Flicka was so intent on listening to their fascinating maybe-Scottish accent—Aye, lassie, that’s a wee bit o’luck—that she didn’t see three men turn in the crowd to follow her.
The Scots merged into the crowd ahead of Flicka, and she couldn’t hear them anymore.
No matter.
She swung her purse a little, playing with it, while she trotted toward the corner of Kensington High Street and De Vere Gardens, where Josephine’s family had a flat among the gorgeous period buildings there. They had bought several flats and integrated them so that they had a whole floor to themselves.
She was just about to step off the sidewalk at the corner when two men grabbed her elbows. “Hey!”
A dirty, white car pulled up right in front of her, blocking that way. The back door opened.
She struggled, trying to get away.
The man growled,“In,”and shoved her toward the door.
Flicka fought them, but they were so strong that she could barely wiggle. She pushed with her feet and tried to sit down on the sidewalk, but the men lifted her by her arms.
The men tossed her inside. Flicka landed on her hands and knees in the back seat of the dirty, white car.
Her little purse tumbled off her wrist. The upholstery inside was ripped, and sandwich wrappers rattled on the floor.
She kicked backward, trying to catch one of them and at least hurt them.
Her thin sandals probably wouldn’t do a damn thing. Damn it, why did she have to be such a pretty-ballerina princess? She should have cultivated an edgy persona so that she could wear combat boots and kick the shit out of these assholes.
Her foot connected with somebody.
A heavy hand swatted her leg to the side, banging it on the door frame.
She flipped over on her back and started kicking like she was trying to stomp out a fire.
The angry man sneered and slapped at her feet, trying to close the door. His accomplice was already running around to the passenger side.
Flicka kicked harder.
The angry man flew sideways, his mouth anOas he fell.
Dieter replaced him, his gray eyes slitted in rage. He shoved the car door aside and reached in, grabbing her ankle and yanking her out.
She pushed off the car seat and flipped toward him, landing in his arms.
Dieter slung her legs around so that he carried her against his broad chest and sprinted into the park of Kensington Gardens.
Flicka clung to his neck and watched over his rounded shoulder.
The dirty car peeled out and drove into the barely moving traffic. Other cars honked and ran up on the sidewalk, trying to get away from it. The kidnappers turned across two lanes and raced down the avenue of De Vere Gardens.
“It’s okay,” she told Dieter, breathless from terror. “They drove away. They’re not chasing us.”
He ran farther with Flicka in his arms and turned down another sidewalk. Trees blocked their view of High Street.
Dieter jogged to a stop and set Flicka on her feet.
He grabbed her shoulders and shouted at her, frantic, “Youmust notrun away from the drivers. Youmust notditch your security! Flicka,they got youthis time!”
“I’m sorry!” She stupidly burst into tears. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to walk because traffic was so bad—”
Dieter lunged forward and wrapped his arms around her, clutching her to his body.“Durchlauchtig,promise me that you won’t ever do this again. Never,everagain.”
