Valerian Mirabaud
Flicka von Hannover
I should have seen the similarity
in their gray eyes
years ago,
but they had always looked so different.
Inside the van, Flicka grabbed a seat and fell backward into it, staring around herself.
Her eyes fixed on the white-haired man in front of her. She’d met him several times before, of course: her wedding, two ShootingStar Cotillions when he’d chaperoned his nieces, and dozens of other events. “Valerian? What are you doing here?”
“Saving my son,” Valerian said, “and saving the woman who was supposed to be his wife, but I’m very surprised to see that is you, Flicka.”
“But who were those guys?” She looked over to where Dieter sat. She’d figured out “Raphael” was one of the Mirabauds, but Valerian was the headof the Geneva Trust board. Discovering that Dieter was Valerian Mirabaud’s son was exactly like a revelation that Pierre Grimaldi was not just some guy from southern France but the heir to the throne of Monaco.
Dieter was holding his head in his hands like his world was ending.
She asked, “Dieter?”
“No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Not Dieter.Raphael.I’m Raphael Mirabaud.”
A hollownessin his voice made her reach out for his shoulder, but he flinched away.
Dieter said, “We need to get Flicka to her brother, Wulfram von Hannover. She’ll be safe there.”
Valerian Mirabaud didn’t even blink his dark gray eyes. “Why would we do that, Raphael?”
“She’s a client,” he said. “You wouldn’t want one of my clients in Geneva with us. It would be a distraction.”
Valerian smiled at him.Somehow, even though the curve of his lips over his straight, ivory teeth was shaped exactly like Dieter’s smile, Valerian’s expression sent chills up Flicka’s spine. “She’s not just a client, Raphael.”
“Of course, she is,” Dieter said. “I take pride in my job as a bodyguard. She’s just a client. Actually, her brother is the client. She’s the principal.”
Another man’s voice called from the backof the van, “Friederikevon Hannover is not just your client. Is she, Raphael?”
Flicka twisted in her seat and looked over the high back as the van rocked around a corner.
The man sitting in the third row of seats was hunched over, clasping his hands between his knees, but Flicka knew him. The sun glinted on the white-and-gold hair of the silver fox who’d perched on one of her barstools everyday at the Silver Horseshoe for months. “Bastien?”
The older man nodded, still bent over, and he crossed his arms over his thin chest.
Dieter turned in his seat. “Uncle Bast?”
Bastien shrugged without unwinding his arms.
Dieter asked her, “How the hell do you know Bastien?”
“He came into my casino every day. First, the Monaco, and then he found me at the Silver Horseshoe. He signed my residencyaffidavit.”
“And it didn’t occur to you to tell me that a guy named BastienMirabaudhad been hanging around?” He sounded more desperate than angry.
“I didn’t know his last name. He never said, and I couldn’t read his signature. I didn’t even notice where he’d printed it.”
From behind them, Bastien said, “I kept my back to you, Raphael, and stayed out of your line of sight. I wasn’t too badat it, evidently. The crowds helped. I’ve always been good at being overlooked, and I probably appear a little different than when you left.” He touched the crown of his head where his hair was the thinnest.
