“Hmm.” Sylvie contemplated the assembled contestants again. “I’m surprised he was that careless again.”
After Dominic’s unique variety of pep talk, she’d actually thought Byron had looked quite determined going into that round.
The assistant shrugged without much interest. From the crew’s perspective, the more disasters, the better.
Sylvie was navigating the winding warren of back hallways to her dressing room when she passed close to the contestants’ lounge and heard muffled voices.
“But you did say the oven was meant to be set at—” Byron was cut off by Libby’s distinctive Welsh tones.
“That’s not what I said, but—I mean, it was an initiative task, Byron. Sorry, but you really should have been making your own decisions anyway. We all found that round difficult and it sucks that yours turned out so grim, but it’s not my fault if you weren’t listening proper—”
The remainder of Libby’s offhand response faded out as they must have moved into the next room.
Incontrovertible fact of life: even when the exterior was Ewok-level disarming, you could always spot the mean girl at the party.
“Little shit-stirrer,” Sylvie muttered, trying to push open the door to the staff corridor. It stuck every damn time.
A large hand reached over her shoulder. “How ungenerous.” A silky murmur near her ear. “Don’t forget, she’s nervous as hell.”
Regrettably, it appeared that hours of sugar consumption resulted in Dominic not only remembering but continuing a conversation.
“She’s cool as ice, and just as sharp.”
“And she’s correct. Whatever shit others pulled, he should have been owning his space and decisions.”
He managed to jolt the handle upward, but they both stepped back at the same time to let the other pass and ended up nose to nose.
Half her mind was entwined around the approaching meeting at St. Giles; the other was wrapped in annoyance over Libby’s saccharine ruthlessness—but as if every bit of noise in her busy brain just whited out for a few frozen seconds, she looked up at him and went completely still.
And just for that instant, beneath the unflappable chill, she saw a flash of startlement and something . . . else.
For the first time, she realized his eyes were very slightly different colors. The left eye was a fractionally lighter shade of brown than the right.
His veiled gaze flickered downward. Returned to hers. A spasm of movement passed through his expression, a sort of abbreviated, curt denial, almost a flinch. He turned away.
With a tiny little breath through parted lips, she ducked her head and slipped through the door.
What the fuck was that?
He walked at her side in silence until they reached their dressing rooms. They were small, poky cupboards located either side of Mariana’s, but Sylvie’s teeny space contained a mini-fridge she’d stocked with truffles and a pink kettle she’d really fancy adopting on a permanent basis.
Dominic stood with his hand resting against his door, head tilted downward; then he looked at her. “You’ve obviously picked your favorites from the cast.” Did his voice, too, sound just a bit—off?
She cleared her throat. “Emma and Adam.” His expression was blank now. Possibly had no idea who they were. Possibly just his face. “She’s the—”
“Nice woman who completely squandered her time to pacify the attention-seeker. And he’s the Scottish academic who tried to rectify somebody else’s mistake but lost half his own equipment and at one point returned from the bathroom and forgot which was his station. Even with the small clue of his name emblazoned in massive letters.” Dominic unlocked his door. “They’ll both do well in the long run.” He met her curious gaze with a very direct look. “Regardless of who makes it to the final, the weeping-heart contestants with the public sympathy vote can always leverage their exposure.”
His door shut behind him.
One point in Dominic’s favor—that last comment distracted her from a good five minutes of nerves over her pending royal rendezvous. And any other reactions obviously provoked by the mounting pressure.
Sylvie sat down at the little desk in her dressing room and spun the chair in pensive circles. He certainly hadn’t given any indication of it today—she’d never seen him display nerves in any situation—but she’d almost guarantee Dominic also had a meeting coming up at the palace. The man who’d hand-delivered her instructions hadn’t divulged the names of other contenders for the contract, but Zack was right—De Vere’s was a shoo-in.
For the short list.
As a contestant on the show, as Dominic had just helpfully reminded her, she’d only made it to the penultimate episode.
When it came to this contract, she was taking out the title.
Chapter Six
“In a battle all you need to make you fight is a little hot blood . . .”
—George Bernard Shaw
Let the battle commence . . .
St. Giles Palace
4:25 p.m.
Meeting with Candidate: Mr. Dominic De Vere
Dominic had anticipated the intense secrecy surrounding the Albany contract. He hadn’t expected to feel like a character in a straight-to-TV espionage film. He’d been asked to drive to the Givran hotel at quarter to four, after which he’d sat in the bar for fifteen minutes before he’d been approached by an unsmiling couple in head-to-toe black. They had introduced themselves as Jeremiah and Arabella and looked like cutouts from a paper-doll book, the bodyguard edition. By the time he’d followed them out the rear entrance of the hotel and into the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, he had the unwelcome thought that this was where things took an ugly turn in the film.
Clearly, all this time in Sylvie’s company was screwing with his brain.
In more ways than one.
Neither security officer said a word throughout the circuitous journey to the north entrance of St. Giles Palace. Usually, Dominic appreciated people who didn’t need to fill any silence with unnecessary small talk, but right now—yeah, a bit unnerving.
The car drew into a private alcove, out of range of prying eyes and zooming camera lenses. It probably wasn’t a completely over-the-top precaution. The worst of the tabloids would be sticking their noses and cash incentives into any dodgy corner they could find, trying to pluck out the smallest details of the wedding in advance.
He was grateful as hell he hadn’t been born into this life—and he didn’t envy John Marchmont marrying into it. He’d met the groom once, at an awards banquet. From the little he remembered—guileless eyes, a bit of a stammer, zero idea what anyone was talking about—the man was about to be eaten alive. Between them, the press and the British public would make mincemeat of the poor sap.
And the marital home wasn’t exactly a source of privacy and respite. Dominic took in the plush interior of St. Giles as he followed the protection officers through the winding corridors. The carpet was so thick his shoes were sinking in as he walked, and it was spotless despite the risky choice of winter white. At regular intervals, uniformed staff with ID badges around their necks came in and out of doors, keeping their eyes politely averted from the newcomers. He caught the slight whirring traction of a security camera above his head, twisting to follow their progress.