Page 56 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Nicholas

“So, what destination are we aiming for now?” I ask Eoin.

We’ve finished our phone call with Callum and Oliver. My hands shake slightly as I pocket the burner phone. But it’s not from fear.

It’s anticipation.

The look on Callum’s face during that call. Along with how Oliver was practically vibrating with revolutionary fervor once he understood what we were proposing. Taking fortunes built on slavery, systematic starvation, and exploitation and actually doing something useful with them.

It’s mad. Absolutely barking mad.

I should be paralyzed with fear.

My whole life has been about minimizing risk. Calculated moves where one wrong step means tabloid headlines and diplomatic incidents.

But here I am, adrenaline singing through my veins like expensive champagne, and I’ve never felt more alive. It appears the restlessness that has always swirled inside me has finally found an outlet.

And Eoin… God. He’s a danger of an entirely different sort.

I can’t stop myself from constantly wanting to touch him. I’m trying to keep my sardonic humor flowing, trying to insert that barrier between us that has protected me so well in the past.

Unfortunately, Eoin has proven repeatedly that he can see through it.

Eoin frowns as he looks at his watch. “We’ve got only a few hours until dark. I don’t want to continue driving just in case MI5 is working with the New Zealand police to set up roadblocks. And we can’t risk a motel.”

I examine the map app on my phone.

“That national park with all the volcanoes is only thirty minutes away. Tongariro. I’m sure this time of year it’ll be absolutely heaving with tourists.”

Eoin’s eyes cut to the rearview mirror, and I follow his gaze to the jumble of camping equipment. “Pitch a tent among other tourists, cook on a camp stove like every other budget traveler…”

“Blending in with the common folk,” I drawl, but my mind’s already racing ahead. “When everyone’s got a terrible accent and questionable hygiene, we’ll fit right in.”

Eoin’s gaze lingers on me. “If we’re going to hide in plain sight, we need to get you slightly more camouflaged.”

I agreed with Eoin’s idea in the pharmacy, but I hadn’t thought the whole thing through, as it becomes apparent when we’ve barricaded ourselves in a dingy public lavatory block. Because it turns out that it’s very hard to dye your own hair.

I try to apply the peroxide myself because I don’t know if I can handle Eoin’s hands in my hair right now.

But unsurprisingly, I make an absolute hash of it, missing entire sections at the back, leaving me looking like a partially bleached zebra.

And that’s not a look that is optimized for blending in.

“Let me fix it,” Eoin says quietly.

“All right.”

And now I have no choice but to submit to the torture of his fingers working through my hair, of his thumbs brushing the nape of my neck in ways that make my pulse stutter.

His touch is reverent, and I close my eyes, trying to keep the emotions at bay.

I imagine myself as a knight, sword cutting through sentiments, slaying emotions like they are dragons. Take that, longing. Take that, foolish tenderness.

The best way to vanquish emotion is with humor.

“I’m going to look like the love child of someone’s gap year mistake and a failed boy band member,” I say.

On second thought, making Eoin laugh might not be the best way to achieve emotional distance. The rumble of his laughter vibrates through him and into me.

Because we have to wait ten minutes for the peroxide to do its thing, I then have the opposite torture of being the one who has to touch Eoin.

I massage the muddy brown color into his roots, pretending my gloved hands aren’t memorizing the shape of his skull, the soft spot behind his ears where his hair grows finest.

I try to avoid his eyes in the mirror.

Yes, it appears amateur hairdressing is optimally designed to put you in close proximity to the person you’re trying to avoid.

After I’ve pasted his hair with thick goo, we swap places again so he can wash the chemicals out of my hair.

When he’s finished, my perfectly maintained dark locks have turned into an aggressive shade of butter-gone-wrong. Combine that with the thick-rimmed glasses Eoin procured from a chemist, and I look like I’m about to lecture someone about sustainable kombucha brewing.

Meanwhile, after rinsing Eoin’s hair, his lovely auburn is now the color of wet soil.

“You might have a future in hairdressing,” I say as we leave the public toilets. “Although I use the term ‘hairdressing’ in its loosest possible sense. This is more like follicular vandalism.”

Eoin’s expression stays benign. “Who knows what career I’ll have after this. Maybe I should consider hairdressing.”

The magnitude of everything Eoin is sacrificing for me crashes into me.

