At Midnight

by Blair Babylon

  She would never ship off a kid of hers to that boarding school or any other. “Interesting.”

  Maxence nodded, though he stared at his legs. “You would lead separate lives in every way. He wouldn’t quibble if you wanted to take lovers. He would stay entirely away, make no comments, have no opinion. You would have to be discreet and not confirm anything. His only caveat is that you could not bear any other man’s children, only his. There would be penalties in the contract if you got pregnant by someone else, and you’d have to do something about it. You couldn’t have children by anyone else.”

  So, ultimately, her body would belong to Pierre because he would decide when and if she would have children, and she could only have his. She wouldn’t have the right to make that most primal decision about her own body.

  Revulsion shook her.

  Maxence said, “Pierre said there would be a written contract. Your lawyers would be involved. I don’t know what else would be in there.”

  The tea sloshed in her stomach, and the dry scrape of the cookie made her feel ill. “He should call the Pope and get an annulment.”

  “The Pope said he wouldn’t consider an annulment until the two of you were separated for at least three years.” Maxence finally looked up at her. “I can’t believe he wanted me to try to convince you to do that. I feel sick.”

  Flicka grabbed at any light conversation she could think of so that she wouldn’t vomit on his shoes. “I’m surprised you came back from Africa to do it for him.”

  “I was in Monaco.”

  “Are you no longer working in Africa?” she asked, trying to think of words to say. Her head was buzzing.

  Maxence took her hand and held it in both of his. “No, I came back from Africa to say goodbye to my uncle.”

  She was distracted by Pierre’s terrible offer, but she curled her hand around Maxence’s strong fingers. “Is he going somewhere?”

  “He didn’t tell you about Uncle Rainier, did he?”

  “Tell me what?” she asked, still staring at the scrolls in the carpeting.

  He let go with one of his hands and lifted her chin gently so that she looked into his dark eyes. “Flicka, Prince Rainier the Fourth is dying. He’s had a stroke, a massive one, and he’s being kept alive on life support. That’s why Pierre is desperate, because Rainier is going to die very, very soon. His body is failing, even with the machines.”

  Flicka blinked, trying to comprehend. “So, Pierre is the Prince of Monaco now.”

  “No, he’s not, not yet. Rainier is still technically alive, for now. The next Prince will need to be declared within a week of Rainier’s death, though the coronation will be later, of course. If you’re not there, and if the sentiment is that Pierre has been divorced, he won’t be selected by the Council of Nobles no matter what Rainier’s wishes were. Pierre will lose the throne of Monaco. And then, as you said, all will be circles and chaos.”

  Old Army Buddies

  Raphael Mirabaud

  Friends in high places.

  That afternoon in his office at Geneva Trust, Raphael locked the door and slid Bastien’s burner phone out of his sock. He dialed the number Flicka had remembered for him.

  A man answered, his voice low and gruff, “This is Basch Favre, Colonel of Police for the Canton of Geneva.”

  Raphael took a deep breath. “Basch, this is Dieter Schwarz from Détachement de reconnaissance de l’armée dix,” which was the long version of ARD-10, the Swiss army special forces unit where they had both served. “Remember that time when I dragged you out of the mud in that ambush in Pakistan, threw you across the back of a horse, and got you to the Americans for medical attention?”

  “Because you would never let me forget it,” Basch laughed. “Jesus, Dieter. There were motorcycles available. There was even a truck.”

  Raphael sighed. “Basch, I need to tell you a story.”

  Flicka’s Body

  Flicka von Hannover

  It was more of a proposition,

  at first.

  Flicka paced inside the guest suite, racing from one end of the living room to the other while she shook out her hands, trying to make her arms and legs stop cramping.

  Alina had been put to bed in her bedroom an hour before and was breathing sweet toddler snores as she slept.

  The Russian guards stood at parade rest on either side of the door, their expressions as blank as their dark suits. They were both jughead types, white scalps gleaming through their high and tight haircuts. Flicka had shaved longer hair than theirs off of her legs.

  One of the housekeepers had brought a note from Raphael that he would be late, so she wasn’t worried or ready to jump out the window about his tardiness. She just really, really needed to talk to him.

  The door clicked, and Raphael walked in, looking down, his suit jacket hanging open. His pale blue tie dangled from his hand, and his shirt collar was open at his throat.

  Flicka ran across the suite and slammed into him, wrapping her arms around his chest.

  His arms cinched around her, and he stroked her back. His tie lay across their shoes, forgotten. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  She whispered in his ear, “Make love to me.”

  Raphael whisked her up in his strong arms and carried her toward the bedroom.

  Over Raphael’s broad shoulder, Flicka watched the two Russian guards look anywhere but at them, studying the alabaster crown moulding and heavy silk drapes around the window at the far end of the room.

  Good.

  Raphael kicked the bedroom door closed as they passed through. It slammed in the frame, rattling. He laid her on the bed and shrugged off his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He grabbed handfuls of his dress shirt and undershirt and dragged them over his head.

