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“All right, photos,” Zahra hisses over Alex’s shoulder.
“Oh,” Henry says, like an idiot. Alex hates how much he likes the way that one stupid vowel curls in his accent. He’s not even into British accents. He’s intoHenry’sBritish accent.
“Hey,” Alex says under his breath. Fake smile, handshake, cameras flashing. “Cool to see you’re not dead or anything.”
“Er,” Henry says, adding to the list of vowel sounds he has to show for himself. It is, unfortunately, also sexy. After all these weeks, the bar is low.
“We need to talk,” Alex says, but Zahra is physically shoving them into a friendly formation, and there are more photos until Alex is being shepherded off with the girls to the State Dining Room while Henry is hauled into photo ops with the prime minister.
The entertainment for the night is a British indie rocker who looks like a root vegetable and is popular with people in Alex’s demographic for reasons he can’t even begin to understand. Henry is seated with the prime minister, and Alex sits and chews his food like it’s personally wronged him and watches Henry from across the room, seething. Every so often, Henry will look up, catch Alex’s eye, go pink around the ears, and return to his rice pilaf as if it’s the most fascinating dish on the planet.
HowdareHenry come into Alex’s house looking like the goddamn James Bond offspring that he is, drink red wine with the prime minister, and act like he didn’t slip Alex the tongue and ghost him for a month.
“Nora,” he says, leaning over to her while June is offchatting with an actress fromDoctor Who. The night is starting to wind down, and Alex is over it. “Can you get Henry away from his table?”
She slants a look at him. “Is this a diabolical scheme of seduction?” she asks. “If so, yes.”
“Sure, yes, that,” he says, and he gets up and heads for the back wall of the room, where the Secret Service is stationed.
“Amy,” he hisses, grabbing her by the wrist. She makes a quick, aborted movement, clearly fighting a hardwired takedown reflex. “I need your help.”
“Where’s the threat?” she says immediately.
“No, no, Jesus.” Alex swallows. “Not like that. I need to get Prince Henry alone.”
She blinks. “I don’t follow.”
“I need to talk to him in private.”
“I can accompany you outside if you need to speak with him, but I’ll have to get it approved with his security first.”
“No,” Alex says. He scrubs a hand across his face, glancing back over his shoulder to confirm Henry’s where he left him, being aggressively talked at by Nora. “I need himalone.”
The slightest of expressions crosses over Amy’s face. “The best I can do is the Red Room. You take him any farther and it’s a no-go.”
He looks over his shoulder again at the tall doors across the State Dining Room. The Red Room is empty on the other side, awaiting the after-dinner cocktails.
“How long can I have?” he says.
“Five min—”
“I can make that work.”
He turns on his heel and stalks over to the ornamental display of chocolates, where Nora has apparently lured Henrywith the promise of profiteroles. He plants himself between them.
“Hi,” he says. Nora smiles. Henry’s mouth drops open. “Sorry to interrupt. Important, um. International. Relations. Stuff.” And he seizes Henry by the elbow and yanks him bodily away.
“Do you mind?” Henry has the nerve to say.
“Shut your face,” Alex says, briskly leading him away from the tables, where people are too busy mingling and listening to the music to notice Alex frog-marching an heir to the throne out of the dining room.
They reach the doors, and Amy is there. She hesitates, hand on the knob.
“You’re not going to kill him, are you?” she says.
“Probably not,” Alex tells her.
She opens the door just enough to let them through, and Alex hauls Henry into the Red Room with him.
