Or that’s what Pierre had told Flicka, anyway.
Prince RainierIV had never said such a gauche thing to Flicka, of course, but he had always been more than pleasant to her. If he’d been against the marriage, surely Flicka with her hypersensitive social antennae would have picked up on it.
She was just paranoid. Rainier hadn’t ordered the gunman to shoot her. People can’t keep secrets like that. The whispers would have been all over the palace.
At the topof the long staircase that curved to the dance floor below, Pierre offered Flicka his hand, and she placed her fingers in his as they descended the steps. Her skin wasn’t touching him because she was wearing opera-length black gloves that rose past her elbows. Not actually touching his hand was a good choice.
The camera flashes intensified again, peppering them with white light.
How many timeshad they made this appearance together? They hadn’t entered events together until they were engaged, so it had been just the last year and a half. More than a dozen times, including their three wedding receptions, she estimated.
And, she swore to Heaven, this was the last time.
At the foot of the staircase, the orchestra struck up a waltz, and Pierre led Flicka out to the ballroom floor to startthe dancing.
Christine Grimaldi wasn’t in her place as third violin chair for the Monaco Phil. She was standing at the nearest open bar with her brother, Alexandre, and his wife, Georgie. All three of them wore formal evening wear and watched Flicka closely, like they were angling for an opening. Alexandre was dressed almost identically to Pierre, wearing a white-tie tuxedo with his Knight GrandCross of the Order of Saint-Charles honors.
Flicka couldn’t imagine that Prince Rainier IV had willingly bestowed the Knight Grand Cross upon Alexandre Grimaldi. Some blackmail or coercion must have been involved.
Men wearing dark suits stood at appropriate intervals around the ballroom, and several of them were eyeing Christine, Alexandre, and Georgie.
More men moved into position around thedance floor.
Surrounded.
Pierre twirled Flicka into his arms, and he gently rested one hand at her waist and clasped the other, extending his arms to hold her as far away from his body as could be proper. He wasn’t the type to take advantage in public, and Flicka relaxed just a bit.
More cameras flashed at them, of course. Bits of blue light floated through Flicka’s vision as they danced. Neonspeckles drifted over the crowd surrounding the dance floor.
Flicka scanned the other security men who would intervene if any of her friends tried to talk to her, looking for a friendly face, but Magnus Jensen didn’t seem to be in the ballroom.
Aiden Grier wasn’t there, either.
Flicka followed as Pierre led her in a careful waltz, spinning and covering the floor.
Other guests joined them onthe dance floor for the last chorus, whirling to the music.
It would be perfectly natural for Flicka and Pierre to talk as they waltzed. The orchestra was playing rather loudly, so there was little chance of anyone overhearing them.
She asked about Aiden Grier, “Did you find that redheaded man who had infiltrated your Secret Service, Tristan something?”
Pierre continued to smile but loweredone eyebrow, lest anyone think Prince Pierre was frowning at the Winter Ball. “No. Do you know him?”
“I’d never seen him before,” she lied, smiling pleasantly, “but his exit was quite memorable.”
“It doesn’t matter. We know how they’re going to assault the castle. We’re prepared for their helicopters and ninjas scaling the side of the cliff from the yacht below. It was a stupid plan to beginwith. I only regret that so many of them will die tonight.”
Pierre didn’t stop smiling as he said all that. Indeed, the upward twitch of his eyebrows suggested that he might enjoy being a prince who could order a small skirmish that would result in deaths.
Flicka looked over his shoulder as they waltzed, making sure they didn’t ram into anyone as they swooped and spun. They looked perfect whiledancing, of course. Princes and princesses always do. She’d had ballroom dance lessons since she was a small child, and so had Pierre.
Beyond Pierre, past the other dancers, Secret Service officers stood along the walls at parade rest and watched, keeping an eye on the dancers, the observers, and the balconies. Spiral wires ran from their collars to their ears.
As she watched, one of the menstanding at the corner flinched. He half-turned and stumbled, and he was yanked around the corner.
A different man stepped into that position.
The new man had dark hair, and even though they were twenty or so yards apart, she knew he would have ice-blue eyes.
