She glanced at theman, and her eyes caught his.
His eyes were ice blue, and his hair was dark. Most people in Monaco were at least somewhat tanned by the Mediterranean sun, but this man’s skin was Scandinavian-pale.
His name was Magnus Jensen, she remembered, and he was the man who had asked no questions while he had driven her and Dieter from a hidden parking lot in Geneva to the train station.
Magnus lookedaway, and Flicka allowed her eyes to scan across the crowd as if she hadn’t recognized him.
Raphael, or Dieter, herLieblingwächter,had told her that even if he were dead, he would save her, and he would send Magnus Jensen to do it.
And Magnus Jensen was there.
Her black high-heeled pump caught on the stone step of the cathedral, and she stumbled.
Pierre caught her arm, steadying her.
Flickaheld her head high and walked into the cathedral.
The tears in her eyes were perfectly natural at a funeral, and later, the world’s media thought it wonderful and so human that she had expressed her grief at the passing of Prince Rainier IV with tears.
Flicka dipped and genuflected as they entered the front row of ornate armchairs, each upholstered in gray velvet, walking sideways between theseats and the kneelers before them. Pierre did the same. Secret Service agents filled the row on both sides and the whole row of seats behind them, too. Quentin Sault stood in the row behind them, three people over from Flicka. No one sat yet.
In the third row, behind the black-suited men, Georgie Johnson craned her neck and bobbed her head like she was standing on her toes. Her husband, AlexandreGrimaldi, stood beside her, his dark eyes focused on Flicka like he was trying to send a message with laser beams from his eyes.
She turned back to face the altar. The arched ceiling soared above them, and solemn chatter floated toward the statues and plaster far above.
Pierre gazed at the casket, still draped with the red and white silk of the flag, his eyes level and somber. He clutched thegray velvet of the kneeler before them, holding onto the cap rail until his knuckles reddened.
His leg, however, vibrated like he was ready to leap into action.
Maybe it was due to nervous twitches or exhaustion. While Rainer IV’s passing might be a shock to the rest of the world, Pierre had been standing vigil over the elderly Prince—holding his hand and talking to him, reassuring him and praisinghim—while he lingered between life and death, for hours every day, for weeks. The nurses had been so familiar with Pierre, bringing him food so he could wedge a meal into his time at the hospital. Several of them mentioned they would call him on his private phone when there was a change.
Flicka had been at Rainier’s bedside for some time the last couple of days, too. Listening to him gasp forbreath was hard, but she’d stayed, always wondering if he’d ordered her death.
But maybe he hadn’t.
Sitting beside the sickbed of the man who might have attempted to murder her felt odd, even cold, but he might not have done it. He might have just summoned a few odd reactions at inopportune times and not had anything to do with it. Rainier IV always had been just the slightest bit odd, havingbeen born and educated to be a monarch his whole life. Being raised with the divine right of kings in one’s pocket warps minds. It might have just been his intrinsic coldness and arrogance she’d seen.
In that case, she should sit with Prince Rainier IV and keep him company as he died.
The last few weeks hadn’t been easy for Pierre, either. He had managed to keep up with his own schedule andpicked up some of Rainier’s appointments, too, sleeping little. Business and planning meetings had been scheduled after midnight, and his trainer had arrived for brief, rigorous workouts before dawn. The dark circles under his eyes were real.
In the cathedral, Pierre stood straight beside her, the sunlight glowing on his black hair, and sighed. It sounded heartfelt, perhaps as it was supposedto.
Flicka dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief she’d stuffed in her coat pocket. With effort, she straightened her spine and breathed. Her eyes dried, and she blinked, keeping control.
Pierre’s fingers found hers as they stood together, facing the altar and the casket of the man who had raised him after his parents’ death.
He whispered, “They’ll crown me prince in a few days. This is everythingI’ve hoped for, my whole life. This is everything I’ve always wanted,finally.”
His dark eyes were unnaturally bright with excitement, and he squeezed her fingers.
Inside, Flicka winced at his reaction. It might just be exhaustion. Maybe all the Grimaldi sometimes had odd reactions to stress, not just Rainier IV. Maybe Pierre would collapse when they left the church in utter despair, and thatterrible thing to say at a funeral was just him distracting himself so he could stay on his feet until the funeral was over.
He said, “In a few days, we’ll be the Prince and Princess of Monaco, and I canfinallydo everything I’ve always wanted to. My life as the Prince can begin. It will all be mine, the country, the money, the wealth and fame, all of it. He’s finally dead, that asshole. Ifhe hadn’t had that stroke, I was about ready to squirt poison in his ear while he was asleep. Hebenon is a good poison for that. Now that he’s dead, he can’t threaten to cut me off ever again.”
Flicka gasped at the callousness of it and let her fingers drop away from his grip.
Hebenon.
