Page 30 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

I’m on the late shift duty that night, stationed outside Nicholas’s suite. Malcolm is in our security headquarters on the first floor, monitoring all the security feeds, probably muttering statistics about overnight security breaches to himself like some kind of protective prayer.

The corridor’s quiet except for the hum of air conditioning fighting Darwin’s humidity.

This is always a dead shift, with Nicholas tucked up safely in bed.

I use the quiet time to run through any slightly suspicious behavior I’ve picked up from my fellow protection officers.

I’ve gone through every protection officer’s hotel room again in our current hotel and found nothing more disturbing than the fact that Singh’s bottle of massage oil is now three-quarters empty.

I’ve combed the data from their digital devices.

I’ve monitored their body language during security updates about the spider incident, watching for tells.

Only a few things have prickled my suspicion that I need to follow up on.

Malcolm had taken photos of every single venue entrance this week—not just the ones on our route, but service entrances we’d never use. When I asked, he launched into a fifteen-minute explanation about “comprehensive documentation protocols” that felt slightly rehearsed.

And MacLeod was at the hotel’s business center at three a.m. two nights ago. She’d said she was video calling her nephew for his birthday, and when I checked up, she had, but still, I’d been left uneasy.

I bumped into Singh in the hallway earlier when I left my bedroom to report for my shift.

He’d given me a normal greeting, but there had been something stiff about his posture, and it wasn’t until I took over from Blake that I realized Singh’s room was on a different floor.

He’s allowed to do whatever he wants off duty, but is that suspicious?

I’m mentally scrolling through everything I know about Officer Singh when I hear it.

A sound like a dying whale trying to mate with a foghorn.

My hand goes to my weapon before my brain catches up. That’s not a threat. That’s?—

Another blast. Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. It appears Prince Nicholas is actually trying to play his gift from today.

I should stay at my post. Whatever noise pollution Prince Nicholas wants to commit in private at two a.m. is none of my concern.

But after a third attempt—this one sounds like a constipated elephant—I find my feet taking me over to his door. I knock.

“Your Royal Highness?”

The noise stops. There’s a pause, then his voice. “Come in.”

Fuck. Am I doing this for the right reasons? Is Prince Nicholas’s security really threatened by whatever dying moose he’s channeling through that instrument, or am I just looking for an excuse to see him?

Too late now.

I open the door to find Nicholas sitting cross-legged on the sofa, the didgeridoo across his lap.

He’s wearing navy-blue silk pajama bottoms that sit low on his hips and a white T-shirt that’s rucked up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin.

His usually perfect hair sticks up at mad angles like he’s been running his hands through it, and his cheeks are flushed pink.

Christ.

He looks soft and rumpled and touchable in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

He looks up at me with an expression caught between defiance and embarrassment.

“Good evening, Officer O’Connell. Are you concerned about me impaling myself on the didgeridoo?”

I have to swallow hard before I can generate a response. “Well, yes. Although my main concern would be about how much paperwork it would generate.”

He barks out a laugh, that real one that always catches me off guard. Oh fuck. I hate the way my body reacts to that laugh.

“Murder by indigenous instrument. The tabloids would have a field day.”

“ Prince Found Dead in Didgeridoo Disaster does have a certain ring to it,” I say, stepping farther into the room despite every professional instinct screaming at me to retreat. “Though I’d prefer to avoid having to explain how I let you die via musical incompetence.”

Feckin’ hell. What am I doing?

“Cruel, O’Connell.” But he’s grinning, leaning back against the sofa cushions. “I think we can see why the position of Royal Didgeridoo Player has remained vacant all these centuries.”

“I don’t know. Your whale-in-distress interpretation showed real artistic vision.”

He straightens, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that whales are highly intelligent creatures with complex communication patterns.”

“Regardless, I’m sure Greenpeace is currently mobilizing a rescue mission.”

“For me or the whales?”

“Both. That was absolutely banjaxed.”

