Page 16 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Ten

Eoin

The Wallaby Wildlife Sanctuary sits on the edge of Sydney, surrounded by scrub and eucalyptus trees. By the time we arrive in the late afternoon, the place looks like a bloody circus. Press everywhere, locals rubbernecking behind police barriers like it’s the second coming.

Nicholas steps out of the car looking like he’s stepped off a magazine cover—chinos and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled just so. The cameras go mental, clicking like a plague of locusts.

He looks exactly how a prince should look. Polished but not too posh, approachable but still royal. I know this because I had to sit through twenty minutes of James and Prince Nicholas’s stylist Henrietta debating whether his sleeves should be rolled to mid-forearm or just below the elbow.

Christ. The things I never thought I’d witness in my career. Sleeve positioning as a form of communication. Next, they’ll be telling me his shoelaces send diplomatic messages.

“Look at them all,” Nicholas says to me in an undertone as we walk toward the waiting officials. “Do you think they’d be this excited if a koala were visiting a prince sanctuary?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I reply, scanning the crowd.

“Of course you wouldn’t. That would require imagination,” he says.

Oh, I’ve got imagination. I’m very good at imagining some very painful deaths for my principal. Which might run a bit contrary to the brief I have for this mission.

I manage to stop myself from saying this though.

However, my body language must give away my thoughts because a smirk takes over Nicholas’s face.

I run through security protocols in my head to distract myself, scanning the crowd with exaggerated thoroughness. When my gaze returns to Nicholas, he’s watching me with that infuriating look of amusement, like I’m some particularly entertaining street busker working for coins.

“You know, O’Connell, there are medications for that condition of yours.”

“What condition would that be?” I keep my voice neutral, professional.

“The one where your face seems permanently stuck somewhere between constipation and disapproval.” His lips curl. “Must be exhausting maintaining that level of judgment all day.”

“Must be exhausting for you to have to perform all day,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.

But for some reason, I want him to know that I see him. I want this irritating, infuriating man to know that while he might have the majority of the world fooled, I’m not included.

Something flickers across his face, too quick to identify. His eyes lock with mine and stay there, neither of us breaking the stare.

“But I’m born and bred to perform,” he says finally.

“And you’re exceptional at it,” I reply.

Nicholas’s eyebrows shoot up. Those blue eyes search my face, like he’s looking for any trace of sarcasm in my words. His mouth opens slightly as if he’s about to respond, then closes again.

“You have no idea, O’Connell,” he says quietly, finally.

Then he turns away and squares his shoulders.

“Right, let’s complete this first stop in the traveling circus tour.

Wave to the cameras, cuddle the wildlife, say something vaguely relevant about conservation.

Repeat until monarchy is secure or until I’m mauled by a wombat, whichever comes first.” Despite his snarky words, there’s a weariness in his tone that seems to go beyond standard jet lag.

But when I glance at him, he’s plastering on his usual royal smile.

We reach the sanctuary director, a thin woman with sun-weathered skin.

“Your Royal Highness, welcome to Wallaby Wildlife Sanctuary,” she gushes. “We’re absolutely thrilled to have you here.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Nicholas replies smoothly. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting your famous residents.”

The director leads Nicholas through exhibits of native wildlife while the press trails behind like desperate shoppers at a Black Friday sale. But in this case, instead of discounted televisions, they’re fighting over photos of a princely smile.

I follow at the optimal distance, close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to stay out of the press photos. Officer Blake flanks Nicholas’s other side, while the rest of the team maintains perimeter positions.

Nicholas is good at his job. Even I can grudgingly admit that.

His charm and quick wit are on full display as he peppers the keepers with questions about conservation efforts that show he’s actually read his briefing papers.

“Would Your Royal Highness like to hold her?” the reptile keeper asks, indicating a massive olive python draped across his arms.

Nicholas doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. Can’t pass up the opportunity to have my picture taken with something even more cold-blooded than my ex-girlfriends.”

The crowd laughs as Nicholas gingerly accepts the python, which immediately begins winding around his forearms.

But my attention has been torn away from Nicholas because I’ve noticed a maintenance worker in overalls moving equipment near a staff-only entrance.

Something about his movements catches my attention.

Too deliberate, too aware of where we’re positioned.

