The date that the email had been delivered was the day before and late at night, so Pierre had written the message several days after the divorce hearing in Nevada.
He had written Dearest when he knew that she was no longer his wife, that he had no legal bonds on her, and that she was gone.
Her teeth ground together.
I can’t find you anywhere. No one knows where you are.
He could have said the same thing for the first six weeks when she’d been living in Las Vegas to establish residency before sending the divorce papers, but it was almost like he hadn’t cared, then.
Pierre had written, After the hearing, the Monaco Secret Service officers and military soldiers were tasked with protecting you from the other men—
Bullshit. Pierre’s people had been grabbing her and yanking at her to kidnap her. Nobody gaslighted Flicka. Bruises still marked her wrist and upper arms, and they were sore. Those soldiers and officers hadn’t been “protecting” her at all.
—but you were pulled into a van and driven off. I pray you’re all right.
Flicka wondered if Pierre had ever prayed for anything in his whole life, but maybe she shouldn’t go there. Maybe he did pray for things. He could buy whatever he wanted, of course, so he didn’t pray for material things.
Maybe he prayed for blowjobs from baristas.
Divine intervention was one of the few possible explanations for why he seemed to screw everyone who crossed his path.
Maybe not divine intervention. Maybe infernal intervention.
Pierre had written, I want to apologize for what happened the night of Wulfram and Rae’s wedding. I was drunk, and I had been fighting with Abigai. I was already at the end of my tether. I was already angry. I had no patience nor strength left, and you deserved better.
I am sorry.
Something wet made a translucent circle on the paper.
Flicka wiped her eyes before anything else splashed on the email.
If you get this, if you read this, just know that I am so sorry. A terrible rage rose in me that night, and I did unforgivable things.
I understand that no one should ever forgive what I have done, but you aren’t everyone. You’re someone very special, a princess among women, stronger and more intelligent than anyone else—
Ah, flattery.
Flicka had seen Pierre employ it every single day as they had shmoozed business people and political emissaries, working them to bring their money and tourism to Monaco. She recognized it. He’d used the “you’re better than normal people” ploy on countless ambassadors and businesspeople when they’d had something he wanted.
—and I am begging your forgiveness.
Flicka steeled herself. This part would be “the ask,” where he had prepared the way with flattery and would now reveal what he wanted.
Come back to me and Monaco.
Flicka’s fingers clenched as she started to crumple the paper, but she stopped. She wanted to know what Pierre wanted and how he was trying to get it. She needed the information. Information was power.
She sucked in a deep breath to calm the crazy tremors in her lungs.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see that Sophie was watching her and clutching her hands together in front of her chest.
Whatever you want, tell me, and it will be yours. Anything you want. A charity dedicated to one of your African ventures? It will be done with a larger endowment than you’ve ever controlled before. Anything. Just name it.
She wanted her own money back, damn it.
But she thought it was interesting that he was going with bribery rather than blackmail or threats.
Even with the media coverage of our divorce—
There had been media coverage?
Flicka hadn’t been able to access anything except major news networks on the television. She’d supposed that the quickie Las Vegas divorce of a deposed princess wouldn’t make CNN’s international coverage.
The divorce also involved a prince of Monaco, though. They might have covered that.
But Flicka hadn’t been able to watch the news for more than a few minutes at a time, and she’d seen nothing at all during the first few days she’d been in Geneva. She’d probably missed it.
It wasn’t like they were anyone important.
If Flicka had been someone important, people would have noticed that she’d disappeared and hadn’t shown up at a bunch of social engagements for the last three months.
Pierre had continued, —I can respond and quiet the media. Monaco won’t recognize the legality of the Las Vegas divorce, so we can go on just like it never happened. Or we can remarry in a private ceremony, whatever you want. Regardless, you could have your charities, your causes, your friends, your social life, and we could rule Monaco just like we’d planned. This doesn’t have to be the end. We can reconcile. We can get through it together.
Please, Flicka. Whatever you want.
Come back to me and Monaco.
He had typed his name below as a signature.
One thing that Flicka noticed about his message was the pragmatism of it, which didn’t surprise her, but what was shocking was the complete lack of anything emotional.
Pierre didn’t say he missed her.
He hadn’t said he loved her.
His whole email was flattery, bribery, and the ask.
It was just another business deal for Monaco.
Flicka crumpled the printed email in her hands. Sharp corners of the paper poked her palms.
Sophie asked in a low, concerned voice, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Flicka said. “Yes, indeed. I’m fine.”
“Do you want to respond to him? I can do something. I can figure out some way, if you want to.”
For just a moment, Flicka considered it. If Pierre and his Secret Service descended upon the Mirabaud mansion on the outskirts of Geneva and took her away, it would be an escape from her kidnappers.
She could walk away from the Monegasque Secret Service. She’d done so dozens of times, and then she’d be free.
A door opened, and a tiny voice asked, “Flicka-mama?”
Standing in the doorway to the guest suite’s second bedroom, rubbing her green eyes, stood the reason why Flicka wouldn’t even consider her own rescue.
