Page 63 of The Unlikely Spare
“And quite so dedicated to it.” I let my gaze drift obviously down his body and back up again. “Your attention to detail is…impressive.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “The pathway is this way.”
I follow him toward the entrance of the installation. The moment we step onto the path, the world transforms. The lights create the illusion of walking through an impressionist’s dream, all soft edges and pulsing hues. The sounds of the gala fade, replaced by the gentle sigh of the desert wind.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say. “Like walking through a living painting.”
He makes a noncommittal sound.
“Surely your job requires an appreciation of your surroundings.” I gesture expansively. “Tell me what you see.”
O’Connell hesitates for a moment, then surprises me by actually answering.
“I see limited visibility, multiple approach vectors, inadequate escape routes, and at least seventeen places someone could conceal themselves with a clear line of sight to your position.”
I laugh, genuinely amused. “How delightfully paranoid. And I thought I was just looking at pretty lights.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like victory. “That’s why you have security, sir.”
“Indeed.” I step closer. “And such thorough security at that.”
The lights shift from blue to purple, casting shadows across his face that make his eyes appear darker. His posture stiffens as I move nearer.
“Did I mention how much I appreciate your dedication, O’Connell?” I drop my voice to a more intimate register. “The way you throw yourself so…physically into your duties.”
His breathing changes. It’s a subtle shift I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t watching for it.
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“Your job seems to involve an awful lot of physical exertion.” I reach up to adjust my already-loosened bow tie, my fingers lingering at my throat. “All that tackling and restraining. I imagine it requires considerable…stamina.”
His gaze drops briefly to the exposed hollow of my throat before snapping back to my eyes.
His scowl deepens. “We’re trained for it, sir.”
Good Lord, has the word “sir” ever sounded more derisive than it does in Officer O’Connell’s Irish accent right now?
The path narrows further as we continue, forcing us to walk closer together, my shoulder brushing against his arm with each step. The contact is slight but deliberate, and each time it happens, I sense his tension ratcheting higher.
“Tell me, is it difficult to maintain such rigid control at all times? Don’t you ever want to just…let go?”
He doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice has a tight quality, and a thrill shoots through me. “Control is necessary in my line of work.”
“Necessary, perhaps,” I concede, “but surely exhausting. Always vigilant, always restrained, never allowing yourself a moment of…release.”
We’ve reached a section where the lights are arranged in concentric circles, creating the illusion of walking through a vortex of color. The effect is disorienting, almost hypnotic.
I use the moment to step even closer.
“The thing about control”—I lower my voice so it’s barely above a whisper—“is that it’s far more satisfying when it’s finally relinquished.”
His eyes meet mine directly and the heat I see there nearly stops my breath. There’s a war being waged behind those gray irises.
“Sir,” he says, the single syllable carrying a wealth of warning.
“Yes, Officer O’Connell?” I ask innocently, tilting my head. “Did you have something to add?”
He draws a measured breath. “We should continue moving. Standing still makes you an easier target.”
