The center of the crowd was pulling back from around an old man, Georgie Johnson, and Alexandre Grimaldi.
In Dieter’s earpiece, his security forces checked in that they were monitoring the situation and had their weapons aimed at the problem area.
Alexandre jerked his hand out of the man’s grip. “Leave me alone.”
The man sprayed spittle as he shouted, “You don’t have the right to break your hand! You don’t have the right to run away and hide and take your gift from the world!”
Dieter whispered into his earpiece, “Are the wolf and lamb secured?”
“Affirmative,” Luca Wyss’s voice said. “Out the side door and monitoring the situation.”
Dieter glanced up. His Rogue Security forces were shadows on the balcony, their dark guns pointed at the center of the ballroom.
Another man’s voice said, “The assailant doesnotappear to be armed. Repeat:notarmed. Might be a social situation.”
“I’m at two o’clock,” Dieter said. “I have the songbird. It’s too crowded down here. I need personnel to break a path.”
“On our way,” another man’s voice said.
Within a minute,Magnus Jensen and Aiden Grier were at his sides, stretching their arms into the crowd to break a path out of the mob to a door and the hallway outside.
Flicka followed meekly, letting them lead but keeping up with Dieter and his two Rogue Security operators.
In the hallway, Dieter couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around Flicka, gathering even her arms into his embrace and shielding her.
Her slim form molded to his body, and she buried her face against his shoulder, clutching his lapels in her small fists.
He asked, “You’re all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “I hate it when that happens, especially in crowds.”
His heartbeat slowly returned to normal.
But Flicka didn’t unwind her arms from around his neck for a few more minutes, so he held her, breathing in the herbal mint from her hair and the faint rose scent of her perfume.
The End
Flicka von Hannover
Not our deal.
Flicka downed another hit of scotch as she waited for her husband in their suite.
The living room, where she sat on the couch, was done in pale blue and ivory, very French. The fabric under her legs and against her bare back was thick silk. Flicka wondered if it was durable, considering it was in a hotel, and then decided she didn’t care.
The whiskey was strong, dulling the bright fire of shock that had splashed over her skin.
She sipped the scotch again, trying to remember how many drinks she had had that night. Smoke and darkness covered her tongue, and fumes of wood trailed into her nose.
Liquid courage,she assured herself.
Maybe she was trying to get herself so drunk that she passed out, and then she wouldn’t have to do this. She’d already taken off the diamond necklace and earrings she’d been wearing, but her hair still wrapped the steel, platinum, and diamonds of the tiara. She’d have to unpin it later.
She checked her phone, but no new texts from Pierre had appeared. Her last text to him read:Can you come up for a few minutes? I have something I need to show you.
He had texted back:In just a few minutes. Talking to friends.
The printed-out pictures and birth certificates lay on the coffee table that stood before the couch. She set her tumbler on the glass top, leaving a wet ring where a few drops of scotch had rolled down the side.
