Page 15 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Nine

Eoin

The tarmac at Sydney International reminds me of movie premieres I’ve seen on TV. Cameras flash like strobe lights, diplomatic vehicles idle in perfect formation, and members of the public press against the security barriers.

All to see Prince Nicholas, the most infuriating man on the planet.

Of course the crowd isn’t aware he’s the most infuriating man on the planet. All they see is a handsome prince, second in line to the UK throne, giving his royal wave from the bottom of the aircraft stairs.

I scan the crowd, cataloging faces, movements, potential threats.

Unfortunately, the bright Australian sun is beating down with an intensity that means my dark suit with my concealed bulletproof vest is instantly a personal sauna, sweat pooling between the Kevlar panels. Thank Christ I packed loads of deodorant.

Nicholas doesn’t seem affected by the wilting heat. He’s all easy smiles and perfect posture, looking irritatingly fresh in a tailored light-gray suit as he greets the waiting dignitaries.

The Governor-General of Australia. The British High Commissioner. Various other local officials whose names blur together in a haze of honorifics and overheated protocol.

“Your Royal Highness, welcome to Australia,” the Governor-General says, extending her hand.

“Thank you for such a warm welcome,” Nicholas replies. “I’m delighted to be here in Australia representing Her Majesty.”

On the surface, Nicholas always looks completely composed and relaxed when he’s on royal duty.

But I’ve watched him long enough now to see the small differences from when he’s truly relaxed, like when he’s talking to his brother, compared to when he’s on royal duty.

When he’s performing, there’s a slight stiffness to his smile, tension around his eyes, and he seems to unconsciously touch the ring on his finger.

Off to my right, Rick Cavendish is speaking into his wrist mic.

He, along with half of the team, flew ahead to set up the security before Prince Nicholas’s arrival.

Sadly, I wasn’t one of the team members chosen for that particular mission, so instead, I had to endure twenty-four hours on a plane with His Royal Highness Up His Own Arse.

Officer Blake shadows closely on Nicholas’s left while Singh scans the outer perimeter. There are also Australian Federal Police who provide the outer security ring.

The fact that our full team is back together doesn’t reassure me. In fact, it makes me even more on edge.

According to the best intelligence from Scotland Yard, one of them is likely to be a traitor.

I usually pride myself on my gut instinct. My ability to read people, to sense when something isn’t quite right, has saved my life more times than I can count.

But my gut has gone stubbornly silent on this assignment.

Nicholas works his way down the receiving line like a well-oiled machine of royal protocol. Step, smile, handshake, pleasantry, step, repeat.

His fingers must ache from shaking so many hands, yet his smile never dims.

“Remind me to bring sunblock next time I’m scheduled to stand on a tarmac that’s approximately the temperature of the surface of the sun,” he says in an undertone as we move toward the waiting motorcade.

I don’t respond. My attention is focused on scanning the crowd. A man with a telephoto lens adjusts his position too quickly. I track him with my eyes until I confirm he’s press, not a threat.

“I see we’re continuing our riveting conversations from the plane,” Nicholas continues under his breath. “Do try to contain your enthusiasm, O’Connell. Your exuberance is overwhelming.”

“Just doing my job, sir,” I reply flatly.

It feels like I repeat this phrase to Prince Nicholas a lot. Maybe I should get the words tattooed on my forehead?

Those icy blue eyes meet mine. “And you’re doing your job with such passion.”

Pierce reminded me to keep my head down, not antagonize the prince. But Jaysus, after being trapped in a metal tube with His Royal Highness for twenty-four hours, I’m about ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his crown.

Every ounce of self-control I’ve got is going toward not grabbing him by his expensive lapels and explaining what I think of entitled pricks who treat their protection officers as target practice for royal wit.

A movement in the crowd snaps my attention back where it should be.

Because people are surging forward, and these aren’t the usual flag-waving grannies cooing over royalty.

Protesters are surging against the barriers, chanting loudly.

One of them has climbed on another protester’s shoulders, holding a massive sign reading DECOLONIZE THE CROWN .

The rest are hammering their fists against the metal barriers, making them shake with each hit.

I can see the cops tensing, hands drifting to their batons like they’re expecting this to go sideways any second.

Then I clock her. A woman in blue, breaking away from the main pack. Her hand’s sliding into her bag, and every instinct I’ve got starts screaming.

Fear grabs me by the throat.

