At the fourth floor, she had pushed all the buttons to send the elevator lower into the hotel, hoping to confuse her pursuers.
—450, 452, 454—
Flicka ran harder, trying to make it.
She looked back again.
The hallway behind her was still empty. Her husband’s Secret Service men hadn’t expected her to be able to sprint so quickly in high-heeled shoes and a slim ball gown, but princesses are accustomed to wearing evening dress. She could probably rappel down a cliff face in petticoats and pumps.
Flicka von Hannover was a real, modern princess, not a fairy-tale one, and she had run for her life more than once.
The Secret Service men must have made for the stairwells, splitting up to search each floor for her, planning to communicate her position to each other for reinforcements. That’s how she would have orchestrated the search. They would come thundering out of the stairwells at each end of the hallway at any moment and see her racing through the hotel with her pale pink dress hiked up around her hips and a diamond tiara glittering in her blond hair.
Room 460.
Flicka pounded on the door and held her hand against the wood, willing it to openright now.
The door moved under her hand.
The tall, blond man opening the door saw her, and his gray eyes glanced down the corridor—worried. A white towel was slung low on his hips below the accordion pleats of his abs, and a livid scar creased the skin on his biceps on one arm. Other, fainter scars criss-crossed his pale gold skin.“Durchlauchtig?”
Flicka whispered, “He said he’d kill me.”
Dietergrabbed her wrist and pulled her inside, bending to survey the hallway after she passed him. DieterSchwarz was one of the bodyguards who’d protected her from assassins for years.“Did anyone follow you?”
Flicka leaned against the wall beside the door, still out of breath from running. “I lost them.”
Dieter pressed the door closed and flipped the locks. “You’re sure?”
“—I think so.”
He held his finger to his lips, watching through the door’s peephole.
Flicka flattened herself against the wall. Her purse dropped off her wrist and thumped on the floor.
Dieter waited, peering through the lens, and then dodged to the side, ending up standing inches in front of her. He flicked off the lights and turned, shielding her from the sight of anyone looking through the other side of the peephole. The view through the lens probably didn’t go far to the sides and no one should be able to see them in the darkness, but she hid behind him anyway.
In the faint light misting from the bedroom, Dieter’s chest and shoulders were broad, so wide across, and his muscles were chiseled lines in his flesh. The scent of fresh soap and an herbal, spicy cologne wafted off of him, faint until her nose was literally two inches away from his tanned skin and rounded chest muscles. He must have showered after they had both closed down Flicka’s brother’s wedding reception that night, only a few hours before.
Flicka tried not to breathe, tried not to gasp and cry in rage or frustration. Those emotions whipped around inside her until she couldn’t help herself any longer.
She leaned toward him and rested her cheek against Dieter’s strong shoulder, seeking comfort.
His bare skin and silken chest fuzz warmed her face. She breathed in his comforting, male scent that had felt like safety to her for so many years. A little bit of cinnamon. A little bit of clean soap and wildness.
She knew she shouldn’t. She knew she should lean back and pull away from him.
But the terror subsided a little, so she didn’t move.
Dieter’s hand cupped the back of her head, cradling her. He moved closer, resting his forearm on the wall as they waited.
Revulsion and terror warred inside Flicka. She didn’t want anyone,anyone at all,to touch her. Her guts twisted in her stomach, and yet this wasDieter,just Dieter.
She’d loved him once, and she’d hated him, but she couldn’t imagine running to anyone else when her life was in danger. If anyone could protect her, it was Dieter Schwarz.
And if no one else would take the chance, Dieter would.
Flicka snaked her arm around Dieter’s tight waist to hold onto him, lest her shaking knees give out.
