Page 46 of Lone Spy

We make it through the throng, depart the hospital grounds, and merge into traffic. Motorcycles whiz alongside, darting between us and other cars. In my peripheral vision photographers hang off the back seats of bikes, legs locked around the driver while they desperately click.

Horns honk, voices yell. Paparazzi swarm like flies on a carcass. My left hand lies on the leather seat between Ash and me. His lands next to it. My entire awareness drops to the space between our pinky fingers. Everything disappears but those scant inches. Magnetic energy thrums.

We enter a tunnel, the world outside the SUV plunging into darkness interrupted by yellow lights at set intervals, throwing stripes over us each time we pass one. The flies continue to buzz.

Ash's skin touches mine. The side of his fingers lightly pressing.

My eyes close behind the dark lenses. Heart hammering, stomach clenching. I'm frozen in this moment. Totally transfixed by the intensity of his touch. How can this be so strong? So fierce?

Because it's dangerous? Forbidden? Or is it because it's him and me? Because he shouldn't be loyal to me but I want him to be so damn badly? I want to believe that he will throw caution to the wind for me. The fantasy of the loyal knight devoted to one queen.

He didn't kiss me in his hospital room. Ash held me, rolling us so that I was on top of him, and then cradled me to his chest. I fell asleep in the cocoon of his arms, and I woke up back in my own room. In the cold, narrow bed with the sun flooding in.

Part of me wondered if it was a dream—a hallucination created by my exhausted, terrified mind. Lloyd arrived with my clothing and the concern of a mother hen. He brought Zade who covered my bruises and brightened my eyes, their expression grim. “If I had known that royal motherfucker was going to get you blown up, I never would have suggested you go on another date with him.”

They left and Ash showed up, dressed in a gray suit with a crisp white shirt. The scruff decorating his jaw was gone, the circles under his eyes diminished. Stubble darkened his scalp. The wound at the base of his skull was covered in a white bandage.

His eyes met mine and electricity leapt between us, as real as the bruises decorating my throat, the burn on my arm, and the beat of my heart. Ash swallowed, an expression of pain passing over his stalwart face. And I knew it was real. I knew that last night something changed.

And now here we are, the barest contact between our skin making me feel every inch of my body. Making me feel real in this very unreal situation.

Ash's phone rings. He pulls it from his jacket with his free hand, not breaking our contact. I swallow, keeping my gaze forward. “Fraser.” Unintelligible squawking comes over the line. "Understood. I will forward the message." He hangs up. "That was Rashid Talib, the prince’s equerry."

I turn to look at him as we come out of the tunnel. White light halos him. Ash moves his hand away, as if my focus on him broke the spell. That or the mention of Omar. "The prince wants to speak with you. He's tried your number repeatedly."

"Oh." I pull my hands into my lap, twinging my fingers—cold now. "I…"

"You don't have to speak with him," Ash says, his gaze on the paparazzi revving next to us.

"Yes, I know. Lloyd is getting me a new phone. I'll wait and check my messages."

"You can use my phone now if you prefer." He turns to look at me then, the first time he's met my gaze since we've been in the company of others. His eyes are locked down, cold ice.

I clear my throat, turn away, uncomfortable with how good he is at acting.

ChapterNineteen

"No press is bad press,"Mary assures me over the phone. “At least not the kind that doesn’t scream scandal.” I'm in Rome soaking in a lavender-scented bubble bath. Candlelight flickers off the white marble walls bringing out the thin veins of gold.

The hotel suite’s bathroom is as large as my closet back home. Almost the size of my first apartment. So far beyond where I ever thought I could get and yet where I always planned to be.

"You looked fabulous coming out of the hospital. Very Grace Kelly meets Princess Diana. Who chose the outfit?"

The tweed Tom Ford pantsuit and Hermès scarf paired with giant sunglasses arrived with Lloyd and Zade. I have no idea where they came from—but they are draped over the couch in the bedroom now. I glance at my injured arm, propped on the edge of the tub, the bandage wrapped in plastic.

Mary continues, not waiting for a response. “I’ll ask Lloyd. That man is a dream, don't you think? Especially with how…intense it's been. I'm very impressed with his performance.”

Mary pauses long enough I know I’m supposed to answer her this time. "Yes," I agree. My voice sounds dead—a flat line. Like a woman who's lost touch with her emotions. Someone so traumatized she's cut it all off.

The part of my mind that never shuts down notes a weighted emptiness. If I ever need this feeling for my work I can come back here—to this glittering, perfumed, warm moment that feels like gritty rain-soaked cement is pressing down on me. Holding down a torrent of emotion.

"When are you talking to Jeremy?" Mary asks.

"Plan on calling him next." I pick up the glass of rosé next to the tub and take a sip—it chills and bites my tongue. I owe a lot of people phone calls. Synthia for sure. Julian called and texted. Omar sent flowers and left messages. My eyes slip closed and I slouch further into the tub, careful to keep my arm above the bubbles. Trying to find comfort but finding only more cement.

"Good. Have you seen the statement Jeremy emailed?"

"Yes, I read it on the flight." The darkness behind my eyes brings no comfort.

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