Page 36 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Twenty-One

Eoin

There should be a special circle of hell for protection officers who’ve tasted their principal.

Somewhere between Dante’s second circle of Lust and the seventh circle of Violence, where you spend eternity watching the person you’re meant to protect while your professionalism burns away like paper in a fucking furnace.

The Government House ballroom isn’t hell, but it’s close enough.

New Zealand’s political and cultural elite are mingling under the chandeliers for this Christmas Eve function, their laughter and conversation creating a gentle hum beneath the string quartet playing in the corner.

A massive Christmas tree dominates the far corner, and someone’s gone slightly mad with the tinsel, so it looks like it’s covered in silver entrails.

I survey the room from my position near one of the ornate doorways. Blake and Singh circulate through the crowd while Malcolm monitors the security feeds from the control room. Davis stands near the main entrance, looking like an overawed kid at his first school dance.

And Nicholas—Prince Nicholas—holds court near the center of the room, effortlessly charming all of his admirers.

His dark hair is perfectly styled, one stubborn curl at his nape the only sign he’s human and not some posh portrait stepped out of its frame.

Christ. When did I start noticing individual curls?

You’d never know he’d headbutted a terrorist two days ago.

You’d certainly never know he’d been kissed senseless by his protection officer in the aftermath.

I’ve kissed exactly three people while on duty.

The first two were undercover necessities, women coming on to me in situations where my cover would have been blown if I’d rejected them.

The third is Prince Nicholas Alexander, and that wasn’t necessity at all.

That was pure, catastrophic want. Like a feckin’ eejit, I’d gone and let my body overrule my brain.

And it’s a want I can’t seem to get rid of.

Last night, standing so close to him in his hotel suite, he’d asked what this is between us. I’d given him the safe answer—mistake, complication—while every cell in my body wanted to press him against those panoramic windows overlooking Auckland Harbor and show him exactly what this is.

James’s interruption was both a reprieve and a torture.

Because I know for certain, if I kiss him again, I won’t be able to stop. Not for protocol, not for professionalism, not for the bleeding Queen herself.

I force my gaze away from Nicholas now, scanning the perimeter of the room for potential threats instead of fixating on the way Nicholas’s hands move as he speaks, the way the hollow of his throat shadows above his collar.

When my eyes inevitably drift back to him, he’s shifted position. Now, he’s speaking with a young woman in a deep green dress that clings to her curves. Her dark hair falls in glossy waves over one bare shoulder, and her red lips curve into a flirtatious smile as she leans toward Nicholas.

Something hot and unpleasant coils in my gut.

I recognize the feeling immediately, though I’m not proud of it.

Jealousy.

It’s ridiculous. Nicholas is my protectee, not my lover. He’s royalty, for Christ’s sake, second in line to the UK throne. And I’m…who? A detective playing protection officer, hunting traitors while pretending I’m not constantly aware of every move he makes.

I’m not a jealous sort. I’ve never cared who my partners spoke with, who flirted with them. But here I am, ready to drag some poor woman away from him like a feckin’ caveman.

The woman laughs at something Nicholas says, placing her hand on his arm. Nicholas doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans closer, his lips curving into that particular smile that’s all practiced charm and aristocratic magnetism.

I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want him.

The thought slams into me with startling clarity, bringing the taste of that kiss rushing back with such force that I have to grit my teeth against it.

What the hell is it about him?

Usually, I’m attracted to straight-talking, no-nonsense men. Men with no pretenses, where what you see is what you bleeding well get.

Nicholas is the opposite of that. Layers upon layers of performance, posh words, and practiced smiles concealing the real person underneath it all.

But I’ve never wanted to take someone apart, to untwist and unravel them, to work out exactly who they really are beneath all the performance.

He seems to want me back, but how much of that want is because I’m forbidden? He’s got a reckless streak. I know this. God knows he’s spent his whole life in a cage made of protocol and expectations. Am I just his latest attempt to rattle the bars?

“See something interesting, O’Connell?”

Singh’s voice startles me. I didn’t notice his approach, too caught up in watching Nicholas and the woman in green.

“Just assessing the crowd.”

Singh follows my gaze. “He seems to be enjoying himself.”

“That’s his job.” My words come out curt.

