She stared at Pierre’s back until black tuxedos and gemstone gowns of the crowd swallowed him.
Then, she turned to Georgie Johnson and Alexandre Grimaldi, Pierre’s cousin, to chat.
Wulf’s other groomsman, William, and his wife Kate were duly presented and joined Dieter at the head table, laughing and shaking hands with both him and Yoshi before they sat. They came with their own black-suited security people, of course. The area behind the table was beginning to get very crowded by large, burly men wearing earpieces and restlessly scanning the swarming wedding guests.
When a cocktail waiter came by, Flicka grabbed fistfuls of wine glasses and ordered liquor.
When the waiter approached him, Dieter waved the woman away. Dieter was working, or he might be working if anything happened.
Flicka was still talking to Alexandre Grimaldi and Georgie, becoming more animated as the glasses in front of her changed from full to empty.
Dieter would need to keep an eye on Flicka if she intended to get smashed tonight.
He couldn’t blame her, though, not after being kidnapped and told God-only-knew-what by her father right before she had to go to battle, or at least finish arranging the wedding.
When Georgie walked over to the buffet to refill their appetizer plates, Flicka staggered behind the table toward Dieter.
He kicked the chair beside him out for her.
She sat heavily and thumped her tumbler of whiskey on the table. “I have something for you.”
“All right.” Dieter surveyed the room to make sure no one approached the head table.
Flicka’s hand alighted on his thigh.
Electricity raced under his skin at her touch, and his body tightened. He didn’t allow anything to show on his face, but his heart hammered.
He’d been dying for her to touch him for years, ever since that night when he had done absolutely the right thing and walked away from her. Even when he had been married to Gretchen, he’d silently, shamefully, longed for Flicka.
And now, with her fingers clutching his thigh, he didn’t know what to say. She was still married to Pierre and probably out-of-her-mind drunk as well. At best, this was a revenge screw, and she might not be competent to make a decision. He didn’t sleep with drunk women, not even her.
He swallowed hard, trying to figure out what to do, trying to control his pulse that galloped like a thousand horses in his veins.
Dieter covered her delicate hand with his, feeling the silk of her skin under his palm.
He couldn’t resist her. He never could.
Flicka said, “I’m handing off a flash drive.”
Oh.“I knew that.”
“What did you think I was doing?”
“Nothing. Just didn’t know that was the hand-off.” His heart slowed.
She withdrew her hand, and sure enough, a small square was pressed between his hand and trouser leg.
Dieter palmed it and dropped it in his pocket. “What is it?”
“I was wondering if I could ask you the most significant of favors.”
“Of course.”
“There are PDFs of several official French documents on that drive. Is there any way you could validate their authenticity?”
“You want me to hack the French government in just a few hours?” he asked, toying with his water glass.
“Yes, and right now. If they’re real, I need to confront Pierre tonight, not after we go to Monaco.”
