He pouted shamelessly.“If we can’t be teenagers in front of mirrors, when can we?”
I sighed and gave in, because he’d always been very good at winning small wars.I read it aloud.The words sounded different in the air—more vulnerable, somehow, as though they’d taken off their coat.
Chris clapped once.“Go.”
“Go where?”I said, though I knew precisely where.
“To him,” he said, as if I were slow.“I saw you two at the embassy reception.Chemistry you could bottle and sell at Selfridges.You lit up like a chandelier.So did he.”
Eddie’s eyes did a wicked little sparking thing.Trouble.I knew that look.“Oh, we’re definitely meeting him.”
“We?”I echoed, feeling my hackles rise and then immediately smoothing them, because this was not the hill to die on.“Eddie—”
“I want to see if he’s good enough for you,” he said, half-tease, half-test.“I’ll be kind, I swear.”
I pictured a quiet table, low lights, the warm weight of a hand over mine; traded it for Eddie’s star-wattage and Chris’s delighted commentary.Alone would have been better.Alone would have been honest.But when Eddie got a notion, he was like a terrier—adorable, implacable, teeth set.
It would be harmless enough, I thought to myself.A drink.Ten minutes, and that’s it.Then, I would whisk him away so we could be alone.And perhaps a genuine star would impress Bryce.
“I’ll have to ask him first,” I said, schooling my voice into lightness as I typed a reply.“He’s had a day from hell, apparently.”
“Then we’ll make it heavenly,” Eddie said, beaming at his reflection.“Won’t we, Chris?”
ChapterThirteen
Bryce
Istood beneath the lightning-bolt sign of The Thin White Duke and wondered if I was walking into a date, or just a friendly evening with a prince and his entourage.The distinction mattered more to me than it should have.
My lead agent lingered half a step behind me, a shadow in a dark suit.The street glistened from a recent rain, taxis dragging streaks of yellow across the wet pavement.Inside, I could hear the muffled thrum of bass and the low murmur of voices.
“Sir,” he said, voice pitched for my ear only.“We’ll take the table with you.”
“No.”I didn’t raise my volume.I let the ambassadorial cadence do the work.“You’ll hold the door and the corner across the street.If I need you, you’ll know.”
“It’s a tight space,” he countered.“We can be unobtrusive.”
“You’re excellent at many things,” I said, hand on the door, “but unobtrusive is not one of them.That’s the brief.”
A crackle of radio static, then a nod.“Understood.”
Inside, the room was narrow and warm, kinder than the day I’d had.Bowie’s black-and-white stare looked down from the walls.The backbar glowed like a stage set: bottles aligned, citrus under glass domes, a stack of coupes waiting for their turn beneath the slow-rotating disco ball.Blue velvet banquettes stitched privacy into the corners.The air smelled of gin, orange peel, and a faint thread of smoke that didn’t come from cigarettes.
I spotted them immediately.Arthur sat tucked into a shadowed corner—the seat I would have chosen myself for discretion.His posture was composed, his profile calm, the kind of stillness that isn’t inherited but trained.On his right: Chris Tennant, already half rising.On his left: a man whose face tugged at recognition, like a melody I couldn’t quite name.
Arthur saw me, and his expression lit up, the smallest change but enough to loosen something in my chest.
Chris slid easily to the other side, trading places so the empty chair beside Arthur was clearly mine.“Evening, Ambassador,” he grinned.“Saved you the better side.”
“Thanks,” I said, and took the seat.Arthur rose just slightly, our hands meeting in the space between us—too formal to be a touch, too human to be protocol.And for a split second, Strathmore replayed itself: the almost-kiss, the interruption, the stubborn memory of wanting and not having.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, voice even, but his eyes were saying something else.
“Thank you for choosing a place that understands decent lighting,” I answered.“I owe you for that alone.”
The other man turned toward me, and recognition landed.Eddie Gray.Actor.Famous, but with a smile that behaved like an invitation rather than a performance.
“Mr.Gray,” I said.“A pleasure.”
