Page 59 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

“I’m serious.” He looks at me. “Do you know what it’s like to finally do something that matters? Even if it all goes wrong, at least it’s real.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking of how real things have felt since I met him. “I know how that feels.”

Nicholas’s hand moves like he might reach across the console to touch me, then he seems to think better of it.

And the hope inside me grows just a tiny bit more.

The police checkpoint materializes around a blind corner—two patrol cars angled across the highway, officers in high-vis vests directing traffic into a single lane. My spine goes rigid against the seat back.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

Nicholas sits up straighter, those ridiculous glasses sliding down his nose. “Perhaps they’re checking for drunk drivers? Checking registration stickers? Searching for escaped circus performers?”

But his voice carries that particular strain that means he’s fighting to keep it light. We both know what this is.

The queue of cars ahead gives us maybe ninety seconds. I scan our options. There’s a sheer rock face to our left, a steep drop to our right.

“We could try to talk our way through. I do an excellent Australian accent. ‘G’day, mate, just heading to the bottle-o for some tinnies.’”

“Your Australian accent sounds like Dick Van Dyke attempting Crocodile Dundee,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the scene in front of us. The officers are checking licenses, peering into cars.

Sixty seconds.

“They’re looking for something specific.” I watch an officer wave through a family in a campervan after barely a glance. “Or someone.”

Nicholas’s jaw tightens. “Right then. What’s our play, Detective?”

Forty seconds.

“When I tell you, brace yourself,” I say quietly, shifting into reverse. “And make sure your seatbelt is on properly.”

“Eoin—”

“Trust me.”

Twenty seconds.

The officer approaches the Toyota ahead, and I see our chance. I throw the car into reverse, tires screaming against asphalt as we rocket backward. The officer’s head snaps up, his hand moving to his radio.

“Brace now!” I spin the wheel hard, using the handbrake to swing us into a perfect J-turn that would make my driving instructor proud. We’re facing the wrong way now, engine roaring as I floor it back the way we came.

“Well, that wasn’t particularly subtle.” Nicholas’s voice is admirably steady as he grips the dashboard.

In the mirror, I see officers running for their cars, lights already flashing.

Our tires scream in protest as we careen onto a narrow side road.

Nicholas has his phone out, fingers flying across the screen.

“There’s a forestry track that cuts through to another road. Left in one hundred meters.”

I follow his directions without question, the car bouncing left onto the gravel road. Behind us, sirens wail like banshees.

It sounds like they’re gaining. If they’re local cops, they’ll know these roads like the back of their hands.

“Turn right, now!” Nicholas shouts, and I wrench the wheel, branches scraping against our windows as we plunge into what barely qualifies as a track.

The suspension screams in protest, but Nicholas keeps navigating, his posh accent increasingly clipped.

“There’s a river crossing ahead—shit, I can’t tell if there’s a bridge or?—”

We burst through the tree line to find a concrete ford, water streaming across it. No time to consider options. I hit it at speed, water exploding around us like we’re in some budget action film. For a heart-stopping moment, I think we’re going to stall, but the engine coughs and keeps going.

“That was brilliant!” Nicholas actually laughs, wild and free. “Absolutely mental, but brilliant!”

The joy in his voice makes me glance over, and he’s looking at me like…like he used to. Like I’m someone wonderful instead of someone who hurt him.

The car hits a bump, and I realize staring at him while driving on foreign back roads isn’t perhaps the best survival strategy.

The sirens are fading now, indicating the cops don’t know where we turned off.

But I’m aware that we won’t be able to evade them for long. Soon our description will be out to every unit in the region.

“We need to disappear, fast.”

“What about the lake?” Nicholas asks suddenly as we crest a hill and see Lake Taupō stretched out like an inland sea. “They can set up roadblocks on every route out of here, but they can’t blockade the entire lake.”

He’s right. Lake Taupō likely has dozens of boat ramps and private jetties scattered along its shores.

“I’ve never stolen a boat before,” I say.

“First time for everything, Detective. Though between cars and boats, we’re becoming quite the international crime syndicate.”

When I glance at Nicholas, there’s color high on his cheeks and his eyes are bright. Christ, he’s gorgeous. Even more so than normal right now. And that wild, reckless look on his face makes me want to either kiss him or lock him up for his own safety.

Twenty minutes later, we’re prowling a marina by the lake like predators, our destroyed station wagon abandoned behind a fishing supply shop. The place is busy with summer boaters, which works in our favor.

“That one,” Nicholas murmurs, nodding toward a modest aluminum runabout with an outboard motor. “Keys are in it.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because the owner’s that magnificent idiot over there trying to reverse his boat trailer.” He points to a red-faced man performing an eighteen-point turn while a woman gesticulates wildly. “They’ll be at that for another twenty minutes minimum.”

Before I can respond, he’s already moving, walking with aristocratic confidence onto the dock like he owns it.

I follow, heart hammering as we climb aboard the small boat.

The boat shifts under Nicholas’s weight as he steps down, throwing him off balance. My hands are on him instantly, one gripping his shoulder, the other splayed across his lower back.

“I’ve got you,” I say.

“I know,” he says in a quiet voice.

