As a necklace, it would be less recognizable, even if someone were into royal-watching. A diamond tiara might invite too many questions about who she was and where she got it. The Laurel Tiara had been created in the late 1850’s by one of her ancestors just before they had lost the Hannover throne due to an unlucky pick of sides in the Austro-Prussian War.
And now, Flicka was pawning it.
And she’d been offered only a thousand dollars for the priceless heirloom.
Like Hell.
She leaned over the pawn shop’s glass counter where a whole lot of inferior jewelry and some coins glittered. Dust floated in the sunbeams. “It’s worth far more than that. Those are real diamonds.”
“You don’t have the certificates, so you can’t prove that they’re diamonds, not paste.”
Dieter stood over by the door, keeping an eye outside for anyone who might be watching. The pawn shop lady had looked nervously at him but had stopped when she had seen the necklace, which now held the woman’s full attention. The Laurel Tiara was worth more than the rest of this pawn shop put together.
This pawn shop operator thought she could haggle. Flicka had negotiated agreements with corrupt African officials who’d skimmed millions of dollars off the aid programs meant to save their citizen’s lives. This woman wouldn’t know what had hit her.
Flicka said, “You and I both know that those are real diamonds.”
“But you can’t prove it.”
Flicka lifted the limp tiara from the woman’s veined hand, turned it upside down on the glass showcase, and pressed on it.
“No need,” the woman said quickly. “All right, you and I know that they’re real, but the shop’s owner is going to be pissed if there aren’t certificates.”
The Laurel Tiara had been fashioned before diamond authenticity certificates existed, of course, but Flicka didn’t say that.
Behind the woman, rows of shelves littered with phones, computers, and tablets rose to the ceiling. The rest of the tiny strip-mall store was cluttered with luggage, designer clothes, and collectible action figures—all someone’s best items, pawned to buy them a few more poker chips that they then, invariably, gambled away.
“This necklace is worth at least seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars by its diamond weight, alone,” Flicka told her.
“It’s worth what someone will pay. Even here in Vegas, no one’s going to walk into a pawn shop and buy a necklace for seven hundred grand and change.”
“It’s a bespoke design by Cartier, one of his first. It’s worth millions.”
“Doesn’t matter here.”
“There are twenty more pawn shops down this road I could go to.” They’d already been to six shops, but Flicka didn’t mention that. None of the others had started as high as a thousand dollars.
“All right, two thousand,” the woman said, pursing her thin lips. Hot pink lipstick was bleeding into the lines around her mouth.
“Gems and Phones offered me thirty-five hundred,” Flicka lied.
“Then take their offer.”
“It’s good until tonight. I still can. But I like you. I can see that you’re a solid business owner, and I like doing business with women-owned shops. You did say this is your shop, right?”
“All right, yes,” the woman grumbled, “but my husband oversees the books.”
“I didn’t like that guy at Gems and Phones. He seems like a jerk.”
Her blue eyes brightened. “He is. He puts things on sale before their claim period is up. It’s dishonest. You going to come claim this?”
“I don’t know.” Flicka frowned, looking at the Laurel Tiara, a family heirloom. “It depends on how soon I can get my financial situation in order.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say. We can do a three-month loan,” the woman said. “If you come back within three months, you can get it back, plus the interest and fees, of course.”
“Of course,” Flicka said.
“Your situation is really bad?”
“You would not believe it if I told you.”
“Three months,” the woman said, “and four thousand dollars.”
“Four thousand,” Flicka said, “and two of the phones up there, my choice, plus two sets of clothes for the guy and myself. And that pink stuffed bear.”
The pawn shop owner grinned. “You’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll tell my husband you’re my sister-in-law’s niece, and that’s why I gave you this great deal. You’ll have to get prepaid cards to use the phones, though, or else sign them up for a service. They don’t come with a service.”
“Splendid,” Flicka said, smiling through her rage.
Revelations
Flicka von Hannover
It’s true that he never lied to me,
but he did break my heart.
Dieter combed his fingers through his military-style, blond hair until even that short brush stood up in spikes. “You can’t. You have to stay in the hotel room until I get back. Order room service and put it on the tab. Watch some television. I’m going to make contact with some Rogue personnel while I’m down there. Between that and the four thousand that you got, we’ll be all right for six weeks.”
“Plus court filing fees,” Flicka said. She was lounging on the bed in their hotel room, reading a magazine meant for Las Vegas tourists. Ads for casinos, restaurants, shops, and out-of-town sex ranches filled the pages in riots of color.
Dieter rolled a pair of slacks into a tight tube and stuffed it in the duffel bag that sat on the bedspread just beyond her magazine. “The court costs won’t be much.”
“First of all, it won’t be just six weeks.” She waggled her new phone at him, one of the phones that she had procured by negotiating with the pawn shop owner. “After the six weeks to establish residency in the state of Nevada, I have to serve Pierre with legal divorce papers, no matter what the prenup says.”
