“I promise.” Flicka wound her arms around his hard waist. “I promise.”
“My God,” he said. “My God. They almost got you. They almost got you. Do you know who they were?”
She shook her head, her nose rubbing against the crisp cotton of his shirt, and sobbed.
“It’s okay,” he sighed. “It’s okay.” His big hand stroked her hair.
“I dropped my purse in the car.”
“That’s okay. You’re safe, so it’s okay. What was in it?”
“Just my cell phone and some money.”
“Any ID? Keys?”
“No. I never carry those.”
“Good.” He backed off, but he kept one hand on her shoulder while he looked around, scanning the area because of operational security. “I liked how you kicked that guy.”
“Yeah, well.” Flicka wiped the tears and snot off her face. Dieter’s white shirt had a wet spot with some beige and pink makeup stains on his shoulder. “You taught me how to fight.”
“You were doing a pretty good job of it.”
“How did you find me so fast?”
“When you got out of the car, your driver called in your last position. I tracked your phone with mine and ran across Kensington Gardens park.”
“Oh, that stupid Phind-A-Phone app.”
“We have a special version of it,” Dieter said.
“What do I do about my phone now?”
“After the police arrest those guys, we’ll deactivate and wipe it. I’ll have a new phone set up for you this afternoon. But Flicka,” he said, “I’m serious. Never, ever again.”
Her Guardian Angel
Flicka von Hannover
I wondered why the name
Raphael
upset him so much.
Flicka was seventeen years old and on a date.
She knew Antonius from Le Rosey. He was a senior, while she was still a junior in the upper school. They were both in London during the winter holiday break, and thus it seemed perfectly logical that they should go out to a charity event that he had been shanghaied to host and needed a date for.
Antonius von und zu Liechtenstein was the third in line to the princely throne of the tiny country, but his older brother was probably going to get married and start popping out kids soon, pushing him down the line of succession.
Flicka didn’t know why anyone would want to push Antonius down the line of succession. He was by far the most gorgeous member of the Liechtenstein monarchy. His older brother was passable, but if Liechtenstein wanted to have a fantastically beautiful royal family like Monaco did, the older brother should really step aside and let Antonius breed the heirs. He had dark, almost-black hair and light blue eyes, hard and masculine bone structure on his cheekbones and jawline, and a lean, muscular physique because he played every sport at Le Rosey well enough that the Swiss Olympic teams had come sniffing around, assuring him of a place on soccer, fencing, or swimming if he wanted one.
Antonius did not, of course. If Antonius had ever wanted to practice hard enough to play for an Olympic team, he would represent Liechtenstein, his soul and his heart.
He didn’t care at all that he would not likely be the sovereign prince, he assured her. “I’m filthy rich and will handle all my princely duties for the rest of my life while having a simply fantastic time. I get all the fast cars I want, and no one cares about my grades at Le Rosey. Let me show you how much fun a person can have in one night.”
So, yeah. Why not have her picture snapped with the gorgeous not-really-heir to the throne and have a great time?
Already, Flicka was working hard on her own charitable causes and was beginning to work the publicity game. Her cotillion for young debutantes last year had been well-regarded, but next year, she wanted it to be a smashing success. She had made her debut in Paris at sixteen and had seen the need for a new, less traditional, more service-focused cotillion.
So, she needed more visibility.
Antonius was more than accommodating, and so she was ready at eight when his driver arrived at the door of Wulfie’s Kensington Palace apartment.
She and Wulfie had already had the conversation that began with, “You will take Dieter,” and “I absolutely will not,” and “He’s your security,” and “I don’t need a damn security blanket so get off my back,” and ended with slammed doors, so Dieter climbed into the front passenger seat and struck up a conversation with Antonius’s chauffeur.
Antonius turned and looked at her, grinning.
Flicka said, “I swear to God, if you tell anyone at school that I have a damned chaperone, I will kill you. Dieter taught me how to kill people. Didn’t you, Dieter?”
Dieter hardly glanced in the back seat. “Oh, yes, Antonius. She’s a highly trained killer. The Mossad tried to recruit her last year for their assassination team.”
He resumed talking to the driver about London traffic.
Flicka sat there with her mouth hanging open at snarky Dieter, but Antonius was laughing at her.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll have to make sure I don’t offend Princess Flicka, then, as she might tear my throat out with a salt shaker.”
At the supper, Antonius ordered a bottle of wine for them.
Flicka said, “Oh, this is London. We shouldn’t.”
In Switzerland, the drinking age is sixteen for beer and wine, eighteen for liquor. In Great Britain, a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old can drink beer or wine in a restaurant if an adult buys it for them and accompanies them.
“I’m eighteen,” Antonius said.
“Yeah, but you’re not my parent or something.”
“The law doesn’t say ‘parent.’ It says ‘accompanying adult,’ and here I am.” He filled her glass nearly to the top. “Come on, let’s have a good time. We’re young, we’re rich, and the world is ours.”
