Light installation, Your Royal Highness. It’s quite spectacular when viewed from within.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” I reply, setting down my dessert fork. “In fact, I believe I’ll do so now, while the evening is still young.”

I rise from the table and excuse myself. Then I make my way toward the pavilion exit, knowing without looking that O’Connell will be moving to shadow me.

I pause at the threshold, feigning interest in the illuminated landscape while waiting for the inevitable.

I don’t have to wait long.

“I’ll be accompanying you, Your Royal Highness.” O’Connell’s voice comes from just behind me, the Irish inflection more pronounced than usual.

My heart lodges in my throat.

I turn, offering him a smile that’s carefully calibrated between innocence and suggestion.

“Excellent. I was hoping for some…protection.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Just doing my job, sir.”