Covert Operation #2
Flicka von Hannover
Some covert operations require daylight
and lawyers.
Flicka stood straight and still, smiling and squinching her eyes as if she were happy.
Pierre’s hand rested lightly on Flicka’s back near her waist, and he was smiling as if pleased and proud that he had managed to keep himself standing upright in the throne room of the Prince’sPalace. Daylight shone between them, though. He wasn’t mauling her for the cameras.
They stood beside the empty throne. Pierre wasn’t sitting in the low, gilded chair, of course. Sitting on the throne would be presumptuous, and Pierre was always conscious of how things looked.
A swarm of cameras bolted to different heights of tripods aimed at the two of them, and they clicked simultaneouslywhen the photographer thumbed the remote in her hand. She said, “Now, Your Serene Highnesses, look up toward the sunlight, if you would.”
Flicka raised her chin, as did Pierre, as if they were anticipating a new era for the Principality of Monaco. The morning sunlight glaring through the three stories of glass stung her eyes. She blinked but kept her mouth wrenched up in a smile.
Four enormouschandeliers like crystal fountains showered light on the room. Several stories above the inlaid marble floor, paintings of the labors of Hercules adorned the arched ceiling.
The predominant color in the throne room wasred:red curtains around the windows, red silk brocade with its subtle pattern offleur de lison the walls, the same red brocade on the chairs pushed to the sides of the room,red velvet covering the chandeliers’ chains, and red carpet on the steps leading to the elevated throne dais. Darker red silk upholstery covered the throne itself, matching the deep red, velvet curtains framing the dais and the enormous crown suspended thirty feet or more above where the monarch would sit in majesty.
Flicka had seen it done better.
But she stood beside the throne with her ex-husbandand smiled, doing her part, because although Pierre hadn’t threatened Alina yet, she wouldn’t put it past him.
Raphael should have taken Alina with him last night. He could have wrapped her in a coat or something and smuggled her out.
Nevertheless, every minute, Flicka was ready to leap away from Pierre Grimaldi and into Raphael’s arms if he and Rogue Security broke through the tall windows,swinging from rappelling ropes, or stormed through the wide doors at the other end of the hall, brandishing rifles.
The photographer smiled her bright red lips that matched the walls and said, “Turn your feet toward me, please, and just a little closer together?”
Pierre didn’t move, and Flicka shuffled a quarter of a step closer to his side.
The photographer grinned harder. She probably hatedboth of them. “Perfect, now everybody smile!”
Flicka continued smiling.
At the other end of the throne room, a man’s voice said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go in there.”
She looked over at the far set of doors.
Pierre half-stepped in front of her and spread his hand to signal her to stay back.
She wasn’t sure if Pierre was being protective—and he had always been as protective as his SecretService bodyguards had allowed him to be right before they hustled him into a waiting SUV—but maybe he was making sure she didn’t get away. She didn’t want to assign malice where he might be trying to be kind.
Of course, he was planning to kill the baby growing in her uterus, so maybe she could not possibly overstate his malice.
A cluster of men in dark suits stormed into the throne room.
One of them cried, “Sir, your Grace,sir!If you’ll listen as I explain the new rules to protect the Princess from any unnecessary commotion—”
A man’s very familiar voice said, “You can’t stop me. I grew up in this palace. I’ve been living on planes for a goddamn week, between Uncle Rainier’s funeral and then a concert in Canada and a wedding in the States. Don’t piss me off. I have the rightto go anywhere in this palace that I damn well want to, and he’s with me.”
Flicka raised up to her toes. “Alexandre?”
The flock of Secret Service agents jumped apart, looking at their shoes somewhat guiltily. Two very tall, blond men marched into the throne room.
The guy on the left was Alexandre Grimaldi, Pierre’s cousin. His long, blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore a blacktee shirt with his black suit slacks and jacket, as was befitting a guy who saw himself more as a musician than third in line to the throne of Monaco. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, and he looked haggard.
