The heat of his body flowed over her, and the rich, comforting scent of warm cinnamon drifted between them.
“But I can run,” she whispered. “We can outrun him.”
He said, “I will protect you. Stay down.”
Dieter twitched like someone had kicked him. He gasped, and a warm wetness soaked through Flicka’s dress and onto her ribs.
She asked, “Dieter?”
His Bluetooth earbud had fallen out of his ear, and she heard someone shout, “Free!” through it.
Dieter rolled off of her and grabbed his upper arm. Scarlet blood dribbled between his fingers as he tried to staunch the bleeding.
Two of Wulf’s tall security staff tugged at Flicka’s arms, trying to get her up and to the cars. She fought them off. Another black suit stood above her, aiming his pistol at anyone who moved near the perimeter.
Wulf slid to the ground beside Flicka, grabbing at where a blob of scarlet blood stained her white dress down her left side. His deep voice cracked as he yelled, “Flicka!”
“I’m not hurt! Dieter!” Flicka shouted, pointing.
On the grass beside her, Dieter lay on his side, clutching his upper arm. Flicka held her hands above him, unsure what to do.
Rae Stone was running toward them, her long legs and arms pumping as she ran.
A few yards away, a pile of burly men sprang apart, hauled Pierre Grimaldi to his feet, and hustled him toward a limo.
Pierre turned and reached through their broad backs, shouting, “Flicka! No!Retourne!”
The security men shoved Pierre into the car.
They didn’t come back for Flicka.
Wulf grabbed her arm. “Are you all right? There’s blood—”
Flicka told him, “I’m fine. He got Dieter!”
Rae dove to the ground beside them, looking around wildly at Dieter’s arm and Flicka’s dress.
Blood spilled between Dieter’s fingers where his hand clamped his arm and soaked his black suit coat, darkening it. He swore in a mishmash of German and Swiss-Deutch.
Flicka crawled toward Dieter, the grass wet under her palms. Her knees caught in the silk fabric of her wedding dress. “Are you all right? Answer me! Dieter,are you all right!”
Rae grabbed Dieter’s arm and pressed her hand over where he was bleeding.
Flicka touched his leg. “You’re okay, aren’t you?You’re okay.”
Over where the cars waited, Pierre’s car peeled out, its tires smoking. Security SUVs chased after it.
Wulf yanked off his coat and vest and said to Flicka, “We need to put pressure on the wound. We need bandages.”
A beeping police car skidded in front of the black SUVs and limousines.
Flicka tore at the slip inside her dress, ripping off a long, white strip of silk to use as a bandage. She threw it to Rae, who still held her hand over Dieter’s arm.
Rae caught the white streamer out of the air, wadded it up, and crammed it against the wound, pressing to stop the bleeding.
Flicka scrabbled for the seam up her side, ripping more bandage strips.
Wulf twisted his vest into a long cord, looped it around Dieter’s arm and the wad of ivory silk, and twisted the cloth, making a compression bandage.
