Pawned
Flicka von Hannover
Las Vegas Pawn Shop Operators might be good at haggling,
but they’re not as good as corrupt African politicians.
“One thousand dollars,” the pawn shop cashier said, her bleached-blond hair bobbing in the desert sunlight that streamed through the shop’s front window as she inspected the diamond necklace in her fingers, “and that’s a gift.”
It wasn’t.
Flicka von Hannover, also known as Her Serene Highness Friederike Marie Louise Victoria Caroline Amalie Alexandra Augusta,Prinzessin von Hannover und Cumberland,Princess of Great Britain and Ireland, Duchess of Brunswick-Lüneburg, etc., knew that this pawn shop con artist was trying to swindle her out of millions of dollars, but she desperately needed the money.
Flicka and DieterSchwarz—her hot, ripped, blond bodyguard and ex-lover who had helped her escape from her abusive, cheating, and maybe homicidal soon-to-be ex-husband—had been holed up in a cheap hotel room since they had flown into Las Vegas yesterday. Between them, they had a little cash in his wallet, two changes of dirty clothes in a duffel bag, and years of wonderful and painful emotional baggage.
The nightbefore, Flicka had used some of Dieter’s little bit of money to buy some sturdy toenail clippers. While sitting in their tiny hotel room amidst their few clothes and the television blaring to cover their conversation, she had snipped the jeweler’s wires that had held the Laurel Tiara on its steel frame.
“You should hide,” Dieter had said. “I’ll call in Rogue Security, and we’ll set up a fortressin the suburbs with round-the-clock security and electronic surveillance.”
“Pierre will have them followed,” she said, teasing the tiny, silver wires from between the diamond settings and clipping them. “He’ll immediately know where we are. Right now, it doesn’t look like he knows which continent we’re on.”
Which was why she couldn’t access her trust funds and banking accounts. If she did, Pierrewould see exactly where she was. He must already have his Secret Service in Nevada and looking for her. Pierre wasn’t stupid.
Arrogant, but not stupid.
“He knows you’re with me,” Dieter said.
“But he doesn’t know who ‘Raphael Mirabaud’ is,” Flicka said, citing the name on the fake passport Dieter had used to fly into the US.
Dieter turned over his big hands, beseeching her to listen to him.“They might put it together.”
Flicka said, “If we set up a ‘fortress’ here or if he follows your mercenaries from Paris and London, he’ll send Monaco’s army or a platoon of lawyers. I’m not sure which would be worse.”
Dieter said, “I can protect you from any assault he throws at you. No one will get past our front lines.”
“Pierre is acountry,”she reminded him, because her husband was theheir to the throne of Monaco, one of the few monarchies with any clout left. Pierre had the Monegasque Secret Service and their military intelligence at his disposal, and probably France’s intelligence services and military, too. Treaties bound Monaco and France tightly together. “He could send the French military if he wanted to. He could do just about anything.”
“Monaco doesn’t have missiles,for God’s sake, and neither Monaco nor France would attack the middle of the United States with a missile, anyway. The US would obliterate Monaco as a training exercise.”
“Then he’ll send lawyers,” she said, still clipping away at the tiny wires. “He’ll file injunctions or challenges or something, even before I finish establishing residency here so I can file the divorce paperwork. It’s onlysix weeks. We can go to ground for six weeks.”
“It’s risky,” Dieter said, leaning back in the chair where he sat across from her, drinking a glass of tap water. “It’s too risky. And you’ve never ‘gone to ground’ in your life. Where did you even hear that?”
“I read books, and it’s the better plan,” she insisted, still snipping the wires.
As Dieter spread his arms and locked his fingers behindhis head, the strong muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged under his pale blue shirt. The bleached summer sky color of his shirt reflected just a little in his gray eyes, making them look almost silvery while he stared at her. The lamplight from above the table made his blond hair darker than usual, the ash yellow of drying summer flowers in Switzerland. He said, “I need to contact Rogue or elsewe won’t have any money. I only have a little over a hundred dollars left.”
“I’m going to pawn the Laurel Tiara from the Hannover crown jewels. It’s worth millions in diamond weight, let alone it’s historical and specimen value. We’ll have plenty of money.”
“That’s not how pawn shops work.”
“Then we’ll get jobs,” she said.
“You can’t leave the apartment, if we can afford an apartment,” hesaid. “I’ll have to leave to go to work, and you’ll be unguarded and alone. I don’t like this at all.”
“I’ll work, too.”
“You can’t work somewhere without me guarding you.”
