Still, he tailed her, and she knew he was there.
But the apartment was quiet without Wulfram, and Flicka had taken to knocking off her studies to keep Dieter company while he watched the BBC sports recap show every night.
That evening when the show had started, he’d thrown a pillow at Flicka to get her attention. She padded over, barefoot and wearing fluffy pajamas, and rolled onto the couch with him, plopping her feet in his lap.
He raised his thigh to block her heels thatstillseemed aimed at his balls, and he massaged the soles of her feet absently while they watched the show, just like most nights.
They spent many weeknight evenings like this, with her warmly curled against his side like a blond yellow Labrador retriever or with her hind paws in his lap, talking about sports and laughing at the worse rugby plays, football own goals, and cricket sticky wickets.
Tonight, she seemed twitchy as they watched, contemplating something.
Dieter sipped his beer. She would talk to him or she wouldn’t. She might be mulling over a difficult piece of music, in which case Dieter would be no help at all.
He stroked her feet gently, her soft heels and pink-painted toenails, while he watched the television. Manchester United had put on a clinic, keeping the ball in the air so much that it seemed like the players were dancing ballet instead of running on the ground.
His hands strayed up to her smooth ankles, massaging, and back down to her insteps. Even her heels were satiny.
And larger, he noticed. They almost looked like grown-up feet.
Flicka jumped across the couch and straddled his legs.
Her fragile hands cradled his jaw.
Her silky blond hair fell from behind her shoulders, curling softly around Dieter’s face, curtaining them.
“Hey!” Dieter leaned sideways, peering around her and trying to get out from under her hair.
“Dieter—”
“I can’t see the telly.”
“Lieblingwächter.”
He leaned the other way, half-hanging over the arm of the couch, and brushed her hair aside. “Come on,Durchlauchtig.Manchester played a brill match today—”
Near his ear, Flicka breathed, “Make love to me.”
“What!”Dieter pressed himself back into the couch cushions, trying to mash himself through the upholstery to escape.
Her sparkling green eyes were right above him, and her hands really were holding his face so that he couldn’t turn away. She said, “I’ve been waiting for you for years—”
“Flicka,no.No,Durchlauchtig. I don’t think of you like that. You’re just a little girl. I couldn’t—”
“I amnota little girl.”
“You are! You’re my little Flicka, myDurchlauchtig,and you’re Wulf’s baby sister. If you were any younger, I’d havecustodyof you while Wulfram is in Chicago.”
“I’mtwentyyears old,” she said.“Twenty.Not seventeen, not eighteen.Twentyyears old. The big two-oh.”
“Jesus, Flicka. If you had any idea how ridiculous that sounds—”
“—and I want to go to bed with you.”
“That’s aterribleidea.”
“I’ve had a crush on you for years.”
“A teenage crush. Flicka, I’m almost thirty. I’m not right for you. You’re just a little girl—”