“True.” Singh adjusts his earpiece. “Though he makes it look effortless. Not all the royals can pull that off.”

Nicholas laughs at something the woman says, the sound carrying across the room. My hands tighten at my sides.

Singh’s eyes flick to me, then back to Nicholas. “She’s the Auckland police commissioner’s daughter. Reading law at Oxford, I believe. Just home for the holidays.”

I don’t respond, unsure why he’s sharing this information and unwilling to reveal how much I care about who’s captured Nicholas’s attention.

“You and Prince Nicholas seem to have developed a rapport,” Singh comments.

My mouth goes dry. “Not particularly. Unless you mean he’s always trying to wind me up.”

Singh’s expression reveals nothing. “Right.”

Before I can analyze his response, my attention is captured by movement across the room. Nicholas has extricated himself from the woman and is now approaching us, that practiced smile firmly in place.

“Officers,” he greets us. “I hope you’re enjoying the evening as much as one can while scanning for potential assassins.”

Singh inclines his head respectfully. “The security situation is well in hand, sir.”

“Excellent.” Nicholas’s eyes slide to mine, something challenging glittering in their depths. “And you, Officer O’Connell? Finding the New Zealand hospitality to your satisfaction?”

“It’s been fine, sir,” I reply carefully.

Disappointment crosses his face before his mask slips back into place. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your duties. I should get back to mingling. Diplomat’s daughter over there is absolutely fascinated by royal protocol. Can’t disappoint.”

He walks away before I can respond.

As Nicholas rejoins the woman in green, leaning in to whisper something that makes her laugh, Singh gives me a sideways glance.

“I’ll check the rear entrance.”

Left to myself, I go back to scanning the room, trying like hell not to let my eyes track Nicholas, though they seem to have developed their own bloody GPS system where he’s concerned.

He’s apparently decided his evening’s entertainment will be getting progressively more animated with the commissioner’s daughter. His hand skims her arm as he makes some point, and she takes it as an invitation to step closer.

The muscles in my jaw clench hard enough to crack teeth.

The rational part of my brain understands that this is what Nicholas does.

The irrational part of my brain wants to cross the room and put myself between them. Maybe accidentally spill something on her fancy dress while I’m at it.

Nicholas glances my way, catches me watching, and something shifts in his expression. His smile takes on a sharper edge. He leans closer to the woman and says something that makes her blush.

Feckin’ hell.

He’s doing it deliberately. Putting on a show. For me.

I don’t know if the thought makes me want to throttle him or drag him into the nearest coat closet.

But I do know that two can play that game.

I shift my focus, deliberately scanning the rest of the room as if he’s of no particular interest. When I allow my gaze to drift back to him, his eyes are on me, narrowed slightly.

Is he doing this because I told him last night that I can see through his mask? Is he trying to set fire to everything between us before it can burn him?

Or is this part of him testing the boundaries, trying to see how far he can push before I crack?

Because I know that’s what Nicholas does best. He finds the line and then dances on it, waiting to see who’ll blink first.

The standoff continues for over an hour. The tension between us feels like a living thing, growing with each minute that passes, each smile Nicholas gives the woman, each time I deliberately look away.

I’m listening to Singh’s security update in my earpiece when Nicholas suddenly leaves the commissioner’s daughter and walks directly toward one of the side exits—not the one we planned to use. Blake’s voice comes through the comms. “The Thistle is on the move, unscheduled route.”

I’m already moving, cutting through the crowd. The exit leads to a small garden terrace that’s illuminated by landscape lighting.

Nicholas stands alone at the stone balustrade. He’s looking like a feckin’ romance novel cover, all brooding aristocrat against the moonlight. All he needs is a loose shirt and a convenient breeze.

“You shouldn’t leave the main reception area without notifying security, sir.” My voice remains professionally detached despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs.

Nicholas doesn’t turn around. “Is that your primary concern, Officer O’Connell? Protocol breaches?”

The bitterness in his tone catches me off guard.

I glance back toward the exit, confirming we’re alone, before approaching him.

“What are you doing, Nicholas?”

He turns then, his face half in shadow, half illuminated by the soft glow from inside. “I’ve got all those party prince rumors to live up to, right?”

“Is that what this is about? Living up to expectations?”