“But you graduated from the Royal Academy of Music in London! It’s the best conservatory in the world! You’re an amazing musician. You shouldn’t have to give up your career just because you married some guy with dynastic problems, as everyone is calling it these days.”
“It’s different, Christine.”
“Look, I might not be exactly authorized to offer you a piano soloist position with the Monaco Phil, but I’m doing it anyway.”
Flicka laughed at her. “Only the conductor can do that. And there are auditions and protocols.”
“First of all, you’re better than our current soloists. Second, crowds would throng the halls and fight for tickets if we had the Princess of Monaco playing solos. We could sell only season tickets and jack the prices up sky-high. The Philharmonic would be swimming in money. Say you’ll do it.”
“If you guys need money, I’ll just ask Pierre or his uncle.”
“Flicka, baby, I’m talking record deals. I’m talking concerts where the Philharmonic is out on a floating stage in the harbor and we nail thousands of seats to the cliffs.”
Flicka was cracking up at the ludicrous image of people sitting in seats, nailed to the cliff face. “Okay, okay. I’ll think about it. Maybe after I get these schools set up, I can consider a few performances. I’ll ask Pierre about it.”
“Ask Pierre? Good God, Flicka. What is wrong with you?”
“Well, being the Princess means I have royal duties, and I have to juggle everything. But I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good!” Christine said as they reached the other side of the dance floor. She changed the waltz position into a breezy hug. “Lovely reception. Great time. I have to go. My brother is here with some drunken Czech model, and he keeps making eyes at me to rescue him. See you in Monaco!”
The Wedding Night
Flicka von Hannover
Even a deposed princess
deserves a fairy tale
wedding night.
When Flicka returned to the hotel after her reception, she went directly to the concierge desk and explained to them that they would be hosting a reception for a royal wedding in approximately nine hours.
Panic flashed through every one of the assembled concierges, but they all pulled out their phones and began dialing and typing as they ran.
The most senior concierge, Huguette, who had worn a bathrobe over striped pajamas to the meeting, opened her desk drawer and removed a large, honest-to-God Rolodex. She spun the paper-stuffed wheel as if a genie would emerge and told Flicka, “We will handle the details. We need only to know what kind of food and cake you would like, what kind of music is appropriate, and the colors you would like on the tables and decor. We will make it happen, your grace.”
Flicka called her admin Alcide and had her samples book from her wedding delivered to the concierge’s office.
German efficiency had met French hospitality, and Flicka and Huguette bashed out all the details in twenty-five minutes, sharp.
Now that’s a fairy tale come true.
Back in the suite that she and Pierre occupied, Flicka stripped off her ivory, pearl-encrusted reception dress and changed into the lingerie she’d bought for her wedding night.
The lace gown swished around her slippers as she peeked out of their bedroom. “Alcide,” she whispered, “is Pierre back?”
Alcide glanced at her phone and frowned. “No, the cars didn’t bring him back. Quentin and two other Secret Service are with him, though. No need for concern.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.” Flicka pressed the bedroom door closed and went back to sit on her king-size, canopied bed. White and gold silk draped the bed, literally fit for royalty.
Her phone screen already read three o’clock in the morning, and Flicka sat on the bed for another hour before she fell asleep.
Because she was so exhausted and the hour was so late, her sleep should have been dreamless and deep.
Instead, Flicka’s vivid memories merged with a dream, and she walked out of her suite and down to the wedding reception, where everyone was still dancing and talking without her.
She moved among them, but no one noticed her, which was probably good because she was naked.
Because of course she was.
Flicka tried to hide under the staircase, covering her naked boobs with her hands. Luckily, she’d had her legs waxed the day before her wedding.
People walked by, all of them wearing clothes.
No one seemed to notice where she crouched, cold and naked, under the stairs. Flicka wept.
Except for Pierre.
He walked by, looking dashing in his tuxedo and glittering honors, a red sash crossing his broad chest under his coat. The eight-pointed, diamond-encrusted star designating him as a Grand Knight of the Order of St. Charles glittered on the left side of his jacket.
Pierre glanced sideways, saw her on her knees, bent over and weeping, and hurried past.
She huddled more tightly, so cold, and darkness covered her sight for a moment.
Something soft settled on her back.
When she looked up, Dieter Schwarz crouched beside her. His tuxedo jacket lay over her, and he was unbuttoning his shirt. “Stand up. Come with me.”
“I can’t,” she told him. “Everyone will see.”
He stripped off his tuxedo shirt, standing in just a white undershirt and his trousers, and tucked his shirt around her and under his jacket somehow. His low voice rumbled near her ear, “Stand up. You can stand up.”
Dieter wrapped one arm around her waist.
Strength flowed back into her legs, and she stood.
He caught her legs behind her knees and carried her out of the crowd.
Flicka huddled close to his chest, listening to his slow heartbeat.
When she opened her eyes, they were back in the hotel suite. Dieter lowered her to the bed, his arms strong around her.
