If they were to have a chance, a real chance at something lasting—and he couldn’t believe that he was even thinking about such a thing when her marriage was currently falling apart and not legally dissolved yet—then Flicka had to know everything about him.
She had to know who he was and what that meant.
She had to know why he’d left her in London.
She had to know what he’d done and what he’d refused to do.
This time, their relationship had to start clean.
He couldn’t talk to her now, though, not in the middle of an airport terminal, waiting in line for passport control and security, and not when the police milling around with their automatic weapons and fatigues were clearly scrutinizing everyone in line, perhaps looking for two blond fugitives.
And yet, there was a chance that they might be grabbed and separated, and he might never see her again in this life.
Because if the French police found a man traveling under the passport of Raphael Mirabaud, Dieter might be charged, tried, and convicted of terrible things.
He might go to prison.
If he did, he would certainly be murdered there.
He held her hand against his chest and waited for the passport control line to inch forward.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dieter watched an airport security guard twiddle his fingers on the assault rifle he held across his chest. The guy checked a small tablet and surveyed the waiting crowd. From his demeanor and regulation haircut under his black riot gear and body armor, Dieter guessed that the guy was one of the military or police security officers who guarded the airport, rather than one of the five thousand private security guards who augmented the officials.
Security staff ringed the crowd that was trying to clear passport control.
The part of Dieter’s brain that would always be a commando hated this situation. It felt like a kill zone.
Another of the security personnel consulted his tablet and then looked over the crowd.
Dieter ducked his head, held Flicka’s hand closer to his heart, and watched.
They took another step toward the bored officials behind the desks and bulletproof glass.
