Page 67 of Lone Spy

"But what if King Edward the VIII had been installed as a puppet for Hitler by force or lies, or a potent mix of both? Would your father accept such an ally?" I'm probably treading too close here.

"Angela," Omar's voice drops. The way he says my name sends a shiver up my spine and I’m not sure if it’s fear, lust, or both. "The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan will work with whoever we need to in order to maintain peace and safety for our people."

Well, when he puts it like that…

"What about marriage?" I ask, eager to change the subject. I'm not here to weasel information out of him. I'm here to talk to Victoria. I'm here for my own purposes, not anyone else's.

Omar shrugs, leans back, steeples his fingers. "My father would be very disappointed if I fell for the chauffeur." I laugh. Omar grins. "There are rules, of course—expectations. My wife must be a Muslim. She must be capable of handling the public attention." His lips curl into a smile, but it's edged with sorrow. Almost like he feels bad for his future bride. “My mother converted to Islam to marry my father. She was a well-known fashion model, British.”

“Are they happy?”

Omar nods. “Yes, I think so.” The fire crackles, and I lean forward to pick up my tea again. Sipping the spiked, sweet warmth.

A comfortable silence falls. Omar is the one to break it. “So much of politics, of power, is artifice. Being able to control the narrative.” I look over at him. He’s still leaning back in the chair, long legs parted, hands gently curling over the ends of the armrest, looking for all the world like a man with immense power. Like a king in his throne. “That’s part of why royals so often marry actors. They need partners who can help tell the story they want told.”

“Is that why?” I ask, teasing, trying to steer this conversation back to flirting and away from power and artifice. “I thought it was all about our hotness.”

Omar laughs, the sound warm and easy. He shifts forward, hands coming to clasp in front of him, the fire dancing over his face. “It doesn’t hurt.” His eyes track over me appreciatively, coming back to my face. “But beauty is not enough on its own to make a marriage work.” He holds my gaze. “Someone who can present a story with their body, their face, someone who can create a truth, is very powerful.”

I make sure to keep the chill sneaking up my spine off my face. Does he know about me?

Omar shrugs, sitting back again. “That is one of the reasons Benjamin is such a good partner for Victoria—he can help her tell any story she wants told.”

“The love between them seems genuine.”

“I believe it is.” He smiles, eyes twinkling again. “I'm afraid that love would not make my father's list of reasons for marriage.”

I laugh. “Does it make yours?"

“I want her to be a woman I can respect above all else."

"Respect is more important than love to you?"

"Love has been known to fade." His eyes drift to the fire. "A relationship built on respect and mutual interest can last longer." Omar's attention comes back to mine. "Falling in love is dangerous—there is falling involved, after all." Humor glints in his gaze but fades. "When it comes to a life partner I'd rather be on solid ground. My marriage is not only mine. It's a nation’s. I must pick a wife who will help Jordan thrive."

Silence falls between us, the fire sputtering to the fill the void. "I get that," I admit.

"You do?" His smile is pleased.

"Falling is dangerous." I smile. "Especially for a woman. It's easy to become trapped. To be disappeared by devotion. I've worked too hard to get where I am to risk that."

"We are similar creatures then. Pragmatic in our ways."

“Yes,” I agree. “In some ways.” I don’t mention that I may also need to marry for reasons that have nothing to do with love…

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Omar walksme back to my room after dinner, Alesana a large shadow stalking behind us. He’s keeping enough distance so we can pretend he's not there but close enough that if I needed him he could save me from…a menacing sculpture or judgmental painting.

I stop in front of my door and turn to Omar.

"I'm glad I was able to walk you home this time," he says, a smile teasing the edge of his mouth. The light is low, sconces flickering as if they are candles. Omar's skin glows golden. His lips are a dark rose color—full and very kissable. Especially after the wine and fun I had at dinner.

One of the craziest parts about this experience is how well I fit in here. I wasn't raised to lead a nation, but I have the same sense of humor as these royals. Turns out having power with limited agency is a rare unifier. "Thank you for coming," Omar says. "I appreciate your faith in me."

"Well, this date has been much less explosive." I smile at him, ready to turn our nightmare into a shared joke.

His expression darkens, clearly not ready to slap a band-aid of dark humor over our past. "You don't know how that haunts me. How sorry I am."

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