Page 73 of Lone Spy

"You can trust me, Angela."

"But can you trust me?" I ask. "When I have so much to gain from a connection with you?"

Omar's smile broadens. I'm once again the student who exceeded my teacher's expectations. "I don't think you're the type of woman who would betray a man she's romantically involved with."

I blink, surprised. He…I… Clearing my throat, I turn my tone flirty. “Are we romantically involved?" I tease.

"I hope so." His smile turns wolfish. Hot. No iceberg here. The prince knows what he wants.

I, on the other hand, have lost the thread of why I'm here. My impulse was to take action—do something. Talk to Victoria, give her the compass, and then figure out my next move. But Omar’s revelations and subsequent offer have thrown me off kilter.

American politics feel far away from this manicured environment. Could a connection with Omar save me? Or would I be trading one devil for another?

"I appreciate your offer," I say, because I do. "But I'm satisfied with my security."

"Ash Fraser is dangerous." Omar's voice is suddenly stern, serious.

"I know." But not to me. I don't say that part out loud. "He's the devil I know." I look over at Omar again. He's watching me, frowning. A spear of sunlight breaks through the low clouds and lights up the hill behind him for a brief moment before shadowing again.

"I'm the devil you don't know?"

"Yes." It's a challenge—and I get the sense His Royal Highness, Prince of Jordan, Omar bin Rami, enjoys a challenge.

Princess Victoria is chattingwith Gordon, the groom, when we return. She waves to us, a broad smile on her pretty face. "Angela," she says, head tilted up, eyes shielded by large tortoiseshell sunglasses. "I'd like to show you my garden if you have a half-hour to spare." The breeze toys with Victoria's ash-blonde hair, brushing the tips against her tweed jacket.

"Of course." I smile back, relieved to finally get some alone time with her.

Victoria and I chat about my ride,Dream is a dream!, the beauty of the region,so gorgeous!and other innocuous things,dinner last night was delicious!as we walk.

When we reach the stone-walled garden scented of rosemary, we fall silent. The crunch of small stones under our boots and the quiet symphony of nature are the only sounds as we navigate the paths between the herb beds.

"It's beautiful,” I say, breaking the silence.

"Yes.” There is a smile in Victoria’s voice. "They are all medicinal plants. It's been here for generations. Even before my family bought the property."

She stops, stooping down next to a bed of knee-height flowers with strong, slender stems and feathery fern-like leaves. The white blossoms are small and clustered close together. "This is yarrow,achillea millefolium." The Latin name rolls off her tongue like she was born speaking that dead language. "It grows wild in fields and can be used to stop bleeding." Victoria looks up at me. "It can also help with fevers. And infections."

"You eat it?" I ask. "How does that stop bleeding?"

She smiles, her gaze falling to the flat-topped flowers. "You make it into a poultice or powder. You can even chew it and apply it to the wound. It contains chemicals that speed blood clotting. Achilles, who the plant is named after, used it on his soldiers’ wounds."

"That's amazing." The scent of the yarrow wafts to me—herbaceous and sweet, like oregano and honey.

Victoria stands and points down the row to another bunch of flowers. They are rangier, their yellow flowers faded and not as tightly knit as the yarrow. The leaves are longer, and faded in the early fall. "Chamomile," Victoria says.

"I've had the tea," I say with a smile.

A crow caws, drawing my attention to the far side of the garden, about fifty yards away. The black bird perches on a low stone wall. It ruffles its feathers. Another lands next to it. They both dive behind the wall, disappearing.

"They are eating the wild carrot seeds.Daucus carota." Victoria starts to walk toward the birds. "It's commonly called Queen Anne's lace."

It occurs to me that Queen Anne might be an ancestor of Victoria's. "Why is the flower named after her?" I ask.

"She was a wonderful lace maker, known for her incredible craftsmanship. The flowers are usually white or purple, and at the center of each one is a tiny cluster of red flowers. As if a drop of blood spilled on the lace. Queen Anne lost seventeen children—so they say the spilled blood is her sorrow at the center of the flower."

“Oh, that’s so sad." I’ll never look at the pretty white cluster the same again.

Victoria nods her agreement.

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