Dieter muttered, “I’ll serve that royal jerk right in his—”
“The divorce papers must be served by a ‘disinterested party,’” Flicka said right over him. “It sounds like you don’t qualify. The best way is to hire a process server, so that will cost quite a bit to send one to Monaco.”
“I’ll get the money. I’ll take care of you.”
“And then we have to wait for his response at least twenty more days, so that’s three more weeks. We’ll have to stay here at least nine weeks.”
“Those damn French lawyers were overpaid. If I ever see Joachim Blanchard again, I’ll punch him, too.”
“And then the court might set a trial date, and God only knows how long that might be. If they do, I have to stay here the whole time or else I won’t be considered a resident anymore. And that would mean that we’d have to start the whole process all over again.”
“This is infuriating.” Dieter paced, his long, strong legs taking just a few steps on the thin carpet before he reached the wall and had to turn around. “My divorce was less painful than this, and she stole all my business’s money and there was a kid to consider. Isn’t there some sort of rule you can invoke for a quick and dirty divorce because he tried to kill you?”
“Sadly, no,” Flicka said. “It’s a lot easier to get into a marriage than to get out of one.”
“Ridiculous,” Dieter snarled as he paced. “I swear to God, I will punch that son of a bitch if I ever see him again.”
“Then you should duck,” Flicka said, paging through the magazine, “or else Monegasque Secret Security will shoot you again.”
“Again?” Dieter’s head whipped around, and he touched his rounded biceps where a bullet had creased him just months ago, after Flicka’s Parisian wedding to Pierre. “I thought someone was gunning for Wulfram that day.”
“I don’t know for sure,” Flicka said, flipping the magazine page to a new one with more steaks and slot machines on it, “but the Monegasque Secret Service was supposed to have secured the rear of the church. Somehow, a guy with a gun was waiting there. When the guy sta
rted shooting, they all leaped on Pierre and carried him off, almost as if they were expecting it. I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Pierre wouldn’t try to kill you right after he married you, though,” Dieter said. “You didn’t know about his other wife yet. No motive. No reason. You guys were newlyweds and lovebirds.”
“As much as we ever were,” she agreed. “But his uncle was surprised as hell when I walked into the hotel suite afterward.”
“But you’re the prize,” Dieter said. “You’re the only Hannover princess in your generation. The Grimaldi have been trying to marry into the House of Hannover ever since they took Monaco. His uncle was ecstatic about it.”
“You have been listening to my brother when he talks. I’ll be sure to tell him, but I’m not sure that’s how Rainer-Four saw it at all.” Flicka rolled over and scooted up to sit against the headboard. “Did you see Pierre’s uncle at the wedding?”
“I was busy scanning for lone gunmen and watching your father, to make sure he behaved. Wulfram was ready to deck him, but I had orders to take him out the side door if he opened his mouth.”
“I saw Rainier. He wasn’t happy,” Flicka said. “I looked at everyone while I walked down the aisle with Wulf, and everyone looked back at me, the princess bride walking down the middle of the royal wedding. Everyone looked, everyone except Pierre’s uncle, Prince Rainier of Monaco, and his face was all twisted up like he was mad as hell. And then, when I walked into the suite after you were shot, Rainier was startled. I thought slamming the door open had surprised him, or maybe it was that I had blood all over my dress. I’m not sure it wasn’t just the fact that I wasn’t dead.”
“My blood,” Dieter said.
“Yes, Lieblingwächter, your blood.”
Dieter zipped the duffel and reached for her hand. “Certainly not the blood of any of those good-for-nothings from his Secret Service.”
“They obviously had orders, didn’t they?”
Dieter took her hand in his, and she clamped down any odd feelings that rose when their fingers touched. “I thought they had orders to prioritize Pierre, not that they were actively trying to kill you. I should never have left you with them. Even with everything between us, I should have gone with you to Monaco.”
“I wouldn’t have let you come with me,” she said, almost laughing at him while she tamped down something shaking and stupid that was rattling around in her stomach. “I hated you, remember?”
“Did you hate me?” he asked, still holding her hand. He was staring at their intertwined fingers, not looking up at her. She wondered if his gray eyes were stormy with quiet anger or hurt.
Flicka tightened her fingers on his, trying to give herself time to think about how to say terrible things. “It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
“Dieter, please.”
“Tell me.”
She held onto his hand because she didn’t want him to leave her again. “In London, you walked out on me, with no warning, no fight, nothing. I didn’t do anything wrong. You just decided something and left me. Yes, I was angry. I was hurt. A lot.”
“Do you hate me now?”
She held his hand more tightly. “No, but I’m afraid that you’ll walk out again.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“You did before.”
“I’m sorry. I really am sorry. Things were different, then.”
Flicka sucked in a deep breath. “I’m afraid you won’t come back from getting Alina tomorrow. I’m afraid you’ll just go there, and then you’ll be gone.”
