Page 85 of The Unlikely Spare

You’d certainly never know he’d been kissed senseless by his protection officer in the aftermath.

I’ve kissed exactly three people while on duty. The first two were undercover necessities, women coming on to me in situations where my cover would have been blown if I’d rejected them. The third is Prince Nicholas Alexander, and that wasn’t necessity at all. That was pure, catastrophic want. Like a feckin’ eejit, I’d gone and let my body overrule my brain.

And it’s a want I can’t seem to get rid of.

Last night, standing so close to him in his hotel suite, he’d asked what this is between us. I’d given him the safe answer—mistake, complication—while every cell in my body wanted to press him against those panoramic windows overlooking Auckland Harbor and show him exactly what this is.

James’s interruption was both a reprieve and a torture.

Because I know for certain, if I kiss him again, I won’t be able to stop. Not for protocol, not for professionalism, not for the bleeding Queen herself.

I force my gaze away from Nicholas now, scanning the perimeter of the room for potential threats instead of fixating on the way Nicholas’s hands move as he speaks, the way the hollow of his throat shadows above his collar.

When my eyes inevitably drift back to him, he’s shifted position. Now, he’s speaking with a young woman in a deep green dress that clings to her curves. Her dark hair falls in glossy waves over one bare shoulder, and her red lips curve into a flirtatious smile as she leans toward Nicholas.

Something hot and unpleasant coils in my gut.

I recognize the feeling immediately, though I’m not proud of it.

Jealousy.

It’s ridiculous. Nicholas is my protectee, not my lover. He’s royalty, for Christ’s sake, second in line to the UK throne. And I’m…who? A detective playing protection officer, hunting traitors while pretending I’m not constantly aware of every move he makes.

I’m not a jealous sort. I’ve never cared who my partners spoke with, who flirted with them. But here I am, ready to drag some poor woman away from him like a feckin’ caveman.

The woman laughs at something Nicholas says, placing her hand on his arm. Nicholas doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans closer, his lips curving into that particular smile that’s all practiced charm and aristocratic magnetism.

I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want him.

The thought slams into me with startling clarity, bringing the taste of that kiss rushing back with such force that I have to grit my teeth against it.

What the hell is it about him?

Usually, I’m attracted to straight-talking, no-nonsense men. Men with no pretenses, where what you see is what you bleeding well get.

Nicholas is the opposite of that. Layers upon layers of performance, posh words, and practiced smiles concealing the real person underneath it all.

But I’ve never wanted to take someone apart, to untwist and unravel them, to work out exactly who they really are beneath all the performance.

He seems to want me back, but how much of that want is because I’m forbidden? He’s got a reckless streak. I know this. God knows he’s spent his whole life in a cage made of protocol and expectations. Am I just his latest attempt to rattle the bars?

“See something interesting, O’Connell?”

Singh’s voice startles me. I didn’t notice his approach, too caught up in watching Nicholas and the woman in green.

“Just assessing the crowd.”

Singh follows my gaze. “He seems to be enjoying himself.”

“That’s his job.” My words come out curt.

“True.” Singh adjusts his earpiece. “Though he makes it look effortless. Not all the royals can pull that off.”

Nicholas laughs at something the woman says, the sound carrying across the room. My hands tighten at my sides.

Singh’s eyes flick to me, then back to Nicholas. “She’s the Auckland police commissioner’s daughter. Reading law at Oxford, I believe. Just home for the holidays.”

I don’t respond, unsure why he’s sharing this information and unwilling to reveal how much I care about who’s captured Nicholas’s attention.