Scotland Yard has him down as a rogue agent. The terrorists want his head on a spike.

For me. Because of me. And yet I still can’t acknowledge all the feelings throbbing between us.

It’s probably best not to dwell on that particular emotional quicksand when we have more pressing criminal activities to attend to, like changing getaway vehicles yet again.

It’s almost comical how stealing cars has become just another item on my daily agenda, right between avoid capture and try not to die .

Though I must say, for someone raised to never take so much as an extra biscuit at tea, I’m becoming disturbingly proficient at identifying cars with poor security systems.

The universe provides us with a dusty station wagon at a scenic overlook, the keys helpfully left in the ignition while its owners have wandered off to commune with nature. We liberate it, cramming our stolen camping supplies into the back like the world’s worst Tetris game.

The road takes us up a windy hill to the Tongariro plateau, and suddenly, we’re surrounded by volcanoes.

The map app identifies Ngauruhoe, which juts up like something out of a geography textbook.

Tongariro sits beside it, somehow managing to look both ancient and vaguely judgmental, while Ruapehu hulks in the distance.

I should be appreciating the scenic volcanic splendor. Or perhaps focusing on our rather dire circumstances and how to stay alive. Instead, Eoin’s words keep replaying in my head.

I sneak a glance at him. Even sporting hair that looks like it lost a fight with a bottle of shoe polish, he manages to radiate that particular brand of competent masculinity that makes my higher brain functions surrender without a fight.

I have to look away before I start composing terrible poetry about dangerous men with questionable hair choices.

“Do you think you’ll get fired after all of this?” I ask quietly.

Eoin hesitates before he replies. “I don’t know.

I’m sure I can prove that I didn’t have any knowledge of Pierce and Malachy’s plot.

But I did remove you from the protection team without higher orders.

And I crossed all lines of professionalism with you.

It’s definitely going to be a fun one for the Scotland Yard ethics team to untangle.

” He flashes me a tight grin. “And that’s assuming the best-case scenario, that we somehow manage to pull this thing off. ”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“What for?”

I struggle to find the words. “If I hadn’t flirted with you…”

He fixes me with a look. “Trust me, Nicholas, it wasn’t your flirting that made me cross my professional boundaries.”

My breath catches so sharply I nearly choke.

“What was it then?” It feels like a dangerous question to ask right now, but I can’t stop myself.

His gray eyes capture mine. “It’s your multitudes,” he says softly.

I can’t look away from him even though his gaze alternates between me and the road ahead.

Then he reaches over and claims my hand, interlocking our fingers.

Every nerve ending in my hand is suddenly alive. For a moment, I let myself have this. Let myself feel the warmth of his palm against mine, the way our hands fit together like they were made for this.

Handholding is such a simple, sweet gesture.

The heat between us has been the kind that leaves scorch marks on walls. But this quiet tenderness? It demolishes me completely.

Then a memory crashes through my mind. Daniel’s fingers interlaced with mine as he promised forever.

“Don’t.” I pull my hand away, the word coming out harsh. “I can’t think when you…” I take a deep breath and blow it out before I continue, “Just don’t.”

Hurt flashes across his face before he schools his expression. His hand returns to the wheel, knuckles white as he grips it.

I hate that I’m hurting him. I hate it so much.

We don’t talk for the rest of the car ride. I stare out the window at the stark volcanic landscape. There are no trees, just endless tussock, the volcanoes rising like monuments to prehistoric violence.

When we reach the campground, it’s perfect for what we want. It’s tucked between stands of native bush, with just enough space for perhaps a dozen tents and a view of Mount Ruapehu. The few other campers are already settled for the evening.

Unfortunately, before we can sleep in a tent, we have to pitch it first.

And the tent kit might as well have been labeled Some Assembly Required by People Who Aren’t Completely Useless .

Which, evidently, excludes both a prince raised with servants to tie his shoes and an undercover detective whose idea of camping involves surveillance vans with working toilets.

“It says Easy Two-Person Setup right on the bag,” Eoin mutters, holding a pole that’s bent into a shape that defies several laws of physics.

“Yes, well, ‘easy’ is clearly subjective,” I reply, having managed to thread exactly one pole through what I’m hoping is a sleeve and not just a very long pocket. “Perhaps they mean easy for two people who’ve actually seen a tent before in contexts other than garden parties.”

And it turns out our attempt has attracted an audience.