Page 25 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Fourteen

Eoin

Heat. Royal blue eyes challenging mine. The scent of expensive cologne mingled with sweat.

Nicholas pushes me against the wall with surprising strength. His lips curve into that infuriating smirk, but for once, it doesn’t make me want to scowl.

It makes me want to taste it.

“Officer O’Connell,” he purrs, voice dripping with royal mockery, “still maintaining your professional distance?”

My hands grip his waist. A voice screams warnings in my head, but it’s drowned out by the thundering of my pulse.

“There doesn’t feel like much distance between us right now,” I growl.

“Was that a joke?” His eyebrow arches. “The stoic protection officer makes a joke? Alert the press. We’ll need a royal proclamation.”

“Shut up, Nicholas,” I say as I pull him closer.

“Make me.” His eyes flash with challenge. “That’s an order from your prince.”

I’ve never been good at following orders. But this one, I obey, covering his smart mouth with mine.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s all pent-up frustration and denied want. I guarantee his royal training hasn’t prepared him for this type of hunger, raw and unfiltered.

Or so I think until he matches me bite for bite, his hands fisting in my shirt.

“I knew it,” he breathes against my lips. “Beneath all that scowling disapproval, you’ve been wanting this.”

I should deny it. Should maintain some pretense of professionalism. But his fingers are already working my buttons, and lies seem pointless.

“You’ve been driving me mad,” I admit, walking him backward toward the bed. “Deliberately.”

He laughs, genuinely laughs. “Of course deliberately. Did you think all that baiting was just royal boredom? I’ve been trying to crack you for weeks.”

When his legs hit the mattress, he doesn’t fall backward like I expect. Instead, he pivots, somehow reversing our positions so I’m the one sitting on the bed’s edge, looking up at him.

His expensive shirt is half-unbuttoned, revealing the lean muscles beneath. I run my hands up his sides, feeling him shiver despite his cool composure.

“Your control is slipping, Your Highness,” I murmur against his throat.

“So is yours, Officer O’Connell.” His fingers thread through my hair, tighter than necessary. “Tell me something—do you dream about tackling me in ways that aren’t in your security protocols?”

There’s no suitable response to that, so I show him instead. In one motion, I flip our positions, pinning him beneath me on the bed. His eyes widen, then darken.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, breathless but still smirking.

My mouth finds his again, swallowing whatever clever retort he was about to make. His legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.

“Are all Irish this bossy,” he gasps when we break for air, “or is it just you?”

“Are all royals this mouthy,” I counter, “or is it just you?”

He grins. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

The world narrows to just this—his quickened breath, the flutter of his pulse beneath my lips, the banter that’s somehow become foreplay. His head falls back, exposing the elegant line of his throat, and I?—

I jolt awake, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, breath coming in rough gasps.

“Fuck,” I mutter into the darkness of my hotel room. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The digital clock on the nightstand reads three-twelve a.m., its red numbers accusing.

I drag a hand down my face, willing my body to calm down, to forget the dream still clinging to me.

This is exactly what I don’t fecking need. My subconscious betraying me, manufacturing images of Nicholas—of Prince Nicholas—in ways that would get me not just fired but probably deported if anyone knew.

Christ knows why my subconscious decided to become a romance novelist specializing in forbidden royal encounters.

I throw off the covers and pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The man in the mirror looks haunted, with dark circles beneath his eyes.

It’s natural that I dream about him. I mean, every waking moment of mine is spent focusing on him. Keeping him safe. Trying to work out the hidden threat against him.

It’s natural that my subconscious mind won’t let Prince Nicholas go.

That’s all this is. Proximity. The intensity of the job. Nothing more.

I lean against the sink, water dripping from my chin.

Who am I trying to convince?

The spider incident keeps replaying in my mind. The panic in his eyes when I burst in. The absurdity of finding him perched on the edge of the bathtub, clutching a towel around his waist. The way a stray droplet of water had trailed down his chest, catching in the hollows between his muscles.

And then the realization that the danger was real. A funnel-web spider, over a thousand miles from its natural habitat. One of the deadliest arachnids in the world, conveniently waiting in the royal bathroom.

