German efficiency had met French hospitality, and Flicka and Huguette bashed out all the details in twenty-five minutes, sharp.
Now that’s a fairy tale come true.
Back in the suite that she and Pierre occupied, Flicka stripped off her ivory, pearl-encrusted reception dress and changed into the lingerie she’d bought for her wedding night.
The lace gown swished around her slippers as she peeked out of their bedroom. “Alcide,” she whispered, “is Pierre back?”
Alcide glanced at her phone and frowned. “No, the cars didn’t bring him back. Quentin and two other Secret Service are with him, though. No need for concern.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.” Flicka pressed the bedroom door closed and went back to sit on her king-size, canopied bed. White and gold silk draped the bed, literally fit for royalty.
Her phone screen already read three o’clock in the morning, and Flicka sat on the bed for another hour before she fell asleep.
Because she was so exhausted and the hour was so late, her sleep should have been dreamless and deep.
Instead, Flicka’s vivid memories merged with a dream, and she walked out of her suite and down to the wedding reception, where everyone was still dancing and talking without her.
She moved among them, but no one noticed her, which was probably good because she was naked.
Because of course she was.
Flicka tried to hide under the staircase, covering her naked boobs with her hands. Luckily, she’d had her legs waxed the day before her wedding.
People walked by, all of them wearing clothes.
No one seemed to notice where she crouched, cold and naked, under the stairs. Flicka wept.
Except for Pierre.
He walked by, looking dashing in his tuxedo and glittering honors, a red sash crossing his broad chest under his coat. The eight-pointed, diamond-encrusted star designating him as a Grand Knight of the Order of St. Charles glittered on the left side of his jacket.
Pierre glanced sideways, saw her on her knees, bent over and weeping, and hurried past.
She huddled more tightly,so cold,and darkness covered her sight for a moment.
Something soft settled on her back.
When she looked up, Dieter Schwarz crouched beside her. His tuxedo jacket lay over her, and he was unbuttoning his shirt. “Stand up. Come with me.”
“I can’t,” she told him. “Everyone will see.”
He stripped off his tuxedo shirt, standing in just a white undershirt and his trousers, and tucked his shirt around her and under his jacket somehow. His low voice rumbled near her ear, “Stand up. You can stand up.”
Dieter wrapped one arm around her waist.
Strength flowed back into her legs, and she stood.
He caught her legs behind her knees and carried her out of the crowd.
Flicka huddled close to his chest, listening to his slow heartbeat.
When she opened her eyes, they were back in the hotel suite. Dieter lowered her to the bed, his arms strong around her.
Flicka whispered to him, “Don’t leave.”
Dieter crawled under the covers and held her until she stopped shaking.
When his hands stroked her skin, when he kissed her, when his mouth brushed against her skin and he pressed her back into the mattress, when his weight shifted to above her, when he moved in her, memories merged with dreams.