Across the room, Dieter glanced at Flicka and her very full wine glass before continuing to survey the balconies and windows for threats.
Flicka drank the wine.
Antonius poured them some more.
Because it was a private charity event and neither a restaurant nor a tavern, Antonius ordered shots for them, and Flicka thought that shots sounded like a great idea. Wulfie and Deet-Deets were always drinking whiskey. It must be fun.
Oh, it was fun.
Dieter stood behind her for a while. Someone asked him, “Raphael?” but he said, “Nein,” in a low, guttural voice.
That was funny, that someone asked Dieter if he was an angel. He sure as heck wasn’t. A mischievous imp, maybe, or a smoky demon sent to enrage her by following her around all the time.
A few minutes later, Flicka was half-lying on the table, her cheek on her arm, laughing hysterically at some joke Antonius had made.
It was hysterical.
Really.
And she couldn’t stop laughing—
—even though she couldn’t quite remember the punchline.
But it rhymed.
She knew that much.
It rhymed.
Antonius was holding her hand.
He said, “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, stumbling after him while she held his hand.
His palm was big and warm on hers.
She liked it.
He said, “Someplace private.”
Antonius was gorgeous, and gorgeous was awesome, and awesome was kissing, and she was right up for it. “Okay.”
She followed him through the crowd, stumbling along with her hand in his like she was being towed on a leash.
Out the big doors and down the hallway.
His hand led her.
She followed, giggling.
Darkness enveloped Flicka. “Antonius? Where are you?”
“Right here.”
A line of light that filtered through the big, potted plant crossed his face. She could just see his rounded lips.
He touched Flicka’s jaw, lifting her face. “You are so beautif
ul.”
The wine and shots were messing with Flicka’s head. “Thanks. You, too.”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Thanks. Me, too.”
His soft lips met hers, and warmth suffused through her.
Through the beaded silk, Flicka could feel warmth and pressure as his hands touched her waist.
His mouth opened, and his tongue wiped across her lips.
One of his hands slipped around her waist toward her back.
She leaned forward, pressing herself against his broad chest.
He pulled on the back of her dress like he was trying to get her sleeve off.
“Hey,” Flicka muttered against his lips. “What are you doing?”
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s have a good time tonight.” His mouth dipped to her shoulder.
“Hey, Antonius? Maybe we should go back to the dining room.”
“That wouldn’t be any fun.”
Her dress unzipped down the back, loosening all around her. “Hey!”
Antonius bent, and his hand ran up her leg until his arm had pulled her skirt up around her hips.
She shoved at him. Antonius caught her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head.
“Hey! Stop that.”
He grabbed the strap that went over her shoulder and yanked it down her chest. Her dress loosened because it was open in back, the heavy beads pulling the slim shift down her body.
He dropped her skirt and dragged her neckline down, reaching for her breasts.
She struggled against his hands that still pinned her wrists. “Hey, Antonius! Stop it!”
In the dark, Antonius’s hands left her wrists and her dress that was falling down her side.
Flicka grabbed her dress but stumbled sideways, unbalanced.
A strong arm wrapped around her waist, saving her from sliding down the wall into a wine-soaked puddle on the floor.
She pulled her sleeve back up her shoulder as she was dragged, literally stumbling and toes scuffing the carpeting, out of the niche.
In the hallway outside, the overhead light shone down on Dieter’s blond hair and form-fitting tuxedo.
Flicka slumped against Dieter, relieved.
With his other hand, Dieter had Antonius by the throat.
Antonius’s driver stood down the hallway, saying, “Oh, no. Don’t, I say. Stop assaulting the prince, there. Oh, stop.” He adjusted his tie and smoothed down his lapels.
Dieter growled at Antonius, “If you ever come sniffing around her again, I’ll rip your lungs out.”
He dropped the prince, who stumbled backward and away, and supported Flicka as they walked out.
He whispered to her, “Did he hurt you?”
“No. Not really.” She hugged his waist as they walked.
“Did he drug you?”
“I think I’m just sozzled.” She stumbled again on something on the sidewalk. Winter wind blew right through the silk of her dress. “My coat.”
Dieter whisked her up in his arms.
Flicka held onto his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.
He shoved them both into a waiting cab, which took them home, and then helped her into the apartment.
“Don’t tell Wulfie,” she begged him. “I don’t want Wulfie to know.”
“He’s out for the night,” Dieter said. “Probably a good thing. We don’t want Liechtenstein and the extinct Kingdom of Hannover to go to war.”
“Oh, Wulfie would probably just shoot Antonius.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true.”
Dieter helped her into her bed.
She leaned down and tried to take her shoes off, but she collapsed into a coil like a cat. “Dammit.”
Dieter removed her shoes from her feet.
Her dress was already half-unzipped. She tried to shimmy out of it but got tangled in the heavy silk.
Dieter said, “Wait, wait,” and he lifted the dress off her.
Flicka crawled under the bedcovers.
When she looked up, Dieter was still holding her dress between them like a drape with his head turned to the side, his eyes closed.
“It’s okay now.”