Alina said, “Flicka-mama? Hungry.”
Flicka said, “Alina-honey, Grand-maman is here. Let’s order up some tea and cookies.”
Alina’s green eyes brightened, and she grinned. “Cookies?”
“Yes, darling. We can have cookies.”
Options
Flicka von Hannover
When he grabbed me,
it all rushed back at me.
Hands. Fists.
Grabbing.
A few days later, Flicka was downstairs in the kitchen getting a snack for Alina when she heard his voice.
The male laugh floated through the doorway and the air.
Flicka said to one of the housekeepers, “Just a minute,” and followed the voice.
As she started to go through the door, one of her jailers stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “I’m sorry, miss. There are guests.”
Flicka yelled around the man’s bulk, “Bastien! I’m here!”
The man moved fast and grabbed Flicka, forcing her back into the kitchen and slapping his hand over her mouth.
Flicka tried to yell again, but the man’s fleshy palm sealed over her mouth. Her shout vibrated her nose.
She couldn’t breathe through her mouth.
The man whispered, “If you can’t be quiet, we can’t let you leave the guest suite. Be quiet, now.”
No air.
She was dying.
No air no air no air.
Panic screamed through Flicka’s veins, and she flailed at the beast holding her, trying to escape because he was not going to hold her and she had to get away right now right now.
The door popped open.
Bastien’s eyes widened at the
ape-like guard with his white paw covering half of Flicka’s face, and his mouth fell open. “Gretchen? I mean, Ms. von Hannover? You there, stop that.” He waved the guy off. “I’m Bastien Mirabaud, Valerian’s brother. I already knew she was here. Get off of her.”
The man dropped Flicka.
She jumped away from him and fell, scrambling across the floor to Bastien’s feet. Sobbing clogged her throat, and her eyes burned.
Bastien reached down and lifted her up.
Her knees wouldn’t hold her, and she gagged and stumbled backward.
“Gretchen, I mean Flicka, it’s all right. It’s all right now. You there,” he pointed at the mercenary. “Get out of here. Get out.”
Get away, she had to get away now.
Flicka flipped out of Bastien’s hands and slammed into the wall.
A woman’s voice said, “Ms. von Hannover. It’s okay. It’s okay. The guard is gone.”
The housekeeper Kyllikki was kneeling beside her. “Are you all right?”
Bastien crouched on the other side of her. “Flicka?”
She covered her face because her skin was hot and wet, and she must be a mess. “Leave me alone.”
“Tell me you’re okay,” Bastien said.
She shook her head. She wasn’t okay, not at all.
Bastien said above her head. “Ladies, can we have this room, please?”
Footsteps tapped on the tile around her.
After a moment, Bastien whispered, “We’re alone. What can I do?”
“Get me out.” She grabbed his hand. “You said I could come to you if I needed help. I need help now. Get me and Alina out of here. Get us new names somewhere. I don’t need access to money. I can work. I can manage. I did in Las Vegas. I’ll be okay. Just get us out of here before they kill us.”
Bastien gripped her hand. His grey-blue eyes were wide like when he’d seen Pierre’s Secret Service agents running at her in the casino. “Flicka, I can’t.”
“I won’t tell anyone that you helped us. Please. Please get us out.”
“Flicka, I can’t.”
“Dieter won’t tell me what’s going on. I think we’re going to die here. I can’t let them kill Alina. She’s so little. She’s just a baby. You can’t let them kill a baby.”
Bastien looked around the kitchen and then leaned down to her ear. “Tell Raphael I’ll do it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“He’ll tell you. Or it’ll happen. We’ll get you out. We’ll make everything all right. I won’t let them kill you and Alina. You’re right. I can’t sit back anymore. Something will happen soon. Just stay strong.”
Flicka clenched her fists and willed the scalding tears to stop. Her outlandish reaction was ridiculous. She was a prinzessin of Hannover. Had history gone slightly differently, she might be running most of Germany and Austria right now.
She had to stay strong to see the opening so she could run.
“I’m okay,” she told Bastien. “I’m okay. But I need new identification and new names for Alina and me. I need to contact other people outside this house so we can get away. Can you smuggle a burner phone to me?”
“A—what? Like it catches on fire?” he asked.
“It’s a disposable, pre-paid, mobile phone that you buy at the electronics store. If I can call people, I can find a way to get out of here. Just get a phone for me.”
“All right,” Bastien said, glancing around the empty kitchen. “I’ll see if I can get a disposable phone for you.”
Recruiting Océane
Raphael Mirabaud
I think I startled her.
Raphael stood in the doorway to Océane Mirabaud’s office at Geneva Trust, watching her while she talked on the phone and scowled at her computer. Only one small window on the side wall allowed sunlight into the room, but so many lamps glared artificial light that Raphael squinted a little. Blue light from the computer screen reflected on Océane’s light skin, turning her flesh almost silvery.
