Page 28 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

I rise from the table and excuse myself. Then I make my way toward the pavilion exit, knowing without looking that O’Connell will be moving to shadow me.

I pause at the threshold, feigning interest in the illuminated landscape while waiting for the inevitable.

I don’t have to wait long.

“I’ll be accompanying you, Your Royal Highness.” O’Connell’s voice comes from just behind me, the Irish inflection more pronounced than usual.

My heart lodges in my throat.

I turn, offering him a smile that’s carefully calibrated between innocence and suggestion.

“Excellent. I was hoping for some…protection.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Just doing my job, sir.”

“And quite so dedicated to it.” I let my gaze drift obviously down his body and back up again. “Your attention to detail is…impressive.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “The pathway is this way.”

I follow him toward the entrance of the installation. The moment we step onto the path, the world transforms. The lights create the illusion of walking through an impressionist’s dream, all soft edges and pulsing hues. The sounds of the gala fade, replaced by the gentle sigh of the desert wind.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say. “Like walking through a living painting.”

He makes a noncommittal sound.

“Surely your job requires an appreciation of your surroundings.” I gesture expansively. “Tell me what you see.”

O’Connell hesitates for a moment, then surprises me by actually answering.

“I see limited visibility, multiple approach vectors, inadequate escape routes, and at least seventeen places someone could conceal themselves with a clear line of sight to your position.”

I laugh, genuinely amused. “How delightfully paranoid. And I thought I was just looking at pretty lights.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like victory. “That’s why you have security, sir.”

“Indeed.” I step closer. “And such thorough security at that.”

The lights shift from blue to purple, casting shadows across his face that make his eyes appear darker. His posture stiffens as I move nearer.

“Did I mention how much I appreciate your dedication, O’Connell?” I drop my voice to a more intimate register. “The way you throw yourself so…physically into your duties.”

His breathing changes. It’s a subtle shift I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t watching for it.

“Just doing my job, sir.”

“Your job seems to involve an awful lot of physical exertion.” I reach up to adjust my already-loosened bow tie, my fingers lingering at my throat. “All that tackling and restraining. I imagine it requires considerable…stamina.”

His gaze drops briefly to the exposed hollow of my throat before snapping back to my eyes.

His scowl deepens. “We’re trained for it, sir.”

Good Lord, has the word “sir” ever sounded more derisive than it does in Officer O’Connell’s Irish accent right now?

The path narrows further as we continue, forcing us to walk closer together, my shoulder brushing against his arm with each step. The contact is slight but deliberate, and each time it happens, I sense his tension ratcheting higher.

“Tell me, is it difficult to maintain such rigid control at all times? Don’t you ever want to just…let go?”

He doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice has a tight quality, and a thrill shoots through me. “Control is necessary in my line of work.”

“Necessary, perhaps,” I concede, “but surely exhausting. Always vigilant, always restrained, never allowing yourself a moment of…release.”

We’ve reached a section where the lights are arranged in concentric circles, creating the illusion of walking through a vortex of color. The effect is disorienting, almost hypnotic.

I use the moment to step even closer.

“The thing about control”—I lower my voice so it’s barely above a whisper—“is that it’s far more satisfying when it’s finally relinquished.”

His eyes meet mine directly and the heat I see there nearly stops my breath. There’s a war being waged behind those gray irises.

“Sir,” he says, the single syllable carrying a wealth of warning.

“Yes, Officer O’Connell?” I ask innocently, tilting my head. “Did you have something to add?”

He draws a measured breath. “We should continue moving. Standing still makes you an easier target.”

“By all means.” I gesture for him to lead the way. “Though I must say, being your target has its appeal.”

His stride falters. I count it as another small victory.

But then a flash of genuine irritation crosses his face. “This is inappropriate.”

“Undoubtedly,” I agree cheerfully. “Most enjoyable things are.”

The path branches ahead of us, a smaller trail winding away from the main route. I veer toward it without hesitation.

“That area hasn’t been secured,” O’Connell says sharply.

I glance back at him. “Then you’d better keep up, hadn’t you?”

I don’t wait for his response, already several steps ahead on the narrower path. The lights here are closer together. The sounds of the gala are completely gone now, leaving only the whisper of our footsteps on the sandy ground.

O’Connell catches up quickly, his longer stride easily matching mine. When he reaches me, he grips my arm firmly, pulling me to a stop.

“You can’t just wander off the secured route because you feel like it.” His voice is low with restrained anger.