He glanced out of the sides of his eyes at her, discovered she was covered up, and laid the dress on the foot of her bed.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Anytime, Durchlauchtig,” he said.
“You’re not just my Lieblingwächter,” she murmured. Flopping her head on her pillow made the room spin. “You’re my guardian angel.”
“Am I?” He stroked her hair back from her forehead.
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe you’re my guardian angel Raphael.”
His hand lifted from her forehead. After a beat, he asked, “Why do you call me that?”
“I always liked Raphael,” she said, kind of sing-songing her voice because it sounded funny. “He’s an archangel, and he’s probably the hot one.”
Dieter chuckled. “Don’t call me that, all right?”
“Okay, but I know that you’re really the archangel Raphael.”
“Considering that you probably won’t remember this tomorrow, it’ll be our little secret. Good night, Durchlauchtig.”
He left her alone in her bed.
Flicka tried to remember that he was the archangel Raphael, but she’d really had too much to drink.
Decision: London
Flicka von Hannover
Hormones are dangerous.
When Flicka had been a teenager, she had viewed Dieter as somewhere between an authority figure to wheedle extra permissions or ice cream out of and the jailor to rebel against because he wouldn’t let her walk down the sidewalk without a phalanx of bodyguards around her.
Even if he had good reasons.
When she’d been eighteen and finished her upper school at Le Rosey, she’d come to visit Wulfie in London for a month while she decided which music school to attend for college.
She’d been accepted to the Juilliard School, but the rumor was that Alexandre Grimaldi was going to attend that one. Staying away from that train wreck was high on her list of priorities. Look, she sympathized with him. From the very softly whispered rumors that whirled around him, his life had been hell, but she was not going to be around the next time he snapped.
So Flicka needed to choose between attending the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, the Conservatoire de Paris in France, and the Royal Academy of Music in London.
Her choices were an embarrassment of riches, and she dithered.
She fluttered and flew between them for a week while Wulfie and the Kensington Palace Guard watched over her, making lists of pros and cons and debating endlessly with Wulfie until he started avoiding her when she was clutching her white, leather-bound photo album filled with the prospectuses from her three options, pictures that she had taken on her scouting trips to each, and the poems that she had written while her wild mind tried to alight on one of them.
Maybe she shouldn’t have read the poetry aloud so often to Wulfie.
After a week of just her, Wulfie, and the rotating men in gray who oversaw their every move, Dieter came home.
Dieter had been on a week-long “retreat,” as he called it, with some of his old friends. He kept in touch with people who had served in special forces the world over, whom he had met while he had served in the Swiss Army and ARD-10. He knew people who were former SAS, former US SEALs and Army Rangers, former German Kommando Spezialkräfte, and former CIA and MI6 and Mossad.
Basically, if you needed something attacked or blown up, Dieter knew people who could do the job.
When Dieter Schwarz dragged himself into Wulfie’s Kensington Palace apartment that fine summer day, his ash blond hair was so short that he must have shaved his head recently, as it was about the same length as his scruffy beard. He had one black eye and scabbed-over scrapes covering half his handsome face, and one of his muscular arms hung in a sling.
His gray eyes held a feral savageness that lo
oked like he would pick up a rare steak, bite into it with his teeth, and rip it apart while he devoured it.
Oddly, Flicka wanted to be the steak.
Dieter dumped his only luggage, a small rucksack, on the floor.
Wulfram looked up from the book he was reading. “Good week?”
“The best,” Dieter answered.
From the growl in Dieter’s voice, Flicka could hear that his body still coursed with adrenaline, even though he must have flown home from wherever on a plane for hours.
He shucked his overshirt and stretched, standing in a tank top in the entryway. The sling on his arm fell aside, and he flinched when he rolled that shoulder to loosen it.
Flicka couldn’t look away from the way Dieter’s round muscles stood out from his arms and shoulders, thick cords and hard bulges that were so different from the sinewy or stocky teenagers she had been living with at Le Rosey. When Dieter moved his arms, stretching out kinks, those muscles flexed and moved under his tanned and sunburned skin. The golden fuzz that covered the top of his chest above his tank top looked soft, and Flicka could think of nothing else but the way it would feel against her palms.
Dieter asked. “How were the royal bodyguards, Wulfram?”
“Adequate,” Wulfram answered.
“I suppose that’s okay.”
Dieter leaned over and picked up his rucksack.
When he did, the muscles under the thin cotton of his tank top stood out in lumps that Flicka could count. His webbed belt kept his black fatigue pants up, she surmised, because his hips were slim. He looked like could have won any athletic event or beaten any other man on Earth in hand-to-hand combat.
Flicka couldn’t breathe.
She longed to walk over to Dieter and touch his arms and his chest. She bet that he was warm to the touch, with all those muscles working right under his skin like that. His skin must be silky, or coarse—yes, coarse—and his hands would probably feel callused and rough on her arms.
A flush ran over her, a warmth that made her feel heavy and weak.
In Shining Armor Page 6