Someone had to plant it there. Someone with access. Someone close.

I towel-dry my face and return to the bedroom. But I can’t settle back to sleep, so instead, I start pacing.

The implications are undeniable. This couldn’t have been the work of a random protester or even a lone operative infiltrating the hotel. The security protocols are too tight. Room access is too restricted.

It had to be someone with inside access—either a member of the hotel staff who’s been vetted, or worse, someone on our team. One of the people I work alongside every day, someone who knows our movements, who can slip past our defenses because they are our defenses.

The thought makes my blood run cold.

If the traitor is in our security team, Nicholas is in danger at all times.

The person meant to take a bullet for him might be the one planning to put it there.

I need to identify them before they make their next move.

I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to think clinically.

Singh, with his smooth adaptability and linguistic skills.

Davis, with his eager-to-please attitude and starstruck glances at the prince.

Malcolm and his meticulous analysis of statistics.

Blake’s street smarts. MacLeod’s practical approach.

Even Cavendish, with his years of experience and unquestioned authority.

Any of them could be playing a long game. Just like Paul Hargrove did before the Matheson-Webley kidnapping.

Fuck. I’ve handled tougher cases than this. Infiltrated drug rings. Brought down trafficking networks. Spent months undercover with people who would have killed me without hesitation if they had discovered my true identity.

This is just another job. A high-stakes one, certainly, but the principles remain the same.

Observe. Analyze. Uncover the truth.

The fact that my body responds to Nicholas when he’s half-naked isn’t relevant.

The fact that his sarcastic quips sometimes make me want to smile despite myself isn’t important.

The fact that I occasionally find myself watching him when I should be watching for threats—that’s a problem I need to solve, immediately.

I’m a professional. I’ve always been able to compartmentalize, to keep my personal reactions separate from the job at hand.

This assignment should be no different.

I finally lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, well, actually today, we have the Christmas Carols event in the town square. Hundreds of civilians, multiple access points, minimal control over the environment. A security nightmare under the best circumstances.

An assassin’s playground under the worst.

I need to sleep. Need to be sharp, focused. I close my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow, my muscles to relax one by one.

I absolutely do not think about blue eyes or the feel of a bare shoulder beneath my palm.

I am a professional.

I can handle this.

Eight hours later, I’m standing at the Christmas Carols event, scanning the crowd for the seventieth time in twenty minutes.

Blake’s at the northeast corner, her hand never far from her concealed weapon.

Singh’s doing his casual stroll along the western edge, but I know he’s clocking everything.

Malcolm’s glued to his tablet by the sound booth, probably calculating the probability of a kangaroo bouncing through and ruining the whole show.

Davis catches my eye from the stage and gives me a thumbs-up like we’re at a bloody football match. Kid’s either too green to be bent or playing the longest game I’ve ever seen.

Cavendish’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Stage entrance in two minutes. All units confirm positions.”

Each team member reports in sequence. Their voices sound exactly as they should.

Then Nicholas walks out and the crowd goes mental. He’s wearing a light-blue button-down that makes his eyes look even more impossibly blue under the stage lights. His royal smile is firmly in place as he waves to the crowd.

The local mayor gushes about the honor of having royalty here before Nicholas takes the microphone.

“Thank you for such a warm welcome to Alice Springs,” he says. “Particularly warm, I might add. I don’t think I’ve ever celebrated Christmas in forty-degree heat before.”

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

“I’m told it’s tradition for your guest of honor to join in the caroling,” Nicholas continues, “and while I’d normally claim diplomatic immunity to avoid public singing, I can’t possibly disappoint all of you wonderful people who’ve come out tonight.

I just hope your Christmas spirit extends to forgiving royal pitch issues. ”

He’s playing the crowd perfectly as usual. I can see it on the faces of all the people around me.

The band strikes up “We Three Kings,” and Nicholas starts to sing.

Bleeding hell. He can actually sing.

Not just carry a tune, but really sing. His voice is a clear and strong tenor. The crowd falls silent, and there’s genuine surprise on everyone’s faces, including several members of our security team.

O Star of wonder, star of night

Star with royal beauty bright

Westward leading, still proceeding,

Guide us to thy perfect light