Page 81 of The Unlikely Spare

And somewhere among the people sworn to protect him is one person potentially positioned to betray him.

I’m meant to be the solution—Pierce’s hand-picked detective, the one who can spot a liar at fifty paces.

But instead, wanting Nicholas like this is potentially making me the most dangerous person in his protection team.

Chapter Twenty

Nicholas

I’m greeted in New Zealand by a Maori war dance.

Luckily, from watching international rugby matches, I know all about the haka, the Indigenous people of New Zealand’s challenge to outsiders that simultaneously welcomes and warns.

On television, it’s impressive. In person, it’s bloody terrifying.

The warriors face us in formation, their movements perfectly synchronized, a physical language of slaps against muscled thighs, stomping feet, and voices that rise in guttural chants that vibrate through my chest. Every gesture radiates controlled aggression and power.

And, apparently, I’m a masochist because I glance over at O’Connell to see what he makes of it.

His eyes meet mine for a second before darting away. The memory of the maintenance shed comes rushing back with such force that it knocks the breath from my lungs. His hands gripping my shirt, the desperate press of his mouth against mine.

God, I fancy I can still feel the burn of his stubble against my skin.

The plane journey this morning was excruciating, hours of pretending my body wasn’t humming with the awareness of him standing mere feet away. I wanted to grab him by his perfectly pressed lapels and recreate that desperate collision of mouths and hands, but this time without the excuse of near-death to hide behind.

To see if it would burn just as hot without terror as an accelerant.

Instead, we’ve circled each other like wary predators, the air between us so charged it’s a miracle the plane didn’t short-circuit.

His proximity is both torture and oxygen.

I completely understand why he’s doing the professional distance thing. I would love to find some of that professional distance myself, but despite a lifetime of learning to suppress my emotions, I’m struggling right now.

The official welcome procession feels interminable. Handshakes with dignitaries, polite smiles for cameras that will beam my image across the Commonwealth. Through it all, O’Connell maintains his position, close enough to intervene if needed.

A knot of protesters has gathered by the entrance, maybe thirty people holding handmade signs.YOUR CROWN, OUR LANDcatches my eye first, the letters painted in what looks like house paint on recycled cardboard.DECOLONIZE AOTEAROAreads one banner stretched between two women who look like they could be barristers on their lunch break. A young Maori woman holds another that simply readsTIKAin bold letters.

These protesters don’t seem to be angry.

There’s something else in their faces that’s harder to dismiss than rage would be. Disappointment, perhaps. Or worse, hope that I might actually listen. As if I, the spare prince on his goodwill tour, have any real power to address centuriesof systematic oppression beyond offering platitudes and photo opportunities.

By the time we reach the hotel, my face aches from smiling and my patience is tissue-thin.

The presidential suite is predictably opulent—all native wood furnishings and panoramic views of Auckland Harbor that I barely glance at.

“Schedule for tomorrow, sir.” James hands me a folder. “The Maori cultural center visit has been moved to earlier in the day, and we’ve added additional security for the harbor tour.”

“Thank you, James. That will be all for tonight.”

James hesitates at the door. “Security rotation has Officer O’Connell on first shift.”

My heart performs an undignified leap. “Fine.”

James leaves, and moments later, O’Connell enters, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoes in the quiet.

He stalks through the suite like a predator marking territory—the flex of his forearms as he tests the balcony doors, the way he drops to one knee to check beneath furniture with a grace that defies his size.

Bloody hell, even his paranoia is attractive.