Her Guardian Angel
Flicka von Hannover
I wondered why the name
Raphael
upset him so much.
Flicka was seventeen years old and on a date.
She knew Antonius from Le Rosey. He was a senior, while she was still a junior in the upper school. They were both in London during the winter holiday break, and thus it seemed perfectly logical that they should go out to a charity event that he had been shanghaied to host and needed a date for.
Antoniusvon und zu Liechtensteinwas the third in line to the princely throne of the tiny country, but his older brother was probably going to get married and start popping out kids soon, pushing him down the line of succession.
Flicka didn’t know why anyone would want to push Antonius down the line of succession. He was by far the most gorgeous member of the Liechtenstein monarchy. His older brother was passable, but if Liechtenstein wanted to have a fantastically beautiful royal family like Monaco did, the older brother should really step aside and let Antonius breed the heirs. He had dark, almost-black hair and light blue eyes, hard and masculine bone structure on his cheekbones and jawline, and a lean, muscular physique because he played every sport at Le Rosey well enough that the Swiss Olympic teams had come sniffing around, assuring him of a place on soccer, fencing, or swimming if he wanted one.
Antonius did not, of course. If Antonius had ever wanted to practice hard enough to play for an Olympic team, he would represent Liechtenstein, his soul and his heart.
He didn’t care at all that he would not likely be the sovereign prince, he assured her. “I’m filthy rich and will handle all my princely duties for the rest of my life while having a simply fantastic time. I get all the fast cars I want, and no one cares about my grades at Le Rosey. Let me show you how much fun a person can have in one night.”
So, yeah. Why not have her picture snapped with the gorgeous not-really-heir to the throne and have a great time?
Already, Flicka was working hard on her own charitable causes and was beginning to work the publicity game. Her cotillion for young debutantes last year had been well-regarded, but next year, she wanted it to be a smashing success. She had made her debut in Paris at sixteen and had seen the need for a new, less traditional, more service-focused cotillion.
So, she needed more visibility.
Antonius was more than accommodating, and so she was ready at eight when his driver arrived at the door of Wulfie’s Kensington Palace apartment.
She and Wulfie had already had the conversation that began with, “You will take Dieter,” and “I absolutely will not,” and “He’s your security,” and “I don’t need a damn security blanket so get off my back,” and ended with slammed doors, so Dieter climbed into the front passenger seat and struck up a conversation with Antonius’s chauffeur.
Antonius turned and looked at her, grinning.
Flicka said, “I swear to God, if you tell anyone at school that I have a damned chaperone, I will kill you. Dieter taught me how to kill people. Didn’t you, Dieter?”
Dieter hardly glanced in the back seat. “Oh, yes, Antonius. She’s a highly trained killer. The Mossad tried to recruit her last year for their assassination team.”
He resumed talking to the driver about London traffic.
Flicka sat there with her mouth hanging open at snarky Dieter, but Antonius was laughing at her.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll have to make sure I don’t offend Princess Flicka, then, as she might tear my throat out with a salt shaker.”
At the supper, Antonius ordered a bottle of wine for them.
Flicka said, “Oh, this is London. We shouldn’t.”
In Switzerland, the drinking age is sixteen for beer and wine, eighteen for liquor. In Great Britain, a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old can drink beer or wine in a restaurant if an adult buys it for them and accompanies them.
“I’m eighteen,” Antonius said.
“Yeah, but you’re not my parent or something.”
“The law doesn’t say ‘parent.’ It says ‘accompanying adult,’ and here I am.” He filled her glass nearly to the top. “Come on, let’s have a good time. We’re young, we’re rich, and the world is ours.”
Across the room, Dieter glanced at Flicka and her very full wine glass before continuing to survey the balconies and windows for threats.
Flicka drank the wine.
