Page 16 of Lone Spy

"Yes," he says. "You're very perceptive." I break away from his gaze, my own falling to where my hand lays on the arm of his dark suit. The gold chain bracelet circling my wrist drapes across the fine fabric. The sapphire ring on my middle finger sparkles.

"It's a professional attribute," I say as we reach a table covered in a cream cloth and decorated with a flower centerpiece that climbs three feet high, bursting with red, yellow, and white blooms. The royal crest is stamped on the dinner plates. Silverware fans out like children lining up by size. The goblets and water glasses are rimmed in gold.

"Empathy," Omar says, his voice thoughtful. He releases my arm, and moves to pull out one of the ornate dining room chairs. They look related to the piano—clawed and feathered gold legs hold up the white-cushioned seat and back.

"What do you mean: empathy?" I ask.

Omar's hands gently rest on the back of the chair. "Isn't that what allows you to imagine someone else's life?"

"Yes," I agree. "I suppose it is."

We stare at each other for a moment longer than is polite. I'm not imagining what it’s like to be the prince, but I am picturing how good it would feel to be under him. From the subtle tug of Omar's lips, I'm pretty sure he's imagining the same thing.

“Unfortunately, we are not at the same table tonight, but I’d very much like to take you to dinner another night--just the two of us.” Omar holds my gaze. There is no arrogance in his eyes. He doesn't know what my answer will be. But there is confidence—a spark that tells me he wouldn't accept a no easily. This is a man who pursues—and usually gets—what he wants.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” I tease.

“Yes.” His smile widens.

"I'll consider it," I say, tilting my chin down as I look at him from under my lashes.

"Wonderful," he says.

The featherson Zade's left shoulder shudder as they sit next to me. Hannah sits on my other side. She raises her half-empty champagne glass at me and winks. I shake my head, pretending that a prince didn't just ask me on a date.

Our table fills with bejeweled women and tuxedoed men. Sharp English accents and narrow noses. I smile and look pretty, pretending like I belong. Like I'm perfectly comfortable. Pulling the character Hannah described in the limo around me.

Zade leans over. "So," they say, drawing out the word. "A prince. How very Grace Kelly of you."

I shake my head. "You're already planning the wedding look, aren’t you?”

"It's going to be stunning. Simple but elegant." Their eyes roam over my face. "Sasha can do the hair," they say, referencing the stylist who we worked with on my last Star Wars film. She's currently very pregnant.

"Let's hope it's not too quick a courtship, so that Sasha doesn't have to cut her maternity leave short."

"Of course. You have to make him work for it."

"Oh, I will."

They nod, totally confident in my wiles.

The room quiets, pulling our focus to the front of the room. The queen steps up onto the stage, her granddaughter following. The princess pauses at the edge while the queen continues to the podium. She is short and round with pale skin. A tiara of diamonds nestles in her short, white curls.

She smiles out at the crowd. Her power electrifies the air—silencing the room. Such a small, dour figure, yet…

"Good evening," she says, then clears her throat. The queen brings a hand to the pearls ringing her neck. Her eyes bulge. She stumbles back a step.

The princess rushes the short distance to her grandmother. The queen turns to her, then collapses—knees folding, body dropping. The princess lunges, letting out a sharp cry. She isn't fast enough. The sound of the queen's body hitting the stage fills the silence her presence created.

ChapterEight

The gray skyhunkers over mist-sheened limestone buildings—stalwart and grand, impervious to the morning chill pressing against my wool sweater and pants. I’m finishing my second cup of coffee on the balcony of the Presidential Suite.

A text from Ash pings.

May I come in.

Apparently they don't teach knocking in spy school.

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