Flicka whispered to him, “Don’t leave.”
Dieter crawled under the covers and held her until she stopped shaking.
When his hands stroked her skin, when he kissed her, when his mouth brushed against her skin and he pressed her back into the mattress, when his weight shifted to above her, when he moved in her, memories merged with dreams.
She was twenty again.
The world was easy.
She thought about her piano recitals and classes and how blissful it was to be in love.
She laid her fingers on Dieter’s cheek. His late-night stubble was rough against her hand.
He turned his chin and kissed her palm, never breaking eye contact. His gray eyes held the storms of time. His golden hair shined like a halo.
Angel.
He whispered, “I love you,” and held her as he drove her higher, flying in his arms. The breeze from his enormous, white-feathered wings cooled her skin.
“Hold me,” she whispered. The apex of their flight felt like a sigh, a moment of weightlessness. Her body blossomed with golden light until the glow consumed her.
When Flicka woke, she was happy, but she was alone in her bed.
Her phone screamed texts at her.
The bedside clock read six o’clock.
The other side of the bed was smooth and cold. The pillow was perfectly fluffed, and the sheet hem was neatly folded back.
Pierre hadn’t come back to their room at all.
The dream began to slip away as the bed and hotel room solidified around her. When she checked her phone, twelve texts needed to be answered.
This was real. Nothing else was.
Flicka pushed the sheets and comforter aside and rolled out of bed.
She had another damned royal wedding and reception to plan.
Calling Home
Dieter Schwarz
One of my better phone calls home.
Dieter lay on his hotel room bed, absently fiddling with the pale yellow duvet, and calculated the time change between Paris and the American Southwest. The bed smelled faintly like smoke, and it mad
e him want a cigarette. He’d slipped a few days before and smoked one, but now he was back on the wagon.
His room at the George V Hotel was a decent-sized one. Dieter and Wulf made sure the security guys had reserved some of the larger rooms, which meant that some of the other wedding guests, the royal ones, must have gotten smaller accommodations. That made Dieter grin.
The room had a nice television that could be watched from the bed and a wide desk to work on, so he was happy.
The dark blue curtains coiled on the floor. He didn’t like that they were a tripping hazard in the case of an emergency, so he had tucked the spilled fabric back against the wall.
His phone read that it was 4:08 A.M. in Paris, which meant that it was 8:08 P.M. the previous night at home.
Yes, Alina should be down for the night, at least as much as she was ever down for the night, but his wife, Gretchen, should still be up.
He tapped the contact to call.
After a ring or two, Gretchen answered, “Yes?”
“Hi,” Dieter said, “just checking in. How’s Alina?”
“Fine. Why wouldn’t she be fine?” Gretchen said.
“Just making conversation. Is she saying any new words?”
“Just the usual. She likes pumpkin pie now.”
“Hey, that’s great.” Alina, their toddler, was a notoriously picky eater. At this point, even pie was an improvement. “How was work?”
“Fine,” Gretchen mumbled.
“And anything else going on?”
“No. Why would something else be going on?”
“I don’t know. I’m tired. I got shot today.” He patted his elbow but not the stitched-up wound. The gash itself was sore.
“It’s four in the morning there, right?”
Maybe she hadn’t heard him.
“Yeah. A little after,” he said, checking his phone screen again because exhaustion was messing with his short-term memory. “Been busy.”
“Why were you out until four in the morning?”
“Wulfram’s younger sister’s wedding receptions were tonight,” Dieter explained. “We were on duty until Wulf and Rae were in their residence for the evening.”
“Yeah, Friederike. She’s pretty.”
Oh, Dieter knew better than to fall for that one about any woman, but especially one whom he spent any amount of time around. “I guess. She’s Wulf’s little sister. I’ve known her since she was ten or so. I don’t really see her that way.”
“And Wulf’s new girlfriend is pretty.”
Again, he was not going to fall into that trap. “They’re engaged. He proposed this evening.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” The fall of her voice sounded disappointed.
Jesus, what had she wanted him to say? That he’d had a threesome with Wulf and Rae?
A shiver crawled down Dieter’s spine like a snake slithering down the back of his shirt.
No. No threesomes for him, at least nothing with another guy involved. Dieter was not made that way.
He said, “She’s all right. Wulf is happy.”
“That’s good. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got another call coming in.”
“Okay, have a good—”
But she had hung up.
That call hadn’t gone so badly. Dieter had avoided the things that pissed Gretchen off the most. Most calls were worse. Some ended with her cussing him out before she slammed the phone down.
But he still called every night.
Because he should.
Because they were married, and damn it, he was trying.
Dieter rolled over even though he was still wearing his tuxedo pants and shirt, buried his face in the yellow comforter, and fell asleep.
An Errand to the Airport
Dieter Schwarz
There are some things about Gretchen and me
that I do not discuss
with anyone.