Nicholas blinks. “I beg your pardon. Banjaxed?”

“Broken beyond repair. Like your relationship with musical instruments, apparently.”

He snorts, but then his fingers find the didgeridoo again, tracing the paintings with unexpected reverence.

The humor in his expression shifts to something more thoughtful.

“It’s generous, isn’t it? That they give me gifts despite what my ancestors did to their people. Invaded their country. Stole their children. Destroyed their sacred sites. And here they are, patiently teaching me their music.”

Christ. When he drops the act like this, lets his real thoughts slip through, it does something to my chest I don’t want to examine.

It’s almost more than I can bear, Nicholas ruffled and real, sitting on the sofa while wrestling with the weight of history in his silk pajamas.

“Maybe that’s the point,” I hear myself say. “They’re choosing what to share. That’s its own power.”

Nicholas stares at me, those blue eyes wide. The air between us goes thick, charged. Then his smirk slides back into place like armor.

“Look at you, getting all philosophical,” he says. “Did they teach you postcolonial theory at protection officer school, or is this wisdom you picked up between tackling innocent princes and disapproving of their choices?”

The whiplash from genuine to performative leaves me dizzy. One second, he’s this thoughtful, conflicted man wrestling with colonial guilt, and the next, he’s Prince Prick again, wielding sarcasm like a fucking sword.

And yet, I’d rather have this—his cutting words and defensive snark—than the suffocating politeness he’s been drowning me in since Ulu?u.

I finally understand why his ignoring me over the last few days has bothered me so much. It appears part of me liked the fact that Nicholas singled me out previously. The way he’d focus that sharp wit on me like I was worth the effort of irritating.

Christ, what does it say about me that I’d rather be the target of his verbal warfare than be treated like just another member of staff?

While I’ve been navel-gazing, Nicholas has turned his attention back to the didgeridoo.

He raises it to his lips again. “William said something about breathing continuously. Through your nose while your mouth?—”

The sound he produces is like someone trying to blow-dry a harmonica underwater. I actually step backward.

“Fecking Christ.”

“Come on then,” he challenges. “If you’re such an expert.”

“I never claimed?—”

“Scared, O’Connell?”

Shite. I know it’s bait. Know I should walk away. Instead, I find myself crouching next to the sofa.

Which is a bad idea.

Because we’re close now. Close enough that I can see his pupils dilate. My heart’s doing something irregular in my chest.

“Show me then,” he says in a low voice.

I should leave. Should remember I’m working. Should remember he’s a prince and I’m here to protect him, not to notice the way his throat moves when he swallows.

“I—”

His hand brushes mine as he adjusts his grip on the didgeridoo. The contact burns through me like lightning.

I jerk back, straightening abruptly. “You’ll figure it out. Maybe try not thinking so much.”

“Thinking too much.” He looks up at me, something unreadable in his expression. “Yes. That is most definitely my problem.”

The moment stretches between us. Then that practiced royal smile clicks into place.

“Well, don’t let me keep you from your very important door-watching duties,” he says, voice dripping with false cheer. “I’m sure the corridor’s absolutely riveting this time of night.”

And there it is. The dismissal. The reminder of our positions.

“Right,” I say, jaw tight. “Try not to summon any demon spirits with that thing.”

“If I do, I’ll be sure to introduce them to you first. You can protect me with your sparkling personality.”

“My personality’s not the one that needs work,” I say.

His smile goes sharp. “No, just your deference.”

The word deference hits like a punch to the gut. We’re back on familiar ground now. Him the arrogant prince, me the subordinate employee.

Safe. Distant.

“I’ll be outside,” I say flatly. “Try not to cause an international incident from your living room.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He’s already raising the didgeridoo again. “Perhaps I’ll perfect my technique and serenade you through the door.”

“Do that, and I’ll leave you to the mercy of the next spider.”

I close the door on his startled face, my hands shaking slightly.

Fuck.

What in the name of God am I doing?