Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,32
New York City’s finest hotels. The two bodyguards at the entrance to that suite had yet to acknowledge Persia’s or Izza’s presence, even after they’d introduced themselves. The men stood there like stern, unflinching statues in business suits, staring straight ahead, and hardly blinking.
“Repeat after me,” Persia murmured to Izza. “Your Majesty. That’s all you need to say when you’re introduced. She’ll have her own escorts and bodyguards. All we have to do today is stick with these guys, stay out of their way, and coordinate with Alex, Mark, and David. They’re running this show, not us. Do not touch the Queen unless she offers her hand first, and don’t hug her. Smile, but keep your grip light and brief. Bow your head in acknowledgment and step back.”
“But when should I do all that? Who’s going to introduce us? And when?”
“That, I don’t know. But someone just as important as Her Majesty will surely make introductions. Maybe one of her grandsons. That’d be cool, huh? Being introduced by a prince.”
Izza groaned. “I hate not knowing what’s gonna happen next. Why didn’t Alex tell us this crap yesterday?”
“Relax, girlfriend. You’ve been in tougher spots. You can do this.”
“Yeah, but—”
Both golden gilded doors opened outward.
“Oh, shit,” Izza gasped.
Damned if Alex didn’t step into the hall first. He nodded once to Persia and Izza, then extended his hand back into the room and…
She. Walked. Out.
Persia’s heart stopped beating. It really was her. Her Majesty. The one and only Queen of England.
“Your Majesty,” Alex said respectfully, his right hand now cupping Her Majesty’s left elbow, as if he did that every day. He bowed his head slightly. “May I present one of my finest agents, Junior Agent Izza Maher?”
Izza stumbled forward, but caught her balance before she face-planted, and just in time, she managed a breathy, “Your… Your M-Majesty.”
The Queen grabbed hold of Izza’s hand with both of hers. “I am so glad to meet a woman sniper! What a hard job you have. Thank you for keeping me safe,” she murmured conspiratorially, her British accent perfectly clipped and so, so… royal.
She almost sounded like a regular person. Not like that calmed the flock of starlings flapping furiously to be free inside Persia’s ribs.
“You’re w-w-welcome,” Izza stuttered.
Yet, the Queen still held onto her hand. “I’m having a private dinner in my suite tonight. Would you two join me?”
Alex had taken a step back while she spoke with Izza. Persia looked to him for direction, not sure if dining with royalty was something a bodyguard on duty should do.
He. Just. Winked!
Not what Persia expected. Then his head bobbed one curt nod of approval, and she started to breathe again. That he’d assigned Izza and her to guard this prestigious visitor still made no sense. But here she was, hyperventilating and fangirling as bad as Izza.
“S-sure,” Izza answered, her dark brown eyes all but stabbing Persia to help. “I, umm, I mean we... We can do that, can’t we? I mean, we’ve got time.”
Which allowed Persia to reply graciously, “Yes, ma’am, it would be our pleasure.”
With that, the Queen’s sweet face broke into a gentle smile, and she released Izza’s hand, which had to be sweating bullets by now. Persia’s certainly were.
Alex stepped back to the Queen’s side and gestured for her to step forward. “Ma’am, another of my best, Junior Agent Persia Coltrane.”
He was so sure of himself. So confident. What the heck was he doing here, and how did he know Britain’s royalty? It was no wonder he’d been uptight yesterday in the Sit Room. He had to do this!
And thank heavens, he’d dressed in simple gray and silver tones today. Not red. Not black. Yet Persia’s heart still pounded when she stepped where Izza had just stood and accepted the Queen’s hand. It was warm and soft and… She. Persia Coltrane. A nobody. Was touching the Queen of England!
Her eyes were royal blue, made more stunning by her silvery-white hair and the lovely teal business suit she wore. As she’d done with Izza, the Queen grasped Persia’s hand with both of hers. “It is so nice to meet you. What a lovely name, Persia.”
There were no words. Literally. Persia couldn’t remember a thing to say.
“Your family must be from the Middle East, yet your surname is Coltrane. That’s not very Middle Eastern, is it?”
“My m-m-mom,” Persia stuttered as her brain came back online. “Dad’s from the South, but Mom was born in Iran. You might have heard of her. Doctor Ahmadi.”