Even from above and far away, even with his back to her, she knew who he was, and her heart beat faster.
It made sense, when she thought about it.
Pierre Grimaldi—her ex-husband, first in line to inherit the throne of Monaco after his uncle, Prince Rainer the Fourth, someday abdicated or passed away—needed to send a message toher.
Would he come in person?
No.Assuming Raphael wasn’t around to beat the crap out of him, the last time Flicka had seen that jackass Pierre, she’d given him a black eye and had nearly broken his arm because—
She swallowed hard.
—because he’d raped her.
She might have ransacked the house for firearms and shot him from the high-ground vantage on the second-story balcony. She certainly wouldhave told him to go to Hell and wouldn’t have listened to a damned word he said.
So he wouldn’t have come himself.
Would Pierre have sent the only man he trusted, his Head of Security, Quentin Sault?
No.Quentin had dragged Flicka into Pierre’s bedroom and locked the doors. Flicka might have tried to shoot him from the balcony, too, and again, she would have told him to go to Hell and keepgoing there until he ended up in the lake of fire at the bottom.
If the Prince of Monaco wanted to send Flicka a message, who would he send that she would listen to and might be able to convince her to go back to Monaco?
Someone as royal as he was.
Someone she loved and who loved her, in his own way.
Someone who held a darkness in him that drew everyone in, who stole the breath of everyonewho looked at him, and who was a gravitational force no one could resist.
Flicka hung over the balcony and yelled,“Maxence!”
He turned, and because the sun outside was hidden by cool fog, his smile lit the room. “Flicka!”
She ran down the long, curving staircase, her hand skimming the bannister, and threw herself into his arms.
He laughed and hugged her.
When she wrapped her arms aroundMaxence—Pierre’s younger brother and thus second in line for the princely throne of Monaco—the fabric of the suit seemed to collapse. His waist was too thin.
She looked up at his face, and even though he was smiling, he was gaunt.
Flicka didn’t disengage herself but called over her shoulder, “Hey, Kyllikki! Can we get some scones and cookies and tea?”
“Yes, miss,” the housekeeper called back.Flicka had gotten them talking to her in the past few weeks because that silent-service thing was weird. She needed human voices around her. “Do you want just tea or—”
“Justtea,” Flicka told her. “In the blue sitting room.”
“Coming right up.” Kyllikki trotted toward the kitchen.
She hugged Maxence more tightly, so glad to see someone,anyone,from real, normal life that she could not helpherself.
Maxence rubbed her shoulder with one hand. “If I would’ve known you would be this glad to see me, I would’ve come sooner.”
She whispered in his ear, “Does Pierre know where I am?”
He murmured near her shoulder, “Anaïs Mirabaud told my cousin Marie-Therese that she’d seen you or implied it at some point. Marie-Therese called Pierre. It was merely a matter of asking the right peopleat that point.”
Of course, Marie-Therese Grimaldi had run straight to Pierre. She always was a little suck-up.