Océane was speaking to someone rapidly—something about a history assignment that hadn’t been turned in but the assignment had been completed and was available on the due date on the school’s cloudnet so how could it have been marked late—when he caught her eye. She held up one red-tipped finger while she gestured with her other hand at the computer, insisting that the project had been uploaded on the due date that was clearly displayed next to it and so it should not be counted as late. A high school student could not have hacked the school’s cloudnet to change the date, she insisted. If that was the case, they needed better cybersecurity.
Raphael leaned against the doorframe, his arms and ankles crossed while he waited. A smile grew on his face. Yes, this was Océane, who had stood up for him to school officials at the merest whiff of injustice. He was surprised that she had joined Geneva Trust at all. She was more the type to run off and work for UNICEF or the government as a diplomat.
Océane slammed the cell phone face-down on the desk so hard that Raphael listened for the snap of cracking glass.
She asked, “Yes? What can I do for you? Security didn’t inform me that someone was coming up.”
“Océane—” he said.
“How did you get up here without an escort and a badge?” she demanded, her fingers wandering to the underside of her desk.
He said, “Océane, it’s me, Raphael.”
“No, you’re not.”
Her gray eyes widened.
“You’re not,” she said.
She stood.
“Raphael is dead,” she insisted.
She sucked in a ragged breath and leaped, scrambling over her wide desk despite her close-fitting skirt suit. Her high heel caught on the edge of the desk, and she launched herself at Raphael.
He caught her under her arms and kicked the office door shut.
Océane grabbed him with her arms clutching his neck, sobbing into his chest, “You can’t be. Raphael is dead. He’s been dead for years. You can’t be my baby Raphe.” She held his face between her palms, peering at him, searching. “Raphael, Raphael. Tell me it’s you.”
“It’s me. I promise,” he said, kind of gratified by her reaction and kind of guilty for upsetting her for all those years, but it was nice to be missed.
She buried her face in his shoulder and wept.
Raphael stroked her dark hair, shot through with silver now, and he guided her to the chairs in the corner of her office. Her arms wrapped his neck so tightly that he pulled one of her elbows away from his windpipe. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
“You disappeared. The Ilyins said they didn’t have anything to do with it, but no one believed them. Maman was a wreck.”
Guilt swamped him, a familiar feeling. The first few years after he’d left, he’d been hard-pressed some nights not to call his mother or Océane. Sitting alone on the rough blanket of his army barracks’ cot, staring at his phone, loneliness for them had overwhelmed him, and he had known they hadn’t merely shrugged and gone on without him.
Most of them, he corrected himself. He had known that most of them hadn’t shrugged and gone on without him.
He’d known that Océane would have missed him, too.
Raphael said, “I wish I could have contacted you. I thought about everything, email or phone or text, but I couldn’t.” He dropped his voice and whispered into her hair, “People told me I couldn’t, that they couldn’t guarantee my safety or yours.”
She sat back, her eyes and nose red from crying. “It was for a reason, then.”
He nodded.
She wrapped her arms around him and practically crawled into his lap. “I’m just so glad you’re all right. I can’t believe you’re all right.”
“I am. I’m all right.”
She patted his shoulder, the one she was smashing her face against. “You’ve been working out.”
He laughed.
She sniffed and wiped her cheek. “At least you’re healthy. It would have be
en so disappointing if you’d returned to us as a pathetic, pasty weakling with no chin.”
“You look good,” he said.
“No, I don’t. I’m almost forty-five. I’m thinking about getting my lips plumped and things injected into my cheekbones.”
“You’re as stunning as ever. Don’t.”
She pushed back and looked him over thoroughly. “You’re all grown up.”
“That happens.”
“I hate it. I want my baby brother back, or at least the skinny kid whom I could beat at arm wrestling.”
He chuckled. “The last time we arm wrestled, I was ten.”
“Absolutement. I won the last time we arm wrestled, so I am the victor and still champion.”
He held her hand. “I have a daughter.”
Her eyes lit up. “No!”
Yes, Raphael remembered what his father had said about keeping their existence and location secret. He’d also weighed the risk of no one knowing that Alina was in Switzerland or even existed. “Her name is Alina Sophie Mirabaud. She’ll be two years old in a few months.”
“I can’t believe you named her after Maman.”
“It’s traditional, yes?”
“I suppose.”
“And my fiancée is here, too.”
“No! Get out! What’s her name? Is she nice? Well, of course, you have to say she’s nice. Is she Alina’s mother?”
Raphael laughed at his sister again. “Flicka von Hannover. Yes, she’s nice. And no, she’s not Alina’s mother, but she’s good with her.”
Océane’s mouth opened, and her eyes rounded. “The Flicka von Hannover?”
“The same.”
“I just went to her wedding. To some other guy. To the Prince of Monaco.”
Raphael laughed again because her confusion was funny as hell and because it felt good to laugh. “I can’t believe it either.”
“I’m going to need a lot more details,” Océane said.
“I’ve been her bodyguard for years.”
“Oh, my God, how cliché. She fell in love with her bodyguard.”
“I guess it happens sometimes.”
At Midnight (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 4) Page 7
