The third time Flicka danced with Pierre, the photographers rushed the security guys to take their photos, but Flicka barely noticed them.
Pierre smiled at her, and they reminisced about Wulf and when they were at Le Rosey together. One time when she was six, Flicka had fallen out of the twin bed that Pierre had vacated for her and ended up with her head pillowed on his stomach.
He’d been too sleepy to move her off, he confessed, even though her skull had bruised his ribs. It had been better to let them both sleep.
Flicka remembered it, and she’d laughed with him.
They’d had a drink or two in the wee hours of the morning, catching up.
Flicka talked to him about music, and he knew enough from his cousins Christine and Alexandre harping on it that he’d followed along. As a frequent patron of the arts, because he was a prince, he had good taste in music, too. He told her about the soloists that the Monaco Philharmonic had lined up for the next season, mentioning that he had a box for the symphony and the orchestra. If she’d like to see any of those august performers—and they were the cream of the classical crop—he could certainly make time to attend the event with her.
They’d ended up in a hallway off the main ballroom, where a baby grand piano had been stashed. She’d played a quick piece for him, one of the selections she’d prepared for the first rounds of The Leeds competition.
Pierre had marveled at her performance, complimenting her in just the right things because he had been around classical music his whole life, both in opening the seasons of the Monaco Philharmonic and other classical music groups because he was part of the royal family and from being dragged to recitals for his cousins, Marie-Therese, Christine, and Alexandre. Pierre told her that she needed to play more for him, that he’d really liked each one.
When she’d lifted her hands from the keyboards and looked up, she was a little giddy with champagne and dancing, like the hallway was sparkling with glee.
Dieter had been standing down the corridor from them, his hands folded in front of himself.
His face had been perfectly neutral, but he wasn’t watching the rafters and shadows for skulking assassins.
Dieter had been watching her with a blank expression on his face.
When her gaze had met his storm-cloud gray eyes, he’d held her gaze for a moment and then looked away.
Flicka should have known then.