“Incoming, female subject, blue shirt,” Singh reports through our earpieces.

The woman pulls something out of her bag, and I’m moving.

I wrap an arm around Nicholas’s waist. My other hand presses against his chest, pivoting our bodies so my back faces the incoming threat.

Something hits my shoulder blade. It’s cold and wet, instantly soaking through my suit jacket to my skin.

But I’m not focused on that. Instead, all my senses seem to be consumed with the fact that Nicholas is pressed fully against me, chest to chest, tucked perfectly into the shield of my body. His startled breath is warm against my neck, his heart hammering beneath my palm.

I note it all with the same precision I’d use at a crime scene. Accelerated pulse, shallow breathing, muscles tense.

Except this time, I’m feeling it too.

I breathe in his expensive cologne as his fingers clutch my suit jacket.

He pulls back far enough so our eyes can lock.

His eyes are wide, but there is only surprise, not fear, as they search mine.

Then reality crashes back as security swarms around us.

I look down. There are drops of red splattered on Nicholas’s shoe, and for a second, I think one of us is bleeding before I realize it’s red paint.

The woman must have thrown a paint bomb.

“Subject contained,” comes Cavendish’s voice in my earpiece. “Extract the prince immediately.”

“Time to go,” I tell Nicholas.

I don’t wait for his response, moving him so I’m still sheltering him with my body, one hand pressed against his lower back as I steer him through the chaos.

A black SUV waits, engine running, Blake holding the door with weapon ready. Only when Nicholas is safely inside do I allow myself to breathe.

I slide into the seat next to him, the red paint on my suit leaving a smear across the pristine leather as the car begins to crawl forward.

“I don’t think red is really your color, O’Connell.” Nicholas’s voice carries his usual aristocratic drawl. But he’s twisting his signet ring, indicating he’s not as unflustered as he’s pretending to be.

“Red has never been my color.” I shrug off my jacket so I can examine the paint splatter. “Though people rarely ask my fashion preferences before throwing things at me.”

Nicholas huffs out a sharp laugh that cuts off suddenly as if the sound surprised him.

The car is slowly pushing through the protesters who have breached the security barrier.

Their anger is a physical force battering against our armor-plated sanctuary. DECOLONIZE NOW shouts one placard. NO CROWN ON STOLEN GROUND proclaims another, the words surrounding a crudely drawn crown crossed out in violent red.

A cluster of students chant something rhythmic and furious, their signs screaming MONARCHY = WHITE SUPREMACY , 250 YEARS OF GENOCIDE IS NOT A CELEbrATION. MAKARRATA NOW!

One particularly effective sign simply asks: WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?

Their fury is familiar, like an echo from Belfast streets where we’d spray-painted brITS OUT on every available wall. Different people, different continent, but the same common denominator.

The Crown.

Nicholas watches the protesters silently through the bulletproof glass, his face unreadable as he continues to spin his ring on his finger.

When we finally reach the motorway, leaving the protesters in our rearview mirror, Nicholas leans toward me, his voice pitched low.

“So, Officer O’Connell, does your security training include giving tactical advice on how to respond to people who rightfully hate you because your ancestors stole their land? ”

The question catches me off guard. There’s a familiar sardonic edge to his tone, but underneath it, there’s something that sounds suspiciously like uncertainty.

“I don’t believe that’s covered in the standard protection protocols,” I reply carefully.

“Pity. Seems rather a significant oversight.”

The irony’s thick enough to choke on. A prince of the United Kingdom asking a Belfast Catholic for advice on colonial resentment?

The universe must be having a right laugh.

“My advice would be to listen to them.” The words decide to come out without my permission. “People who feel unheard tend to shout louder.”

Surprise flashes across his face, and he blinks at me. For once, he doesn’t have a ready quip.

We stare at each other for a few heartbeats. Then Nicholas turns away, returning to staring out the window, his expression unreadable.

What the fuck just happened? Is he actually concerned about the protesters, or was that just another layer in the complex performance that constitutes Prince Nicholas Alexander?

When people show you who they are, believe them.

My da used to say that.

The callous way Nicholas treated his mother surely should remind me of who this man really is.

It’s easy to be kind to strangers. It’s a lot harder to be kind to people who love us because we know they’ll forgive us.

I rub my temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache. This assignment is doing my head in. I’m not here to psychoanalyze a prince or uncover the man beneath the crown. I’m here to identify any potential security threats within his detail.

I need to remember that.