  Flicka unbuttoned her blouse, her fingers flying over the tiny pearls down her chest, but Raphael had already shed his shoes and was on her, his mouth covering hers and his arms around her.

  She clung to him, feeling the rough silk of his skin with her palms and the muscular ripples that led to the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers found the scars that crisscrossed his back, old and newer, flat and corded, smooth and jagged rips.

  His warm breath flowed over her throat, and even though they both still wore most of their clothes, he fit himself between her thighs. Flicka arched, her mind blurring with desire.

  He whispered, “What happened?”

  Yes, they were alone, and maybe they could talk.

  Flicka wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed her eyes shut because they were burning. Wetness leaked around her shut lids. She choked out, “Make love to me.”

  Raphael pushed himself up on his arms and stared down at her, his eyes wider. “What happened? Did someone say something to you?”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes again. “No. Yes. Maxence Grimaldi came to talk to me today. He had a message from Pierre.”

  “Flicka!” Raphael glanced at the doors, but they remained closed. He gathered her closer and whispered near her ear. “How did he find you?”

  “Anaïs slipped and said something to Marie-Therese Grimaldi, Pierre’s cousin who was my bridesmaid, and Marie-Therese ran straight to Pierre.”

  “Dammit.” His lips touched her shoulder, soothing her skin there. She clutched him more tightly.

  “Make love to me,” she begged him. “Make me pregnant.”

  Raphael’s body stilled. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. In the dim light from the windows and the nightlight in the bathroom, she could see that his pale eyes had widened. He stroked her temple with his thumb, and his voice held a rising note of worry. “What did he say?”

  She turned her head away and curled inward, unable to pretend any longer. Her whole life, she had been pretending to be okay, and this was just too much for her.

  Raphael rolled off of Flicka and gathered her against his chest, holding her and running his lips over her forehead and hairline. “I’ll kill him. I swear to G
od, this time I’ll kill Pierre Grimaldi. What the hell did he say to you?”

  She contracted inward, burying her face against his chest. “He had an offer.”

  “Say no. I’ll tell him no. I’ll shove it down his throat.”

  “He’s going to keep coming after me. He’s not going to stop until I do something to make him stop.”

  “I’ll kill him. I’ll be gone a few days.”

  “He said that if I went back to him, that we’d live separate lives but that I had to have two babies for him. He said that, in the contract, I wouldn’t be allowed to have children with anyone else. It’s like he would own my body. He would force me to have children and only his children. I’m scared, and I hate him.”

  Raphael’s arms tightened around her. He growled, “I will kill him this time.”

  “You can’t, but you can get me pregnant. I’ll stop taking those pills tonight. If I’m pregnant, it’s like I’ve broken the contract before I’ve even signed it. He’ll let me go. He’ll have to.”

  “I can think of several legal ways to circumvent that. He could not recognize your first child as legitimate. He could just exclude your first child, whether or not he recognized them.”

  “But he won’t. It would look bad. Everything is how things look with him. If I were pregnant by someone else, he would leave me alone.”

  Raphael stroked her hair, and he rested his leg over hers. “Having a child with someone means that you have a bond with them that never goes away. Even with someone like Gretchen who took her first chance to flee and not have anything to do with Alina, if she wanted to, she could come after me legally. She could try to take Alina away from me. She could force me to live in the same state as her so she could have visitation rights.”

  “But it would be you,” Flicka said, trying to worm closer to his warm chest.

  “Yes, but you don’t want that,” he said. “We’ve talked about this. You don’t want children, and that’s your decision. It’s your body no matter what that asshole thinks. His opinion is not as important as your right to control what happens to your own body.”

  She looked up, her chin rubbing his bare chest.

  He was looking down at her from where his head lay on the pillow. He didn’t look angry anymore, or worried. The slow blink of his gray eyes and the fullness of his lips looked pensive, maybe even wistful, maybe sad.

  Flicka struggled up the bed and laid her head on the other pillow. She looked straight into his pale eyes. “I want to.”

  He stroked down her arm and ended up holding both her hands. “It’s forever. It’s not just until the child is five or ten or eighteen, though I suppose it legally ends when the child is eighteen. But it’s forever. A child binds you together forever.”

  “And I don’t want that with Pierre,” she said. “I don’t want him to control my body, and I don’t want to be tied to him forever. I want to put him in my past and never think about him again.”

  He held her hands in his. “You don’t want to be tied to anyone like that until you’re ready, unless you’re ready to have a child and spend the rest of your life with them.”

  Flicka sucked in a deep breath and opened her soul. “I want that with you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I’ve always wanted that with you. Ever since London. And it feels like I’ve wanted it my whole life. I just didn’t want it with anyone else, and I thought you were gone.”

  For a moment, Raphael breathed, slowly taking in air and watching her eyes.

  Then, still holding her hands, he reached backward with his leg and slid off the edge of the bed. His belt buckle caught on the sheet and tugged it, sliding it underneath Flicka.

  Horror swept through her that he was going to literally walk away from her again.

