Page 68 of The Unlikely Spare
Though they’re usually ones his ancestors stole from other countries rather than what has been freely given.
I’m on the late shift duty that night, stationed outside Nicholas’s suite. Malcolm is in our security headquarters on the first floor, monitoring all the security feeds, probably muttering statistics about overnight security breaches to himself like some kind of protective prayer.
The corridor’s quiet except for the hum of air conditioning fighting Darwin’s humidity.
This is always a dead shift, with Nicholas tucked up safely in bed. I use the quiet time to run through any slightly suspicious behavior I’ve picked up from my fellow protection officers. I’ve gone through every protection officer’s hotel room again in our current hotel and found nothing more disturbing than the fact that Singh’s bottle of massage oil is now three-quarters empty. I’ve combed the data from their digital devices. I’ve monitored their body language during security updates about the spider incident, watching for tells.
Only a few things have prickled my suspicion that I need to follow up on.
Malcolm had taken photos of every single venue entrance this week—not just the ones on our route, but service entrances we’d never use. When I asked, he launched into a fifteen-minuteexplanation about “comprehensive documentation protocols” that felt slightly rehearsed.
And MacLeod was at the hotel’s business center at three a.m. two nights ago. She’d said she was video calling her nephew for his birthday, and when I checked up, she had, but still, I’d been left uneasy.
I bumped into Singh in the hallway earlier when I left my bedroom to report for my shift. He’d given me a normal greeting, but there had been something stiff about his posture, and it wasn’t until I took over from Blake that I realized Singh’s room was on a different floor. He’s allowed to do whatever he wants off duty, but is that suspicious?
I’m mentally scrolling through everything I know about Officer Singh when I hear it.
A sound like a dying whale trying to mate with a foghorn.
My hand goes to my weapon before my brain catches up. That’s not a threat. That’s?—
Another blast. Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. It appears Prince Nicholas is actually trying to play his gift from today.
I should stay at my post. Whatever noise pollution Prince Nicholas wants to commit in private at two a.m. is none of my concern.
But after a third attempt—this one sounds like a constipated elephant—I find my feet taking me over to his door. I knock.
“Your Royal Highness?”
The noise stops. There’s a pause, then his voice. “Come in.”
Fuck. Am I doing this for the right reasons? Is Prince Nicholas’s security really threatened by whatever dying moose he’s channeling through that instrument, or am I just looking for an excuse to see him?
Too late now.
I open the door to find Nicholas sitting cross-legged on the sofa, the didgeridoo across his lap. He’s wearing navy-blue silkpajama bottoms that sit low on his hips and a white T-shirt that’s rucked up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin. His usually perfect hair sticks up at mad angles like he’s been running his hands through it, and his cheeks are flushed pink.
Christ.
He looks soft and rumpled and touchable in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
He looks up at me with an expression caught between defiance and embarrassment.
“Good evening, Officer O’Connell. Are you concerned about me impaling myself on the didgeridoo?”
I have to swallow hard before I can generate a response. “Well, yes. Although my main concern would be about how much paperwork it would generate.”
He barks out a laugh, that real one that always catches me off guard. Oh fuck. I hate the way my body reacts to that laugh.
“Murder by indigenous instrument. The tabloids would have a field day.”
“Prince Found Dead in Didgeridoo Disasterdoes have a certain ring to it,” I say, stepping farther into the room despite every professional instinct screaming at me to retreat. “Though I’d prefer to avoid having to explain how I let you die via musical incompetence.”
Feckin’ hell. What am I doing?
“Cruel, O’Connell.” But he’s grinning, leaning back against the sofa cushions. “I think we can see why the position of Royal Didgeridoo Player has remained vacant all these centuries.”
“I don’t know. Your whale-in-distress interpretation showed real artistic vision.”
