Page 22 of Lone Spy

Omar laughs and I feel his sparkling gaze on my face. He has a good laugh, deep and honest. "I like that," he says. "Adds another layer to the 'what is art' conversation."

"Ah, yes, that debate." As if it's one I've engaged in regularly.

"You didn't discuss the nature of art with your tutors?" Omar asks, teasing. I laugh. "How very common of you." He's obviously joking and it's endearing. "We can argue about it at lunch, I'll bring you up to speed."

"I appreciate you taking pity on me."

"Always happy to help."

My eyes drift down to the label under the box.Fountain by Marcel Duchamp. "It is an interesting piece," I say. "Asking the question of what makes something a sculpture? Does putting a urinal on a stand make it art? I guess we know the Tate agrees it does."

"It's almost like asking what is acting?" Omar says. "Must it be done on a stage or in front of a camera? Or is any pretense a part of your craft?"

"Another debate I've never had." I smile at him.

"Tell me what you think." He shifts, taking his lingering attention off “Fountain" and narrowing his focus to only me. He's playful but powerful—the force of his gaze potent.

I tilt my head, looking up at him. In my heels I'm 5'10, and he's still at least four or five inches taller. And so much broader. Just bigger than me.

But not bigger than Ash who stands about twenty feet behind him—his dark suit stark against the white wall. His cobalt gaze scans the empty space, avoiding falling on us. Like a good, invisible security agent.

"Where is the line between acting and just the normal lies of human interaction?" I clarify the question. Omar nods. A subtle smile tugs at his lips—they are so ready to smile for me. To laugh.

I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe you should call up your tutors. I bet they've got ideas." Omar's smile broadens but he doesn't speak, waiting for me to say more.

"I think we are all acting all the time, Omar." When I say his name, his pupils widen—that spark of attraction igniting.

"Are you acting now?" he asks.

I drop my chin so that I can gaze up at him through the lace of my lashes. "A girl never tells." He laughs, eyes ablaze. I'm giving him the kind of challenge he likes. Am I acting like a woman he wants, or am I actually that woman?

Exactly an hourand a half after we left my Bentley, we walk out of the Tate. Our lunch was simple but delicious in the museum’s restaurant kitchen at the chef's table—a jovial man who hugged Omar and bowed to me like I was royalty.

Omar poured me chilled white wine and we dined in the busy atmosphere, the clang of the commercial kitchen background music to our conversation about the meaning of art and acting.

The prince was charming, handsome, and funny. What more could I ask for in a date? He was also punctual, checking his watch to make sure to get me back within the limits I'd set. "I respect your time," he said when I teased him about it. "I want to make sure you'll agree to that dinner."

"You're definitely earning it."

"That's what I like to hear."

We stared at each other across the table. My eyes dropped to his lips first, but it was his hand that reached out and cupped my cheek. It was Omar who closed the distance between us. He's the one who deepened the kiss. The one who made me want to climb into his lap and the one who pulled back—the prince left me wanting more.

Outside the Tate a fresh drizzle has started, the recent bout of sunshine gone. It feels especially cold after the warm embrace of the kitchen. "You'll have dinner with me?" Omar asks again as Alesana opens my door for me.

Still flush from the wine, kiss, and general awesomeness of the date, I bite my lip. Do I want to start this? It’s just another Julian—another amazing man I could never be close to, not really.

Another heartbreak. Or maybe just a few quick fucks to get him out of my system and then move on with my life. "Do you want to come back to my hotel with me?"

"Yes." Omar's answer is fast and sure. He takes a step closer to me, moving into my space, his hand reaching out to rest on my waist. His eyes bright, eager. Ready.

He'son me the moment we are through the door, his hands in my hair, pushing me up against the wall. He tastes good, so fucking good. He smells amazing—like frankincense, wine, and something all him.

Omar bin Rami might be a perfect gentleman on the street, but in the privacy of my hotel suite, he's an animal. A beast. Just the way I like my lovers.

He pulls back, holding me in place, pressing his forehead to mine. "I'm sorry," he says.

"For what?" I'm panting, each breath pushing my chest into his.

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