He keeps glancing at Nicholas, then at his phone.

I catch Officer Singh’s eye and indicate the worker with a subtle head tilt.

Singh acknowledges with a barely perceptible nod and begins drifting in that direction.

I track Singh while keeping eyes on Nicholas.

This is the thing, it’s not only the suspicious behavior of potential terrorists that I’ve got to worry about, it’s the behavior of my own team as well.

“She’s beautiful,” Nicholas is saying as the python explores his shoulders. “What’s her name?”

“Sheila,” the keeper says.

“Very original,” Nicholas deadpans.

I keep one eye on Nicholas and the other on the maintenance worker, who now appears to be typing a message. Singh is closing in, moving casually but purposefully.

The python slithers higher on Nicholas’s shoulders.

“I’ve always wanted a living scarf,” Nicholas quips to the crowd. “Though I typically prefer accessories that don’t squeeze.”

“Olive pythons can grow up to six meters long,” the keeper explains with obvious pride. “Sheila here is still a juvenile at two and a half meters.”

The maintenance worker is now speaking into his phone, eyes still tracking Nicholas. My gut’s screaming.

I key my wrist mic. “Possible situation near the east service entrance. Male, Caucasian, blue overalls, approximately one hundred and seventy-five centimeters, brown hair. Suspicious behavior.”

Cavendish’s voice crackles back. “Copy. Federal police will move to intercept.”

But before the police can reach him, the worker spots Singh approaching and immediately turns and disappears through the staff door. Singh quickens his pace, following through the same exit.

The keeper steps forward, gently coaxing Sheila back into her arms. Nicholas surrenders the python with a theatrical bow that has the crowd eating out of his hand.

As the keeper heads off to return the snake to her enclosure, Nicholas drifts closer to me, angling his body away from the press pack. His smile remains fixed for the cameras, but his eyes are sharp.

“Is everything all right, Officer O’Connell?”

“Just a routine check, sir,” I reply. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he lets it go, following the director toward the koala setup where they’ve built some kind of platform.

Two keepers stand ready, one holding a sleepy-looking koala.

“This is Gumby. One of our ambassador koalas,” the director announces.

Nicholas steps onto the platform, and the keeper transfers the koala into his arms. The animal immediately grips onto Nicholas’s shirt, blinking lazily up at the prince.

“Hello there,” Nicholas says softly. “Aren’t you a handsome fellow?”

The cameras lose their minds again, desperate for the money shot that’ll make tomorrow’s front pages—British royalty cuddling Australia’s favorite marsupial.

And I have to admit, Nicholas does actually look happy to be holding a koala. There’s a softness to his expression that I haven’t seen before as he glances down at Gumby.

“He likes you,” the keeper says.

“I’m honored,” Nicholas replies, and his smile actually seems genuine for once.

I take advantage of the peace to scan the crowd again, looking for any sign of our maintenance worker.

Nothing.

But that itch between my shoulder blades won’t quit.

After they’ve got enough photos to wallpaper Buckingham Palace and the koala’s back with its keeper, the director leads us away from the media circus to some rehabilitation area they keep locked away from normal tourists.

“Did you know that koalas are actually quite aggressive?” Nicholas says to me as I walk beside him. “Those cute faces are nature’s greatest con job.”

“Didn’t know you were a koala expert,” I say.

“It was in the briefing papers the Prince of Wales put together for me,” Nicholas says. “I found it quite interesting that, despite looking like plush toys, koalas can turn violent very easily. Apparently, their bite can cause serious infection.”

“An attractive exterior hiding a vicious temperament is definitely something to be vigilant around,” I reply.

Nicholas snaps his gaze up to mine, his eyes widening. He laughs, and it’s different from his usual controlled chuckle. The sound bursts from him like something escaping captivity.

“Well played, O’Connell,” Nicholas says, amusement lingering in his voice. “Although I can’t help but wonder if that observation was directed purely at the koalas.”

Fuck. I wasn’t planning to make a jab at him. The words just slipped out from some hidden part of my brain apparently determined to torpedo my professional detachment.

I need to stick to the script, not play verbal sparring games with a royal.

Luckily, the director has turned her attention back to Nicholas as we enter a climate-controlled building.