Magnus Jensen had slipped into the Monegasque man’s place.
As she watched the Secret Service agents, several more of them were removed.Other men stepped into their positions, men that she knew from her brother’sWelfenlegion:Luca Wyss,Romain Belmont, andJulien Bodilsen.
All over the Prince’s Winter Ball, Pierre’s security staff were being silently attacked, and theWelfenlegionand Rogue Security were taking over. One back wall was completely controlled by men she had known in Wulf’s house in the southwestern US. Those doorsled to the corridors used more by the housekeeping staff than guests.
As Sun Tzu had said inThe Art of War,“Pretend inferiority and encourage your enemy’s arrogance.”
Flicka said sweetly to Pierre, “I’m sure you have everything under control.”
The smile slipped away from Pierre’s face just as the music ended. “Don’t try anything. Don’t make me angry.”
“Of course not. The receiving line isnext?”
“After a few more dances. You can rest at the head table if you want. I need to confer with Quentin.”
A man’s very familiar voice asked, “If the Princess would like, may I have this dance?”
Flicka tried not to look.
It didn’t work.
She blinked, not believing what she was seeing.
Pierre glanced at the man who stood beside him, noting the long, black cassock and Roman collar, and didn’tbother even scrutinizing the priest’s face and wondering whether he had seen him before. Of course, his blond hair was longer now, and the tidy, blond beard changed his appearance, too. Princes didn’t look at priests, either.
Pierre said, “Of course, Monsignor. If it’s all right with you, Flicka?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Of course. I’ll see you later, Pierre.”
And she fell into Raphael’sarms.
The scarlet piping down the front of his long cassock and the red sash around his trim waist seemed like the only color in the black-and-white room.
Her hand alighted on his broad shoulder, and his hand clasped hers. He smiled at her a little with his mouth but more with his storm-cloud gray eyes.
The orchestra started up the next dance, another sedate waltz. Flicka held Raphael at arespectable arm’s length as they stepped through the dance.
She said, “It’s nice to see you again,Monsignor.”
Raphael’s hand stroked gently down to her hip before he placed it back on her waist. “Yes, my child. It’s good to see you, too.”
She wanted to beg him to get her out of there. She desperately wanted to demand information about whatever rescue Rogue Security had planned. “Are you enjoyingthe ball?”
His voice deepened. “I am now.”
He stepped closer to her, sliding his hand around her back and dancing too close to her in a wholly inappropriate, unpriestlike manner. His strong arm held her close to his body, and her hand drifted around to the back of his neck to feel his smooth skin above his collar.
Raphael guided her around the floor, smiling down at her. Heat seeped from hiscollar and warmed her fingertips around his neck. His thumb stroked her side, and his arm held hers firmly aloft as he led her. He held her tenderly but with utmost control as they danced.
This was the second time they’d ever danced together. The first had been at her own wedding to Pierre in Paris.
If they made it out of Monaco, she was going to insist on dancing with Raphael every night. Sheneeded his strong body guiding her every minute, forever.
She said, “My husband believes that the end of days is near, that it will be later tonight.” Just in case anyone was listening.
“He’s not your husband,” Raphael said.
“All right, then.Pierrebelieves it, and so do others.”