  Instead, Raphael used her hands to pull her to sitting on the edge of the bed, and he bent, balancing on one knee. Light from the tiny nightlight behind her glimmered on his bare chest and the strong bone of his jaw.

  He said, “Then marry me.”

  Oh, good Lord. He wasn’t running. He was proposing.

  “But that would take months or a year,” Flicka said. “Your mother is still shopping churches and venues for us. I haven’t even begun to pick out flowers or colors. And really, the wedding planning was to pacify her so she’d like me.”

  “If you want to bind us together for all our lives—and I want that so very much—then we should be married.” Raphael’s voice was pitched low as he looked straight into her eyes, dead serious. “I know it’s too soon. I know you should have more time to deal with the divorce and all that has happened to you. I love you. I’ve told you that, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear it. I love you desperately. I want to be with you for the rest of our lives.”

  Flicka knew that her eyes were too large, her expression too vulnerable, but she couldn’t snap her shiny princess shell shut or school her face into proper princess form.

  He said, “I shouldn’t have left you in London, even if I thought I had good reasons. I did have good reasons. All of this that has happened—Piotr Ilyin and my father finding us, both of them kidnapping you and holding you hostage—is exactly what I was trying to prevent, and it happened anyway. I should have explained. I should have stayed. I regret every second of being away from you. It was the biggest mistake of my life, and I want to never be away from you again. I want to be your husband. Marry me, and be mine forever.”

  Relief washed through Flicka, and her breath rushed back into her chest. She panted, trying to get enough air to answer him. “I—Raphael—”

  “When I proposed on the plane, I thought you were going to leave. I thought you wouldn’t listen to anything less.”

  Flicka blinked, trying to clear her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do. When I figured out that the passport was Gretchen’s, that Gretchen, I was so angry. It hurt all over again. It felt like it was my fault, that something about me was wrong, or that you didn’t love me, not anything else that you said it was. That it wasn’t my age. That it wasn’t my family. It meant that you didn’t love me at all.”

  “I love you,” Raphael said, “I have always loved you. I thought I was losing you, and I would have done anything not to lose you.”

  She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut to keep the wetness inside. “I was going to walk off the plane at the layover. I was planning to dodge into the crowd and walk away because I couldn’t bear it again.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice sharpened like he was trying to break through to her. “I’m sorry about leaving you in London, and I’m sorry you found out about Gretchen like that.”

  “I should have heard you out,” she said, looking at their entwined hands. “I should have listened, and then you wouldn’t have had to propose on the airplane, and then your father and Piotr Ilyin wouldn’t have found us.”

  He shook his head. “It didn’t matter. I knew that the first time I used that passport in Europe, my cover would be blown. Those police were already looking at me and comparing my face to their screens. It was only a matter of time before Interpol connected my passport to the missing person’s report my family filed. Interpol would cross-reference it, and my father would have a data point. That’s all he would need, and I knew he would find me.”

  “You could have traveled with your Dieter Schwarz passport,” she said.

  He shook his head again. “The two of us with the same name, traveling together, looked less suspicious. It increased the chances of you getting away with using Gretchen’s passport.”

  “You saved me,” she said. “You knew you were sacrificing yourself to save me.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I wanted to get away with it.”

  Flicka looked up at his gray eyes, his strong cheekbones and jaw, and his full lips. She traced the scar—still livid pink—where the bullet had creased him across his biceps after her first wedding. She traced another scar down his ribs, one that had been caused by a maniac with a hunting knife when she was fo
urteen. She ran her thumb over his bare, scarred knuckles. “I’d say you saved me again.”

  He said, “I should have proposed when we lived in London, or at least stayed and proposed a few years later. I’ve made so many mistakes. I want to do the right thing, this time. I want us to be together. I want us to be married. Marry me.”

  This time, when he said it, it felt real.

  On the airplane, his proposal had felt fake, like he was trying to pacify her or to divert attention from their false passports or just have a do-over from when he had married his first wife.

  But this time, it felt complete. It felt like she knew why he was asking, and it felt like he meant it.

  Raphael said, “Say yes, and I’ll never be able to leave you again. You won’t ever be able to get rid of me. I’ll guard you and boss you around and tease you and keep you forever.”

  Hot wetness dripped out of her eye, and she wanted to jump away from the intensity of this moment, slide into his arms, and let him soothe the roiling fear and ecstasy in her heart. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  He laughed, and his gray eyes looked happy for the first time in the few weeks since they’d been stolen away to Switzerland. “’Til death do us part.”

  She stared at him, but he hadn’t walked away from her. Indeed, he was promising to bind them together so that he couldn’t walk away again, ever.

  Flicka said, “Yes.”

  He leaned forward and wrapped her in his arms, kissing her and rolling over her on the bed to lie beside her. He laid his head on the other pillow, and his face relaxed into a broad smile. “I meant it the first time on the airplane, and I mean it now. I want us to be married. I want to be your husband and watch over you. I want you to be my wife, so you have to do what I say. Because you’re going to promise to obey, right?”