“We’ll pretend you’re talking about your father,” Dieter said.
“Oh, my father means well. He would have been a perfect grand duke in the sixteen-hundreds, nowhere near power but snottily looking down his nose at the royal court and insisting that everyone adhere to protocol.”
Dieter laughed. “You’ll even stick up for your father.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m a sucker. I’d even stick up for you, if the situation called for it.”
“Would you?”
“Of course. You’re perfect at protecting Wulfie, and now Rae, too. If anyone else were in charge of them, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. If someone said anything to the contrary, I would slap them right down.”
His heart swelled, and he flexed his fingers on her back. “That’s good to know.”
“I haven’t properly thanked you for taking a bullet for me this afternoon.”
He would have gladly taken one to his thick skull or his hard heart for her. “Just doing my job.”
“I appreciate it,” she said.
He leaned down just a little and whispered near her ear, “I have always said that I will always protect you in every circumstance.”
Flicka cleared her throat. “Well, just in case I didn’t say it enough, thank you.”
“Anytime, ma’am.”
“Please don’t do that.”
He pressed against her back a little bit with his arm, not like he was dragging her toward himself, but like the most subtle of embraces. “Anytime, Flicka.”
They waltzed through the crowd, holding a correct distance between them as befitted a young bride and the man who was generally seen as an uncle-like figure in her life.
Dieter tried to hold the image in his mind—her brilliant green eyes and luscious mouth smiling at him, her body warm and pliant in his arms as he danced with her—to remember.
At the end of the piece, the orchestra faded out. The dancers turned and applauded.
Dieter couldn’t quite let go of her hand yet. An ache spread from his cut-up arm to his chest.
“You dance well,” Flicka whispered to him, pressed against his side in the crowd and still holding his hand. “We’ve never danced together, have we? We were never seen in public together.”
“Of course not,” Dieter said. “Someone would have guessed.”
“Where did you learn to dance so well?”
“It was a long time ago. I hardly remember.”
Flicka dropped his hand and stepped away, starting to leave him, but she turned back just a little. “This was nice.”
She meant that they were talking and comfortable with each other, not like it had been the last two years.
“Yes,” he said. “It was nice.”
“I’ll see you around, Dieter.”
“Flicka,” he said.
He watched her sway into the crowd until the satin ballgowns and black tuxedos engulfed her.
His hand was still warm from holding hers while they danced.
