But the thin, gold wedding ring on her hand,thatmeant everything to her and was so much more important than any of that frippery. It meant Raphael’s love for her. It meant her love for him. No matter where Raphael Mirabaud was or if he were even still alive, she had his ring, and she still loved him.
Raphael Mirabaud, Dieter Schwarz, whatever he wanted to call himself was fine with her. Hewas herLieblingwächter,and he was alive out there in the world, somewhere.
He had to be.
Flicka lifted her gaze to the man behind the desk and resolved not to look away, for she did not want to appear weak.
Prince Pierre Grimaldi of Monaco was a glamorously handsome man. All the celebrity media said so. Some tabloids devoted photo spreads to candid snapshots of his rippled abdominals andbroad shoulders when he emerged from the Mediterranean Sea, water streaming over his muscled physique like a Greek demigod. Slick magazines preferred more elegant pictures of him gambling in the Monte Carlo casino, wearing a tailored suit that set off his thick, black hair, sharp cheekbones, and dark, sultry eyes.
When Flicka had married Pierre less than a year ago, rumors had circulated of increasesin the suicide rates of young women who had pined for him, though Flicka suspected that the Palace’s public relations department had manufactured that rumor, as they had so many others. She thought it callous to pretend women had killed themselves over the prince’s marriage, leaving their families mourning for decades. She worried that glorifying the suicides might lead vulnerable women tofollow them.
Yet, the Palace PR department had a job to do, which was to make the royal family and thus Monaco seem more alluring, desirable, and worthy for investment and large, corporate expenditures. They did their job well. Decades ago, ninety-six percent of the government’s income came from gambling in the Monte Carlo casino, as Monaco levies no income taxes. Gambling income had droppedto three percent of the government’s budget due to the vast and rapid increase in tourism and convention income. The royal family was essential for Monaco’s image, and thus, its existence.
At that moment, however, Prince Pierre Grimaldi was holding a thin sheaf of paper in his slim hands. His fingernails were neatly trimmed and buffed, as usual. He neither frowned nor smiled. His carefully neutralexpression bore a hint of sadness around his eyes.
He was projecting an image every bit as much as Flicka was, and they were both very practiced at it. They had been under the lenses of cameras their whole lives, and this meeting was just another performance.
They did have a lot in common. In theory, their marriage had been perfectly logical. It should have worked.
The office’s door stood opento the hallway and other offices outside, a gesture Flicka appreciated. With it open, Pierre’s office didn’t feel quite so much like a snapped trap. The suggestion was that she could walk out that doorway, though of course, she couldn’t. The suggestion was that the presence of witnesses would keep her safe from assault, though no one strolled by the door outside and no voices chattered in thehallway.
Quentin Sault, Head of Pierre’s Secret Service protection detail, stood behind Pierre. He leaned against the wall at parade rest with his hands folded behind his back and stared straight ahead, perhaps at the art behind Flicka and over her head. He hadn’t said a word during the meeting so far nor gestured, except to incline his head to acknowledge her presence when she’d come in. Heprojected a studied impression of not actually being in the room.
Flicka suspected Quentin was there less as Pierre’s bodyguard and more as a witness to the proceedings, albeit a very private witness.
Pierre drew in a deep breath in preparation to speak, and he stared at the paperwork in his hand, not at Flicka. “First, thank you for returning to Monaco and our marriage. I realize I have breachedyour trust in unforgivable ways, and I appreciate your kindness and graciousness in your return. I assure you that I will never abuse you nor your trust again.”
Flicka nodded. Pierre surely didn’t mean he had given up his other wife and family, but this situation called for politics, not confrontation.
Pierre continued, “We will establish a schedule and system that works for us. I won’t interfereor inquire about your private life.”
She nodded. She would certainly do the same. She planned to never confront Pierre about Abigai Caillemotte and their four children together ever again. Dancing with Abigai at his wedding to Flicka had been unforgivable. Her heart still hurt.
“You may have your pick of accommodations within the palace. The guest suite was meant to be temporary. Just tell thestaff where you’d like your things moved, and it will be done.”
She said, “The guest suite is fine for now. I’ll let you know.”
Her own clothes, the ones that she had left in the suite she’d shared with Pierre, had already been hanging in the guest suite closet when she’d arrived, so she’d been able to pick up right where she’d left off and had chosen which of her clothes she would wear thismorning. She’d worn a black sheath business dress with a high collar and low hemline. The cut wasn’t so much prudish but rather a very visual signal that Pierre didn’t have the right to even look at her skin.
He said, “I must ask one thing, however, and it is for informational purposes only. I do not judge. Indeed, I am in no position to judge at all, I think we both understand. Quentin saidthat you told him Alina Mirabaud is your biological daughter from a previous relationship.”
As long as Alina was in Monaco, Pierre could threaten her, even though Flicka was quite sure his threats would be mild compared to what the Ilyins had threatened. Nevertheless, Flicka wanted Alina to be somewhere safe, which meant somewhere else.
Flicka held her chin up. “Not at all. I lied to Quentinand told him that so he would rescue the child from the Russians after he’d refused to do so. I’m not heartless.” She lifted her eyes to look behind Pierre, to where his head of security stood. “Sorry, Quentin.”
Pierre continued, “I am only inquiring, as I said. When was she was born?”
“Almost two years ago.”
Pierre frowned. “We were dating at that time.”
“Yes.”
A line creased between Pierre’sbrows. “I mean no disrespect nor criticism, but I remember you were a littlezaftigat the time.”
“Good God, Pierre. I got chubby, but I was not nine-months pregnant. I indulged in the mousses and cakes that they served at those charity balls we attended, the ones my trainer won’t allow me to sniff anymore, lest even the scent of sugar undo all her hard work.”
“The timeline for a concealed pregnancyaround that time fits,” Pierre said. “I remember you left for a month that spring, ostensibly to soak in the sun and get a base tan before summer. You could have had the child and recovered during that time.”