Dieter searched the raging river of passengers streaming from the passport control part of the airport for Rae Stone’s two friends. He’d seen them before in the Southwest when he’d been skulking around the Devilhouse, standing in the shadows to provide Wulfram just a bit more security at night.
They should be around here somewhere: a tiny blonde and a taller brunette.
He rubbed the grit out of his eyes. Three hours of sleep was not optimal for him, though he had survived on far less and far worse when he’d been in the Swiss Special Forces. He’d even had a bed for his three hours instead of cold mud and some scraped-together leaves like on some deployments.
The interlude of living in the Southwest—where Wulfram was practically unknown and no one from Europe had yet put together where he was—had been an uncharacteristic relief, but Dieter never let his guard down. He had kept Wulfram von Hannover, an ideal terrorists’ target, alive for years. It had been his finest accomplishment since he had left the military, he thought, to have allowed Wulfram unparalleled freedom and yet kept him safe.
Through the milling crowd, Dieter spied the slim brunette and petite blonde he remembered from the Devilhouse. Their posture suggested they were seeking someone, their noses pointing into the crowd while their necks craned for a better view of the faces. Mission accomplished.
He broke through the crowd to them. “Lizbeth Pajari? Georgiana Johnson?”
The girls turned toward him. The little one nodded her blond head.
“I am Dieter Schwarz,” he said. “Ms. Reagan Stone sent me to collect you from the airport.”
The blonde piped up. “Thanks. Nice to meet you. I’m Lizzy.” She handed over her bag and cocked her head to the side. “Have we met?”
Dieter took her bag. “I think not. I work for a mutual friend of ours in a private capacity.”
Lizzy snapped her fingers and pointed at him. ‘You’re one of The Dom’s mysterious Men in Black that we all speculate about all the time.”
Dieter frowned. He needed to talk to Wulfram about operational security. “We had hoped to be less obtrusive. This way, please.”
He led them to the waiting SUV and handed off their bags to another of the Welfenlegion. “This is my associate, Friedhelm Vonlanthen.”
The girls smiled and nodded at Friedhelm, too. They clambered into the back seat.
Good. It made his life easier if he had tractable clients who took direction.
Dieter scanned the sidewalk and parapets for any out-of-place movement before he got in the passenger side of the SUV.
Friedhelm pulled the SUV into traffic and drove toward the hotel.
Dieter turned to him and continued their conversation from the ride to the airport. “When we get back to Schloss Southwestern, Gretchen and I will have you over for supper.”
“Yes, and how is your lovely wife?” Friedhelm asked, watching the road.
Dieter sighed inwardly but didn’t let it out. No use sugar-coating it too much. His marriage was surely a topic of discussion among the other guys. “She’s busy taking care of the incorrigible toddler-girl and very angry that I am traveling yet again this week. And how is your lovely friend?”
“Much the same,” Friedhelm said, shaking his head. “Vivienne is very angry at the proposed move, also.”
Wulfram had told everyone to expect an imminent relocation, perhaps to the south of France, perhaps somewhere in Asia. Gretchen had flipped because she had just started to find friends and put down roots in the Southwest after Wulf’s sudden move from Chicago just a few years before.
Best not to talk about it too much, though. He didn’t need to stir up more gossip about Gretchen and his marriage.
On to other topics.
Dieter asked, “Who is the mysterious woman that Hans is spending his time with? He never brings her around to meet the Welfenlegion.”
“I couldn’t say,” Friedhelm said, “but he has managed to stay at Schloss Southwestern every time we travel.”
“That bugger. We need to rotate the home guard position. Married people should be given priority.”
Dieter mused on this. He hadn’t. He had many failings in his marriage. “Maybe I should have.”
“You’re the chief of security,” Friedhelm said, his voice light as if he were not talking about the fact that Dieter did not like to stay home with his wife. “You have to travel. The Welfenlegion would unravel into one long pub night without your steady hand.”
Dieter laughed at that. “Surely we have better training than that.”
“I don’t know. Some of the guys might declare a tactical divorce.”
He frowned. “Surely not.”
“Not everyone is as stalwart as you, Dieter.”
This conversation had gone a bit far afield, considering they had civilians in the back seat who might speak Alemannic. Operational security dictated that you never knew who was listening.
Dieter wrenched himself around on the back of the seat. “We will be at the hotel soon.”
The blonde was staring out the window at Paris in the springtime.
The brunette was hunched and glaring at her computer screen on her lap. She nodded but didn’t look up.
Dieter glanced at his phone. The text icon was on the top row.
Gretchen’s text read: When the hell are you coming home? Alina has a snotty nose and won’t go to sleep again! She was up all damn night. I can’t believe this is my life.
Maybe Dieter shouldn’t invite Friedhelm and his girlfriend over to their house for supper. There was no way it would end well.
At The Wedding: Flicka
Flicka von Hannover
He’s actually marrying the girl.
What the hell is going on?
Once Upon a Time: Billionaires in Disguise: Flicka Page 6