Something honeyed and slow unfurls in my stomach. His fingers are warm through the fabric of my jacket, the pressure just shy of uncomfortable. Rather than pull away, I turn to face him fully.

“And yet, here we are. Just the two of us, off the beaten path.”

His grip tightens fractionally before he releases me, stepping back. “We need to return to the main pathway.”

“Why? Afraid of what might happen if we don’t?” I move closer, eliminating the distance he just created.

The colored lights shift around us, bathing us alternately in crimson, violet, and blue. Each new hue reveals another facet of his expression. There’s frustration, desire, and something deeper that makes my heart rate quicken.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice comes out in a low growl, all pretense of professionalism seemingly abandoned.

“What do you mean?” I try to keep the triumph out of my voice, but I’m rather certain I fail spectacularly.

His expression hardens, anger overtaking the other emotions warring in his eyes. “Is this a game to you?” he demands. “Because it isn’t a game to me. I’m trying to keep you alive.”

The intensity in his voice catches me off guard. Something uncomfortable blooms in my chest, too close to real emotion for comfort.

“Well, you’re doing a splendid job of it,” I recover quickly. “I’ve never felt more alive than I do at this moment.”

“See. That’s what I’m talking about. This blatant flirting you’ve been doing all evening.

” He claws a hand through his hair, blowing out a frustrated breath before continuing, “What do you want me to say? Yes, my body reacted to you the other day because I’m someone who’s attracted to men and I’m not made of ice.

Having an attractive man pressed up against me for that length of time caused my body to respond, but that doesn’t mean you get to play with me for your own amusement.

Not all of us have the luxury of treating life like an extended game with no actual consequences. ”

My heart pounds in my ears and a flicker of heat races through me at the rough edge in his voice.

But this isn’t playing out how I imagined. His frustration should have felt like victory, but instead, it’s stirring something unexpectedly real in my chest.

“And what makes you assume my flirting is a game?” I counter. “How do you know there’s no genuine sentiment behind it?”

Bloody hell.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize the truth hiding in my question.

I want him. I want this gruff Irishman. I don’t just want him to want me for my ego. I want him to desire me the same way I desire him.

Officer O’Connell pauses for a second, his face going through a myriad of emotions before it settles on scathing. “Surely even you aren’t so entitled to think anything could ever happen between us.”

His words land like a blow to my stomach.

“I’m trying to be a professional and do my job. I would appreciate it if you’d let me,” he finishes.

It’s the way he says the words, with such resignation beneath the frustration, as if I’ve confirmed every cynical assumption he’s ever made about people with my breeding and background.

As if I’m exactly the entitled aristocrat he expected me to be.

Shame rears inside me.

It takes every ounce of royal training not to flinch in the wake of his stare.

He’s right, of course. I have been treating this like a game.

A diversion to alleviate boredom, to satisfy my curiosity about whether I could crack his professional veneer.

As much as I’ve wanted to get to know him, I haven’t actually stopped to consider the real person behind the uniform, with his own career and reputation at stake.

I take a step back from him.

I feel…chastised.

It’s not something to which I’m accustomed.

I swallow, still locked in his gray eyes.

“I apologize if my attempt to make conversation with you has made you uncomfortable,” I say. “I think you are correct, we should return to the main path where it is more secure.”

I turn on my heel and stride away. Back straight, chin up, emotions buried so deep they might as well be in another time zone.

The Field of Lights stretches around us like a galaxy of artificial stars, but I focus only on the path ahead, refusing to look back to see if he’s following.

Of course he’s following me.

It’s his job.

I’m glad for the dim light, as I’m sure blood is pumping to my cheeks.

As we rejoin the gala, I slide back into Prince Nicholas mode without missing a beat. Smile, handshake, charming comment about Australia’s beauty, repeat.

No one notices anything amiss. Why would they? I’ve spent my entire life perfecting this performance.

I deliberately don’t look at Officer O’Connell.

But as we drive away from Ulu?u later that evening, its ancient face receding under the night sky, I can’t shake the feeling that O’Connell saw straight through my royal veneer to something raw and uncomfortable beneath.

For all my privilege and power, he’s the one who walked away from that encounter with his dignity intact. While I—second in line to a thousand-year-old throne—am left wondering why the rejection of a commoner I’ve known for mere weeks stings so much.

Why it feels like losing something precious I never realized I wanted until it was already gone.