Georgie and Alexandre finished the song and were staring at each other like one of them was going to throw the other on top of the piano and screw their brains out.
Flicka did not know which of them to put money on.
But the song was over. She had arranged an adequate musical interlude.
And so she went back to dealing with the nobility and deposed royalty and their fragile insecurities and overblown egos.
Flicka beamed at all of them, massaging their egos and negotiating their place in the room and society, until many of them drifted away.
By three o’clock, the reception room was nearly empty.
Some of the flower arrangements had been dismembered. Dark red roses and Delft blue hydrangeas were scattered across the white-topped tablecloths and had been trampled into the carpeting. Water soaked through the lower layers of fabric that dressed the tables.
Even though the waitstaff had worked hard the whole time, dirty silverware and china littered the tables. Cake crumbs and frosting smears marred the chairs and floor.
The room looked like a food fight had taken place instead of the quiet barbs and veiled insults that had sallied through the crowd.
The DJ was packing up his speakers and tablet. The string quartet was talking quietly as they clicked their instrument cases shut.
Done.
Flicka wanted to go back to bed and sleep for a week, but she had to attend Wulfram’s second, private supper.
She hadn’t eaten much at this reception, just downed enough coffee and champagne to get her through the hours.
Pierre appeared at her side. He didn’t look any worse for not having come back to their room last night.
Sometimes while they had been dating, he would come back the next day battered, sporting a black eye or a bleeding lip. She assumed a bar fight and didn’t ask.
Wounds or noticeable bruises on Pierre would have been difficult to explain since their wedding night was supposed to be the night before, so at least he hadn’t done that.
Dieter and the other security people were herding everybody to the doors for the procession to the cars that would take them to the next restaurant.
She watched Dieter from the corners of her eyes, looking at how he quietly orchestrated the maneuver.
He was a consummate professional, but there was always something dangerous about the way he moved, like he was ready to block a thrown punch or leap at an attacker, especially in public. He held himself like the commando he had been. His stories about rescuing people when he had been with ARD-10 had made her gasp with horror while sitting on the edge of her seat.
But that had been when she was a teenager, when he’d lived with her and Wulf in London.
When just the two of them had lived together at Kensington Palace, she’d helped him with his graduate school essays. His English was very good, but her grammar had been a little better. She’d just edited his verb tenses in his papers and thesis, and thus she’d learned a lot about military tactics and strategy, not to mention things from his M.B.A. classes that served her quite well as she managed her charities. She employed professional managers, of course, but she understood better what they were talking about, thanks to Dieter’s many papers.
He had listened to her piano pieces when they were almost, but not quite, ready for performance. The heightened awareness of performing for him had made her scrutinize her interpretation and technique, and she’d always found ways to improve a piece before anyone else heard it. His kind attention had given her the confidence she needed to perform the works for a grade or an audience, or in a competition.
She missed him.
But it wasn’t her fault they didn’t do that anymore.
The entourage began to move forward through the lobby of the hotel and into the afternoon daylight outside. The concrete planters outside the George V Hotel overflowed with pink and yellow spring flowers.
A row of black SUVs was parked along the driveway, doors open, waiting.
Flicka was almost to the cars when the air cracked around her.
She flinched, ducking, and looked back.
Not again. Dear Lord, dear Jesus, not again.
Looking back was stupid. Flicka should have leaped into the car. She knew it was stupid as soon as she turned, but she had to look.
