Flicka wrote down the orders and swiped cards through the reader on her tablet, trying to do it as well as possible.
Dieter seemed to understand and just grunted, “Beer,” whenever she came near him.
That silver-haired guy Bastien was playing Five-Card at his usual table, and he signaled her over.
“Yes?” she asked, her finger hovering over the iPad. Ten.
“What’s good today?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s all good,” she assured him. “All of it.”
“But what do you recommend?”
Seven, six, five— “All of it is good.”
“My sweet liebling Gretchen, what is good today?”
Flicka whispered to Bastien, “I can’t right now. I’m sorry. Please order something.”
Bastien blinked his pale eyes and announced, “One top-shelf martini, if you please.”
Flicka swiped it in, whispered, “Thank you,” and fled.
On the next round, when she came to Bastien, he stated, “One top-shelf martini,” and then whispered to her, “Is someone watching you?”
“Yes. I can’t talk.”
“I can protect you,” he said.
His light eyes seemed earnest when he said that, an offer and a solemn promise. His shoulders were thin inside his white shirt, wasted from age and lack of exercise.
Flicka would never be so crass as to laugh at Bastien, of course. When she had been a princess, her whole job had been to be gracious and kind to people even when they said bizarre or off or even terrible things. That, and managing huge charity events, of course.
But the thought of slim, elegant Bastien throwing himself in front of her, arms spread wide, while Dieter Schwarz stood beside him watching the chaos, when Dieter was three inches taller and a hundred pounds more hulked-out than Bastien, tickled her funny bone.
She smiled at him. “I’m fine. I’m not in any danger at all, but thank you for your offer. My boss over there by the staircase—don’t look—thinks I’m not moving fast enough.”
“Ah.” Bastien sat back in his chair, the corners of his mouth turning up and a faint twinkle sparkling in his eyes. “Good. But I want you to know, Gretchen, that if you ever need help, you can turn to me.”
Bastien was getting a little creepy.
Flicka smiled at him. “Thank you so much. One top-shelf martini, coming up.”
In A Dark Casino, On A Tuesday Night
Flicka von Hannover
Disaster.
A few days later, Flicka was weaving among the poker tables, holding up her tray crowded with drinks on her aching arm.
Bastien, the Swiss silver fox who played Five-Card Stud, ordered his usual top-shelf martini and winked at her as she dipped and served the drinks. She dropped off a beer at Dieter’s poker table and noticed that he had a somewhat larger stack of black chips than usual. Good.
Bourbon Guy asked for Flicka to bring him “something good.” He didn’t require any negotiation or extra time, so she fetched a double of New Holland’s Beer Barrel Bourbon, a mellow, almost malty, bourbon whiskey from Michigan. He sipped it, and his dark eyes rolled up in his head in pleasure.
Two more blue chips clinked in her tips stash. Heck, yeah. Her princess’s knowledge of liquors was coming in handy.
She flitted among the tables, keeping an eye on Dieter’s growing stack of chips.
Conni glared at her as she passed, but Flicka turned away. She had a job to do and didn’t have time to engage in workplace shenanigans.
The other girls followed Conni’s lead, though. All of them glared at Flicka and refused to speak to her in the locker room where they changed clothes. Dark eyes, brown eyes, and blue or hazel eyes all squinted in anger at her, though Flicka didn’t think she had done anything wrong. Being the odd one out was a new experience for Flicka. Their glares shrank her.
Every night, she scurried home to Dieter and Alina.
Every night, Dieter coaxed her to hold his hand, but she shook just as much as before. She hated her reaction, and she truly hated that she couldn’t make herself stop. It was like Pierre was controlling her from wherever he was, and she wanted to punch him in the face for it. Her skin crawled while Dieter murmured stories to her, soothing her, stories about history and a few about his time as a commando in the Swiss army. Some of the more embarrassing ones featured her brother Wulfie, and she felt less lonely for him.
But no stories about Dieter’s childhood, still.
She spun through the casino, taking orders and delivering drinks.
Bastien the Swiss guy, again. He ordered a Weizenbier, as he alternated those with his top-shelf martinis, and Flicka typed it into her screen.
Just as she was getting ready to wink at him and flounce off to her next ten-second interaction, Bastien glanced over her shoulder. His face stilled, and he didn’t move.
She looked behind herself.
Six men threaded through the crowd toward them. All wore dark suits. All were looking intently in her direction. The closest was on the other side of a blackjack table and rounding it fast.
Flicka ran.
Her tray crashed to the floor behind her.
People hollered at the spill and noise.
Dieter was at the table ahead of her, and she sprinted toward him.
He looked up and was already sliding off the barstool seat as she got to him. He grabbed her arm as she passed, pushing her ahead of him, and they ran for the kitchen doors at the back as they had planned.
Flicka risked a quick glance back.
All of the black-suited men were chasing them, but they weren’t dodging through the crowd as quickly as she and Dieter were.
They crashed through the swinging door and pounded down a hallway toward a door that led to another back hallway.
