Page 118 of The Unlikely Spare
Nicholas gets out of the car, wrinkling his nose. “That odor is not particularly pleasant.”
“That’ll be the sulfur from the geothermal activity.”
“It almost stinks as much as your lies,” he says benignly.
I ignore him and concentrate on surveying the car park for a replacement vehicle. We need something inconspicuous, something with enough fuel to get us far from here.
A mid-range Toyota Corolla sits three spaces down, angled perfectly in the camera’s blind spot. Not too new, not too old, probably a rental, judging by the generic license plate frame. Forgettable. Perfect.
“Wait here,” I mutter, pulling my jacket sleeve over my hand as I approach the Toyota.
“Oh, splendid.” Nicholas follows me despite my instructions. “Front-row seats to criminal activity. Should I be taking notes for future royal scandals? Perhaps prepare a statement for whenwe’re inevitably arrested?Prince Flees Terrorists, Embraces Life of Crime Instead.”
I shoot him a warning look as I check for alarm sensors. Finding none, I slide my sleeve-covered elbow against the driver’s side window and apply careful pressure until it gives with a muffled crack.
“Very elegant technique,” Nicholas says as he leans against the neighboring car. “Perhaps after we evade kidnapping and potential execution, you could teach me your other skills. Lockpicking? Forgery? I’ve always thought royal duties could use more exciting extracurriculars.”
The car alarm doesn’t trigger—thank Christ for small mercies, as I remove the window, reaching through to unlock the door, then slide inside to work on the ignition.
“That was distressingly quick. Should I be worried about the security of the Crown Jewels?”
“Different skill set,” I say as I slide into the driver’s seat and reach under the steering column. The familiar tangle of wires greets me like an old mate.
“Do try not to electrocute yourself,” Nicholas says as he climbs into the front seat. “I’d hate to have to explain to the New Zealand authorities why I’m traveling with both a stolen vehicle and a charred Irishman.”
The engine catches with a satisfying rumble, and I throw the car into reverse.
“Your capacity for casual crime is both impressive and mildly disturbing,” Nicholas continues as we drive out of the parking lot. “Is that why they selected you for this assignment? ‘Send O’Connell—he’s both morally flexible and good with his hands?’”
Heat crawls up my neck as I swing back on the highway. And I’ve had about enough of what I’m prepared to take from this man.
“Is it making you feel better having a go at me?” I ask. “Go ahead then. I can take it. But just know that I know exactly what you’re doing.” I flick a quick glance at him. “You’re doing exactly what you always do, using humor to mask how you’re really feeling.”
Nicholas’s blue eyes are furious.
“Fuck you,” he says back with heat.
“We already did that. And it was incredible, if my memory serves me right.”
The color drains from Nicholas’s face, leaving only two bright spots of anger high on his cheekbones. He looks like one of those royal portraits hanging in the palace corridor.
Beautiful. Cold. Untouchable.
“You don’t get to do that.” His voice drops dangerously low. “You don’t get to act like you know me, like you understand what this feels like. Not after—” He cuts himself off, turning to stare out the window, the line of his jaw so tight I can see a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
“You don’t get to fuck me and then psychoanalyze me in the same week,” he finally finishes. “Pick a lane, Detective.”
The silence stretches between us.
I keep my eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Because he’s right. I need to pick a lane with this man.
My inability to do that has cost both of us.
Chapter Thirty
Eoin
