Page 24 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

O’Connell shakes his head but moves toward the spider. The bathroom suddenly feels much smaller, his broad shoulders and tall frame dominating the space. I’m far too aware of my own half-naked state.

O’Connell picks up a glass from beside the sink, then grabs one of the embossed hotel information cards.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Standard spider extraction protocol, sir,” he replies dryly. “Though I usually don’t perform it for such distinguished audiences.”

With a swift movement, he traps the spider under the glass, slides the card beneath it, and flips the whole arrangement so the spider is now captured inside the glass with the card as a lid.

He brings the makeshift spider prison to eye level, studying its occupant with a frown. I lower myself carefully from the bathtub.

“You know,” I say, adjusting my towel, “most people who see me with so few clothes on usually buy me dinner first.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. O’Connell’s head snaps up, his gray eyes meeting mine with an intensity that has heat crawling up my neck.

For a moment, just a flicker, his gaze drops to my bare chest before returning to my face. A slight flush climbs up his neck.

Bloody hell. My skin prickles with sudden awareness, every nerve ending firing simultaneously. I’m caught between conflicting urges to cover myself more thoroughly and to stand taller under his scrutiny.

“Christ,” O’Connell mutters, attention jerking back to the trapped spider. Then his expression goes tense. “Actually, this may be a funnel-web spider.”

“And that’s…bad?” I prompt, though the answer is written all over his face.

“Potentially lethal,” he says grimly. “Their bite can cause unconsciousness within minutes. Death within hours if untreated.”

It seems I wasn’t being as melodramatic as he initially thought.

“Let’s get you out of the bathroom.” He’s suddenly all business again. “Now.”

He sets the glass down carefully on the marble counter, keeping it well away from both of us.

His hand comes to my bare shoulder, his palm warm against my skin, and I’m mortifyingly aware of how I lean into his touch.

He keeps his hand on my shoulder while talking into his wrist mic. “We have a potential Code Seven in the royal suite. Need immediate containment and medical on standby.”

“I need to get dressed,” I manage to say.

“I’ll wait outside your bedroom door,” he replies, his voice rougher than usual.

“Very well,” I reply, trying not to look like I’m fleeing him as I move to my bedroom.

I throw on clothes quickly, hyperaware of O’Connell standing just outside my door. My skin still tingles where his hand touched my shoulder.

When I open the door, I find not just O’Connell but also Malcolm and Cavendish in my suite’s sitting room. O’Connell is still holding the trapped spider in one hand. Meanwhile, Malcolm is pulling up comparison photos on his tablet with the intensity of someone defending a doctoral thesis.

“Absolutely positive,” he’s saying. “Look at the shape of the cephalothorax and the spinnerets. Textbook funnel-web.”

Cavendish glances up as I enter. “Your Royal Highness. Bit of a situation with your eight-legged visitor.”

“So I gather. Is it really that dangerous?”

“One of the deadliest spiders in Australia,” Cavendish confirms. “And, according to Officer Malcolm’s research, they shouldn’t be found in this region at all.”

That pulls me up short. “I’m sorry, what?”

Malcolm shows me a color-coded map covered in red zones on his tablet.

“I’ve cataloged every venomous species within five hundred kilometers of each tour stop,” he says.

His map is definitely evidence for the idea that Australia is just an elaborate prank by Mother Nature, titled: Let’s Put All the Deadly Things on One Island and See if Humans are Stupid Enough to Live There .

Spoiler alert: they are.

“Funnel-web spiders are native to eastern Australia, sir. New South Wales and parts of Queensland. Nowhere near Alice Springs or the Northern Territory,” Malcolm continues.

“So our friend here is on holiday like me?” I attempt to joke.

No one laughs.

“Sir, we believe this spider didn’t arrive in your bathroom by accident,” Cavendish says carefully.

The implication lands like a stone in my stomach. “You think someone put it there deliberately?”

“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore.” O’Connell’s eyes meet mine, and I can see the tension in his jaw.

“Well,” I say, aiming for nonchalance and missing by several miles, “I suppose one must appreciate their creativity. Assassination by spider would certainly make for unusual headlines.”

“This isn’t a joke.” O’Connell’s voice is tight.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” I sink into the nearest chair. “Who would go to such elaborate lengths?”

“That’s what we intend to find out,” Cavendish says. “We’re searching the suite now, and we’ll interview all hotel staff who had access.”

“In the meantime, we’re moving you to a different suite. Immediately,” O’Connell says.

I nod, suddenly too tired to argue or make light of the situation. The thought of a deadly spider being deliberately planted in my bathroom makes my skin crawl more than if the creature itself were running all over it.

As the team bustles around me, preparing for the room transfer, my eyes meet O’Connell’s across the suite.

Is there something in his gaze beyond professional concern? Or am I just projecting what I want to see?

Whatever option is correct doesn’t seem to matter to my heart, which decides to go on a galloping rampage.

Someone evidently wants me dead. And one of the men tasked with keeping me alive is becoming increasingly distracting for all the wrong reasons.

What a bloody mess.