When they reached it, Flicka slammed her palms against the crash bar, but it didn’t budge.
She hit it again. Nothing. “It’s locked.”
Dieter jammed his hand against it, but it didn’t move. He looked around. “Where else?”
“Storage closet.” She ran back a few paces to the closet that the custodian had gotten a carpet cleaner from when someone was sick near one of the Pai Gow poker tables. She slid her employee ID through the card reader on the side and yanked the door.
It opened easily, and she stumbled backward.
Shelves lined the sides of the walls.
Bottles teetered in rows.
Dieter shoved her inside and softly closed the door behind them. The acrid scent of strong cleansers permeated the air.
The light was gone. Darkness filled the space. Flicka blinked. A line of light drilled through the dark near the floor.
Two clicks echoed in the tiny space.
She walked backward, feeling with her fingers until she found a block wall behind her. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.
Black spots appeared in the bright line.
Dieter hissed, “Flicka.”
Instead of answering, she reached out and found his fingertips in the air to guide him to where she was standing.
When her back bumped the wall, his hands traveled over her shoulders to pat the block.
He whispered, “I locked it.”
His body brushed her as he turned to face the door, one arm shielding her.
As always, he shielded her.
Flicka rested her fingers against his strong back, feeling his heavy muscles expand and contract with each breath. Heat blazed through his shirt and warmed her shivering hands.
She breathed through her mouth, panting, trying to be silent.
Outside, footsteps thundered past, and black spots broke the light seeping under the door.
Men’s voices shouted, muffled by the thick door between them.
Clattering and clanging jumped through the air as the team evidently found the locked door at the end of the hallway.
Shouting. A lot of shouting.
Flicka listened, but the language they were speaking didn’t sound
like Monegasque. Their words sounded more guttural, maybe German, but she couldn’t make out enough of it through the closed door to be sure.
They yelled some more, and a crash slammed the air.
Flicka bit her lip. Hot tears striped her cheeks.
Dieter had never given her a gun. If they took her back to Monaco, she would find a way. They couldn’t keep all the bedsheets and belts and knives locked up forever.
Their closet’s doorknob rattled.
Dieter’s back tensed under her hands, and he moved a foot back like he was bracing to fight.
The door rattled in its frame.
Yelling.
Flicka clenched her fists, hating those guys and Pierre.
Bleach fumes stung her nose, and she rubbed it so she wouldn’t sneeze.
More yelling.
A man’s voice shouted in English that casino guests weren’t supposed to be in that hallway.
Footsteps walked away.
Quiet, outside.
Terror seeped out of Flicka’s body, and she rested her forehead against Dieter’s spine. The cotton warmed her chilled face.
Dieter’s arm closed around her, and he held her against his back.
Flicka moved her arms around his tight waist, feeling the muscles under his shirt. Her heart was still pounding in her chest.
The scent of his cologne—cinnamon and fresh fields—drifted through his shirt.
On her back, she felt Dieter’s thumb move, stroking her.
Even in this crazy situation, he was trying to soothe her.
Flicka turned her head, resting her cheek against his back.
As she moved, her lips brushed his shirt, almost kissing his spine and his broad, muscular back.
His arm wrapped tightly around her.
Her heart jumped and her hands were shaking, but not from fear.
Outside, everything was still quiet.
The shaking in Flicka’s body changed into something else.
Dieter pivoted in her arms. He was breathing heavily, too. Flicka was standing so close to him that she felt the shivers rolling off him. That cologne of his smelled warm and delicious, like a clean man smothered in baked apples and vanilla ice cream. The funny image made her giddy and caused her mouth to water.
He whispered, “I think they’re gone.”
“Yes.” Her hands slipped up his chest to his shoulders.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Her fingers found the back of his neck, and she raised up on her toes. Her body thrummed with energy, something hungry.
“Flicka, what are you—”
Her mouth found his in the dark, and she kissed him.
His mouth opened above hers, and his arms tightened around her waist.
The faint malt of the beer he had been drinking lingered when she kissed him. Flicka melted against him, feeling the hardness of his thighs and flat stomach with her body in the dark.
He felt so good, strong and solid and powerful in her arms. She wanted to feel more of him.
Her fingers found the crease where his shirt tucked into his waistband. She plucked the fabric, pulling it out.
Dieter drew back from her, his breath harsh in his throat. “What are you—”
“Make love to me,” she whispered, so sure of what she was saying and desperate to touch his skin.
The intake of his breath swelled his chest under her hands.
He cradled the back of her head in his hand and kissed her softly across her cheek until his lips found hers.
His arms tightened around her.
From there, her passion stoked his, and the feel of his heating body drove her crazy. She pulled at his shirt, dragging the tails out of his pants and slipping her hands under the cloth to feel the ripples of his abdominal muscles running up his torso. He stroked her sides, running his hands over her curves to her thighs. She clutched him as she kissed down his neck, the faint rasp of stubble under her lips, and she unbuckled his belt and yanked apart his fly.