Those blue eyes meet mine, and for a second, neither of us moves.

My hands tighten reflexively on his waist, and his breath catches. The sound shoots straight through me.

Christ, we’re stealing a boat in broad daylight, and all I can think about is how perfectly he fits against me.

Then Nicholas blinks as if waking himself from a trance and steps back cautiously.

“I’ll drive.” He slides into position.

“I don’t think?—”

He fixes me with a look. “Eoin, I’ve been driving boats like this since I was fifteen. Ibiza, Monaco, Lake Como. Rich people’s children and fast boats are practically a rite of passage.”

His hands move confidently over the controls.

The engine starts with a reassuring rumble and Nicholas eases us away from the dock.

We’re a hundred meters out when I hear the first shout from shore. In the mirror, I see the boat owner sprinting down the dock, his wife still by the trailer. But we’re already picking up speed, the shore falling away as Nicholas opens the throttle.

The wind whips his chemically abused hair into even more chaos.

“You realize we’ve now stolen four vehicles in twenty-four hours. That might be some sort of royal Commonwealth record.”

“Not the record you were probably hoping to achieve,” I reply, checking behind us for pursuit.

“I guess, though technically, it’s only theft if we get caught. Otherwise, it’s just aggressive borrowing with a delayed return policy.”

I’m fairly sure there is only one man on the planet who can make me laugh in this situation, and it’s him.

The sound of my laughter makes Nicholas duck his head, but not before I catch the way his whole body seems to soften.

Out here on the water, with the sun glinting off the lake’s surface and the mountains rising in the distance, we could almost be just two men on an adventure together.

These glimpses of what life could be like for us are making me almost ache. Because I want that so much. I want to experience everything in life with this man by my side.

Once we’re solidly in the center of the lake, Nicholas pulls out the burner phone.

“You’ll have to take over,” he says, already sliding sideways. “I need to call Callum and Oliver.”

We switch positions in an awkward dance of elbows and knees.

Nicholas shields the phone from spray as he dials, and I ease back on the throttle, letting us drift while he makes the call.

“Callum?” His voice has a clipped quality. “Yes, we’re—no, we’re fine. Had a bit of excitement with the local constabulary, but?—”

He listens, his expression shifting through several complicated emotions.

“How soon?” A pause. “And Grandmother agreed? Bloody hell. I mean, wonderful?—”

He meets my eyes, his expression triumphant.

“Yes, yes, we understand the timing. Just make sure the announcement hits every major outlet simultaneously.” He pauses, listening for a bit. “That sounds fabulous. And, Callum? Thank you. Tell Oliver his negotiating skills are about to make history. Literally.”

Another pause.

“Of course I’m being careful. I have a very competent Irishman ensuring my safety. Love to you both.”

Nicholas ends the call and turns to me. His face is flushed with a kind of wild adrenaline.

“Two hours. They’re just putting everything together now, but they should be announcing the establishment of the Royal Foundation for Colonial Reparations in roughly two hours.

Initial funding of seven billion pounds from the Crown Estate, with commitments from seven other aristocratic families, including Harry Matheson’s family, to total twelve billion. ”

Christ. My brain struggles to wrap itself around that many zeros. Twelve billion. It’s not enough, could never be enough, to balance centuries of resource extraction and exploitation. But it’s a start. It’s an acknowledgment.

“The Preston-Alexanders?” I ask.

His smile turns sharp. “Mother’s family has committed to providing eight hundred million so far.

Apparently, they were given the choice between making a voluntary contribution or having their colonial profit history published in excruciating detail.

” His voice carries dark satisfaction. “Oliver can be remarkably persuasive when he chooses.”

“That’s amazing.”

“I know. I can’t believe we did it.”

“You did it. It was your idea, your plan.”

“We did it.” He meets my gaze. “We did it together.”

The hope inside me is almost painful now.

I have to turn away, fixing my gaze on where the lake meets the land, the water so still it creates a perfect mirror of the volcanoes lurking behind. It’s like nature’s own magic trick.

Two hours. We just need to stay free for two more hours, and then maybe, just maybe, Pierce and his people will accept that they’ve achieved their goal without actually having to kidnap Nicholas.

And then maybe we can stop running long enough to sort everything out between us.

But just as that thought goes through my head, movement in my peripheral vision makes my spine go rigid.

“Nicholas,” I say, but he’s already turning, following my gaze.

Three boats are approaching us from different directions, moving with too much purpose to be recreational. They’re still distant, but closing in a pattern that speaks of coordination.

Of hunting.

“Well,” Nicholas says with his aristocratic drawl, “I suppose it was too much to hope they’d wait for the official announcement.”

My blood turns to ice.

Fear claws up my throat, raw and choking.

Not for me.

For him.

Three boats mean at least six men, probably more. They’ll be armed and professional.

And they want Nicholas.

But the math is simple. They’ll have to go through me first.

I push the throttle of our boat, causing it to leap ahead as I angle us toward the deepest part of the lake.

Behind us, our pursuers match our speed, and I know with cold certainty that their boats are faster, their engines more powerful.

We’re going to run out of water. Out of time. Out of options.