Page 53 of The Unlikely Spare
I freeze.
It’s a spider.
But it’s not one of those delicate, barely there spiders you find in English country houses that can be dispatched with a tissue.
No, this is a proper Australian nightmare. It’s a fat black beast with legs like gnarled fingers, scuttling across the floor with alarming purpose.
I’m not generally afraid of spiders. But I’ve been in Australia long enough to know that roughly everything in this country is venomous, fanged, or otherwise designed by evolution to cause maximum distress to humans.
And this particular specimen is heading straight for my bare feet.
“Bloody hell!” I yelp, leaping onto the nearest surface—which happens to be the edge of the bathtub. It’s not my most dignified moment.
The spider pauses, as if affronted by my reaction, then continues its determined approach toward me.
The bathroom door bursts open with such force that it bounces against the wall. O’Connell fills the doorframe, gun drawn, eyes wild. He scans the room, his gaze scanning every shadow and corner before landing on me.
“Sir?” His voice is tight. “What’s the threat?”
I realize with painful clarity what this must look like: the spare heir clinging to his towel while balanced precariously on the edge of a bathtub.
It’s hardly the dignified royal personage they advertise on the commemorative tea towels.
“Spider,” I manage to say, pointing at it. “Rather sizable one.”
O’Connell’s expression shifts from high alert to something else entirely. He tucks his weapon back into its holster, his mouth twitching.
“You yelled because of a spider?”
“Not just any spider,” I say. “An Australian spider. Which means it’s likely to be carrying enough venom to kill a small village.”
O’Connell glances at the spider, then back at me, his eyebrow arched in a way that makes my stomach flip strangely.
“So I’m to understand that the second in line to the throne is being held hostage by a spider the size of a fifty-pence piece?”
“It’s definitely larger than that,” I reply with all the royal dignity I can muster while standing on the edge of a bathtub clutching a towel around my waist.
Which, all right, might not be very much.
“And may I remind you that your job description is to neutralize threats to my person. This creature is most certainly a threat.”
O’Connell shakes his head but moves toward the spider. The bathroom suddenly feels much smaller, his broad shoulders and tall frame dominating the space. I’m far too aware of my own half-naked state.
O’Connell picks up a glass from beside the sink, then grabs one of the embossed hotel information cards.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Standard spider extraction protocol, sir,” he replies dryly. “Though I usually don’t perform it for such distinguished audiences.”
With a swift movement, he traps the spider under the glass, slides the card beneath it, and flips the whole arrangement so the spider is now captured inside the glass with the card as a lid.
He brings the makeshift spider prison to eye level, studying its occupant with a frown. I lower myself carefully from the bathtub.
“You know,” I say, adjusting my towel, “most people who see me with so few clothes on usually buy me dinner first.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. O’Connell’s head snaps up, his gray eyes meeting mine with an intensity that has heat crawling up my neck.
For a moment, just a flicker, his gaze drops to my bare chest before returning to my face. A slight flush climbs up his neck.
