Whispers
Flicka von Hannover
Promises, promises.
After Raphael returned from the bank, he wouldn’t talk to her, pointing at the blue-plastered ceiling and walls of their small suite.
Yeah, Flicka got it. Microphones.
The guards continued their vigil and avoided eye contact.
Flicka had expected Diet—
No.
—She had expectedRaphaelto return from the bank with newsor theories or ideas orsomething.
What she hadn’t expected, however, was the finely tailored, dove-gray, three-piece suit he was wearing.
Flicka had been around men who dressedwellevery day of her life, starting with her father when she was toddling around the castle ofSchloss Marienburg,to her older brother (who had no personal taste but retained excellent tailors on Saville Row,) to everyroyal and nobleman she’d ever dated or been friends with. Exquisite fashion was not optional with the jet set. Every man she associated with socially wore fashionable, tailored suits that had cost ten thousand dollars or more.
DieterSchwarz had always dressed in suits cut generously under the arms and around the hips to conceal his weapons, as befitted a bodyguard. They’d just always lookeda little baggy or less than perfect on him, though he’d always looked acceptable. She’d never said anything. She’d never minded. It was just a little difference.
But now—
Now, Raphael Mirabaud wore a designer, Reiss suit with narrow lapels, a modern silhouette, and cut close to his muscular body. He took off the jacket, revealing a trim vest of the same gray wool that molded to his broad chestand tight waist. The sleeves of his white shirt contrasted it, accentuating his biceps bulging underneath.
“Wow,”Flicka said.
He raised a blond eyebrow and smiled with one side of his mouth.
“Nice suit,” she said.
Raphael frowned a bit and folded the jacket over the back of a chair. “My family owns a private bank. One does not do office casual at an elite financial institution. This morning,my father called emergency tailors, who rushed over with three suits and a box of shirts they altered on the spot. Evidently, custom suits have been ordered and will arrive within a few days.”
She laughed. “It looks good on you.”
“Does it?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She let her gaze travel down his muscular, toned body—those flat abs and long legs—and back up to his gray eyes that matched the grayof his suit. “Really good.”
“I’ve worn a suit around you many times.”
She grinned at him. “You know this one is better.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She moved closer to him, standing so close that she hid her mouth behind his broad shoulder so that the men at the door couldn’t see her lips move.
The carpet underfoot was thick and deep, and Flicka thought that it would dampen quiet whispers well enough.
She leaned toward him and whispered, “They’re holding us hostage.”
“Did anyone hurt you?” he asked, his deep voice sharpening, “or threaten you?”
“No, but they wouldn’t let me leave to go shopping to pick up some baby stuff. Your mother told me to make a list and give it to them. She said Valerian insisted that we couldn’t leave.”
“Did they get the things?” he asked, turning and watching her.