“I will come back. I promise I will. I’ve never lied to you.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s true.” And it was.
“I need to have a couple of meetings and collect Alina from her babysitter, and then I’ll come back. I will come back. I promise.”
“You promise?” she asked.
“I promise,” Dieter said. “Two days, and I’ll be back. While I’m gone, stay in the hotel room, order in room service and put it on the tab, and don’t go out. Just stay safe. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”
Powerlessness
Flicka von Hannover
It’s true.
Dieter always soothed me by holding me,
but I couldn’t bear it this time.
That night, when Flicka von Hannover lay down on the single, queen-sized bed in the room, Dieter reached for her, just his hand alighting on her shoulder, to draw her toward him.
Panic welled in her chest.
She flinched backward, shaking.
Dieter pushed himself up on one elbow. “Flicka?”
“I’m okay. I just— You startled me. That’s all.” Her whole body quaked, and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to make it stop.
He frowned, scrutinizing her. “You’re shaking.”
She dragged the comforter up and around her shoulders. “I’m just cold.”
One of his dark blond eyebrows dipped. “It’s pretty warm in here. The air conditioner is having a hard time keeping up with August in Nevada, especially upstairs.”
“I can be cold,” she argued.
He reclined and laid his hand, palm up, on the expanse of white sheet between them. “If you’re cold, come here.”
Heat from his body drifted between the sheets, warming her bare legs. Dieter was six-feet-four of solid, male muscle. His body put out more heat than the core of the sun. If she were cold, cuddling up next to him would warm her within minutes. “I’m okay over here.”
He sighed. “It wasn’t a good idea, was it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He watched her, his gray eyes kind. “Sleeping together in Paris.”
She clutched the covers more tightly around her shoulders. “Where else would you have slept?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then you’re speaking nonsense.”
“I took advantage of you, didn’t I?”
“No. Of course not. I told you to. I practically demanded it. I probably took advantage of you, a recently divorced man with no ready source of nookie.”
He smiled a little. “Nookie, huh?”
“I’ve been hanging out with Rae for months. Her speech patterns are contagious. I told someone at my wedding that I was ‘thinking about getting going.’ She was aghast at the number of verbs I had shoved into one sentence.”
“So, you’re fine?” he asked. “The ‘nookie’ didn’t worsen your distress at all?”
Her little joke hadn’t distracted him in the slightest, a pity. “Of course, I’m fine.”
“Then take my hand,” he said.
His strong fingers flexed open on the bed sheet.
She was still shaking so hard that the fabric vibrated around her. Her stomach cramped. “Maybe I’m getting the flu.”
He settled his arm on the bed between them again, palm up. “The flu is rare in the summer.”
“You can catch influenza at any time.”
He turned his hand over. “Let me feel your forehead.”
“You don’t need to. I’m fine.”
“Flicka, I can see that you’re about ready to crawl out of your skin over there, and it’s driving me crazy. I’ve always been able to hold you before, to let the shakes subside while you’re in my arms.”
At the thought of him or anyone touching her skin, which was the first step to holding her down and hurting her, her knees curled inward toward her stomach. “I just can’t right now.”
“Please.” His fingers stretched open and his lips were parted as he watched her. His gray eyes were open and vulnerable, almost silvery in the dim room, lit by the Las Vegas lights sliding around the window curtains.
Flicka struggled with freeing her arm from where the sheet wrapped her, and she pushed her hand over the sheet to rest on his palm.
His hand didn’t move under hers. His fingers were still outstretched, not gr
abbing her.
“Good,” he said.
They lay on the bed like that for a few minutes, and then his fingers relaxed, curling up. He loosely held her hand.
Not scary. Not hateful. Not a threat.
Something in Flicka broke.
She curled farther, drawn to the warmth that radiated from his hand and down her arm. Hot wetness crawled down her face, and sobs cramped her chest.
She pressed her forehead against his knuckles, feeling the hardness of his hand against her skin. Stupid gasps flopped in her mouth.
“Shhh,” he said, stroking his other hand over her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I should have gone back to Pierre’s room with you. I won’t ever let him touch you again, no matter what I have to do.”
He shifted, moving closer to her, but slowly and not too close.
Flicka tugged his hand toward her sternum, cradling his fist next to her chest.
Dieter moved closer so that he curled around her, and they lay near each other, not talking, until she slept.
Leaving
Dieter Schwarz
I said it too many times,
but Flicka needed to stay in that hotel room.
I wouldn’t have left her if my daughter hadn’t needed me.
“It’ll only be for a few days,” Dieter said, packing his toothbrush, razor, and last few toiletries in the duffel. The limp, mostly empty bag reminded him too much of his military time. “I’ll be back in two days. Stay in the hotel room, all right? Don’t go out. Order room service and stay inside.”
“You keep saying that,” Flicka said. “After all, what would I do out there?”
In A Faraway Land (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 3) Page 2