He whispered beside her ear, “I don’t have a—”
“I don’t care.” She wrapped one of her legs around his hips, dragging him toward her.
He dipped his head, bending to push aside her shirt and bra and catch her breast in his mouth.
She arched, pushing toward him, and struggled to keep from moaning aloud. She dug her fingers into his hair, the military-short strands rubbing her hands, and she teetered on one leg as he ran his fingers up her thigh to her sex. He moved her panties aside, slipped a finger inside her, and slicked her up, grazing her clit with his fingertip.
Flicka dug her fingernails into his shoulder and tightened her leg around his hips. Her slight gasp and the faint rustle of their clothes were the only sounds in the tiny, dark room.
He chewed on her neck and pushed into her core, his breath hot on her throat.
The invasion, the sudden fullness of him inside her, drove all thought out of her mind. His hard body straining against hers, the cinnamon scent of his cologne and warm male musk, and the rasp of his breath by her ear and on her neck, consumed her.
There was no fear. There was no memory.
There was only her Lieblingwächter and this dark, silent moment.
Dieter grabbed her other leg and wrapped it around his waist so that he was holding her waist and ass in his arms and taking her against the wall. Gravity pulled her down harder on him, deeper, and she bit her lip as he ground up into her.
In the dark, he flowed around her—his arms encompassing her and his body thrusting deep inside her and his breath misting her neck with warmth—and she was overcome. Her life and mind fell away, and he became everything in the world.
And then it all blew away with a surge of white fire. She was gone, her life was here, and her body pulsed around him.
The closet’s darkness seeped back, first around the edges, and then rushed back into her eyes.
She was grasping Dieter’s shoulders, holding on as he panted on her neck.
“Shhh,” he whispered.
She nodded.
He mouthed her neck gently, found her mouth, and kissed her slowly and thoroughly.
Flicka melted into the kiss, one last moment of bliss before they had to run again.
He broke it off. Beside her ear, he whispered, “Durchlauchtig.”
She laid her cheek on his shoulder. That one pet name of his for her held all their history, every moment of their time together in London, all their friendship before and after, and the fact that he had never torn her down emotionally. He raised her up. She had always been his queen.
She held him as tightly as she could, arms and legs wrapped around his strong body, until he withdrew from her and set her on her feet.
Flicka patted her clothes to straighten her bra, button her shirt, and tug her skirt down around her thighs. Thanking goodness for the dark, she rearranged her wedgie.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness as much as they could.
Dieter’s dark form was by the door, the light from the crack shining on his shoes and pants legs. He was pressed against the door, listening.
Silence filled the dark closet except for their breathing and the scuff of her shoe on the cement floor.
Flicka waited while Dieter listened at the door. His hearing was better than hers, probably from standing on the perimeter of large parties instead of on the dance floor in the center of the speakers or right next to the orchestra.
She gripped her hands together, praying. Her folds were sore and swollen, and her thighs slipped against each other. It all felt so good.
After a moment, Dieter whispered, “I think they’re gone.”
He took her hand while he twisted the locks and cracked open the door.
Flicka clutched his hand, but she was ready to drop his hand and step out of the way if he needed to fight.
He looked first and then pushed the door open and led her out. “We need to go check on Alina.”
“God, yes. We can slip out through
the bar. If we go that way, I’ll even be able to grab my purse.”
He frowned. “Too bad about those chips. I was up five hundred dollars.”
The Mathematics of Working
Flicka von Hannover
Plan A vs. Plan B vs. Plan Hide Flicka Away.
Dieter hailed a ride from an app on his phone so he and Flicka could get the hell away from the casino. The good news was that their escape plan had worked, despite their ultimate escape door being locked.
The bad news was that they had needed it so damn soon.
They retrieved Alina from the daycare and paid the next week’s extortion. As always, Alina was thrilled to see them. She was giddy when she saw her friends in the afternoon and perky to see Flicka and Dieter in the evening.
Dieter knew that he had been blessed with a happy-go-lucky kid. He wasn’t sure where she’d gotten it from. Neither he nor Gretchen were particularly easy-going, especially him. Dieter was aware that he was too taciturn, too prone to using his fists or weapons if he or his principals were threatened instead of deescalating and defusing the situation. Sometimes he wondered if his father, who was so methodical and circumspect about every aspect of his life, was really his biological father, but one look in the mirror had dispelled any worry about that. The gray eyes were the dead giveaway.
Also, when he shaved in the morning, he swore that his father was staring out of the mirror at him, but that might be because he was north of thirty and rising fast.
He was glad Alina had Gretchen’s green eyes, though. Sometimes he saw too much of the storms in the world. Maybe Alina would see forests and fields instead with those pale green eyes of hers.
When they arrived at the little townhouse, Dieter went through the motions of putting Alina to bed for the evening and making conversation with Flicka that night.
It all seemed hollow. It all seemed empty.
It felt like a wake-up call.
Finally, he broached the subject he’d been avoiding. “It’s too dangerous for you to work as a waitress.”
In a Faraway Land Page 10
