He didn’t like it.
Rae and Wulfram were still in their suite while Rogue Security and theWelfenlegionsecured the reception.
The cake had been under guard, lest someone poison it. Discreet metal detectors had been built into every doorway to and from the ballroom over the last few days. Some of the waiters, the ones walking around without trays nor collecting dirty glassware, were his men that walked among the guests, listening.
More men, obviously security personnel, stood at parade rest around the perimeter of the room, leaning against the walls, including behind him at the head table. The area where Wulfram and Rae would spend most of their time had been swept for devices and under guard since that morning.
The reception was as safe as Dieter could have made it, and now he was supposed to relax and enjoy himself.
How the hell was he supposed to do that?
Instead, he listened to his earpiece, where his captains calmly whispered their positions, observations, and tactics, without him.
Dieter sat alone on one side of the long head table, picking at his plate of hors d’oeuvres and fiddling with his napkin that had been folded into a graceful swan.
As visible as the head table was, the raised dais made it the high ground. He had an excellent view of the entire reception, past the many round tables where people were eating appetizers, to the sides of the room where the buffets and bars attracted hungry wedding guests, back to the wide dance floor in the back, where a covered piano stood and the string quartet played chamber music.
In his fingers, the napkin did not feel like a cheap, polyester suit. The material caught on the calluses on his fingertips like when he had run his hands over one of Flicka’s cocktail dresses when they had lived in London together.
She must have gotten her unbleached, ivory, raw silk napkins, and they had been origamied into swans, as specified.
Good for her.
Dieter wasn’t surprised in the slightest. That woman would have made an admirable general.
Carl von Clausewitz, the military strategist whom Dieter read compulsively, would have been impressed by Flicka’s planning acumen. Her war plans would have been so perfect that they would have survived first contact with the enemy, like no one else’s ever did.
The reception grew more crowded over the hours. Georgie Johnson, the latecomer to the wedding, and Alexandre Grimaldi sat on the other end of the head table and talked. Georgie had smiled at Dieter, which he had returned, but he was far too busy mumbling into his jaw mic and micromanaging Rogue Security and theWelfenlegionfor chit-chat.
Alexandre’s several security guys, including Paul Chevalier, whom Dieter had liaised with at Flicka’s wedding, took up standing guard behind the table, too. Dieter wondered where Alexandre’s man Adrien Roche was. Adrien was an excellent professional.
Wulf’s old school friend Yoshi sat beside Dieter, munching from a plate of sushi. He had just walked in with the riff-raff instead of doing the presentation thing. Dieter had always thought Yoshi was smart. They talked and ate. Yoshi ordered whiskey.
Yoshi had three security men with him, who squeezed in among theWelfenlegionand Rogue Security behind the head table to keep watch.
At the top of a long staircase that descended from the balcony to one side of the ballroom, the presenter standing on the stairs announced, “Their Serene Highnesses Pierre Grimaldi and Friederike von Hannover, Prince and Princess of Hannover and Cumberland.”
Finally.Dieter didn’t like it when she was out of his sight, guarded only by Quentin Sault’s Monegasque Secret Service personnel.
Dieter watched Flicka gracefully descend the stairs with her husband, her crystal-encrusted pink dress flowing behind her on the steps. Her blond hair twisted around her head in a sophisticated knot, securing a glittering tiara. She was holding Pierre Grimaldi’s arm.
Despite Dieter’s best attempt at producing magic psychic powers, Pierre Grimaldi did not mysteriously fall and break his ugly neck but safely reached the base of the staircase.
Dieter went back to eating his shrimp.
Since Flicka and Pierre had entered the reception, Rae and Wulfram must be readying themselves up at the top for their presentation and grand entrance. Presentations were in reverse order of social prominence and royal status, so Dieter had walked in the main ballroom doors without anyone shouting his name at the very start of the reception.
And thus, he had gotten first crack at the perfectly chilled shrimp.
Sometimes, being nothing and the son of no one had distinct advantages. He bit the head off of another shrimp while he listened to theWelfenlegionsecurity guys fuss over Wulfram and Rae up there. They must be hungry by now.
Flicka and Pierre arrived at the head table with laden plates. Flicka set her food down next to Georgie Johnson, but Pierre wandered off to mix and mingle. Quentin Sault followed Pierre, hovering unobtrusively. Jordan Defrancesco stood behind Flicka, holding up the wall behind them both.
Dieter shoved his earpiece deeper into his ear.
As Pierre walked into the crowd, Flicka watched him, her face as still as ice.
Dieter watched Flicka out of the corner of his eye because he’d never seen that particular expression on her face before.
