Happily Ever After (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 5)

by Blair Babylon

“Where?” she asked, still gulping, still trying to pack the terror and loneliness away so she could breathe. Her legs trembled.

  “I don’t know, but somewhere far away. We’ll be safe. I promise. I’ll stand in front of you. I’ll carry you in my arms. I’ll keep you safe forever.”

  Getting Out

  Raphael Mirabaud

  Getting the car turned out to be easy.

  If most operations went that smoothly,

  the private security business would be a cakewalk.

  Raphael and Flicka walked along the sidewalk among the few other pedestrians, weaving as necessary to avoid slamming into people.

  They were conspicuous because Raphael was wearing only a black tee shirt with his slacks and Flicka huddled in his black dress shirt over her ball gown. Snowflakes flitted through the wintry air as they walked, a rarity in southern France, so they hustled through the few other people like they were only going a block or two and thus hadn’t bothered with a coat.

  He held Flicka’s hand as they walked, his hand wrapped around her delicate, light fingers. Holding her hand in public was overly demonstrative and, again, made them conspicuous, but he could not let go of her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go, ever again, to hold her and keep her safe and snarl at anyone who neared them, but holding her hand would have to suffice.

  A man bumped into Raphael and apologized when neither of them managed to dodge each other. They passed each other and walked on.

  When Raphael looked back, Friedhelm Vonlanthen had also turned for another glance, his dark eyes almost smiling above his muffler. Snowflakes caught in his sandy-brown hair.

  A key fob weighed in Raphael’s pants pocket.

  They hurried another block. Raphael clicked the key fob.

  A low, black car flashed its lights, which looked like slitted eyes. He sighed, but the BMW M3 had a V8 engine. It could accelerate hard if he needed it to.

  Trust Friedhelm Vonlanthen to give Raphael a nerd machine, though.

  They climbed inside. Raphael flipped the heater up to its maximum.

  Hot air blasted from the vents. Vonlanthen had warmed up the car for them, and for that, Raphael blessed Vonlanthen’s name and his progeny for a thousand years as he tried to stop shivering.

  Ice clinging to Raphael’s shoulders melted and ran down his triceps. Jesus, it was cold for southern France, even considering it was December.

  Flicka opened the door for a second to shake the snow off the black shirt he’d given her and then slammed it.

  Raphael pulled the car away from the curb and exhaled his relief. “Okay, we’ve got a car. We’re mobile. That’s a start.”

  She clicked her seat belt. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know.” Raphael started following signs for the A8 autoroute to Cannes because he knew that road. It would take them through the southern part of France, the hills and mountains, and then routes branched from there to the west and north of Europe, where surely, they could find someplace safe to regroup for a few days. “Somewhere away. Somewhere they won’t think to look for us while we get this sorted.”

  “I’m going to say this gently, and only because I’m a little surprised: wasn’t there a plan for after you broke me out of Monaco?”

  “There would have been a week or so from now, maybe involving Wulfram’s plane in Nice.”

  “Too bad he didn’t wait for me.”

  “We were worried that Monegasque commandos might have stormed the plane and taken Alina back for leverage.”

  “Ah. Yeah, Pierre would do that.”

  “Quentin and the Secret Service have become less inept, lately.”

  “The guys in Geneva were the army, not the Secret Service, but Pierre might have sent them, too. So, we need to figure something else out.”

  “Yes, we do.” Surely Raphael could find someplace to hide Flicka for a few days while he sneaked into Pierre’s bedroom at midnight and slit his throat. Aiden had dangled above Pierre’s bed when he’d served Flicka’s divorce papers. It couldn’t be too hard to do.

  Indeed, it sounded like good, dangerous fun.

  Flicka sighed and leaned toward the dashboard vents. “These feel good.”

  “Are you all right? Frostbite?”

  “My feet got a little numb. They’re warming up. What a night, though. I can’t believe we made it out. I can’t believe I’m free.”

  Raphael didn’t contradict her. If someone caught up to them, they’d deal with it at the time.

  Flicka said, “We could go to a German embassy. They always tell you to go to an embassy if you’re in trouble.”

  “Do you have your passport with you?”

  “Nope. I have absolutely nothing but the clothes on my back.”

  “If Pierre issues warrants for our arrest, the German ambassador might have to comply and turn you over to the French police.”

  “So, an embassy is out. God, I wish we had a phone. I could call my father.”

  Raphael’s lip curled. He’d heard Wulf’s stories and seen her father in action on several occasions. “Phillipp?”

  “Yeah, that father of mine. Not any of the other ones.”

  Raphael winced. “He reminds me of my father in a lot of ways.”

  She adjusted the vents some more, closing her eyes in the warm air. “And that’s not good, right?”

  “Worse than you know.”

  “Jesus, Raphael.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted.

  “I think my father would help us escape from Pierre. He might be as acerbic as strong acid and he might have tried to sabotage every relationship that Wulfie and I ever had, but I don’t think he wants us enslaved or dead.”

  “That’s quite a leap.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure, and he hated Pierre. He might help us just out of spite.”

  “Spite is as good of a reason as any.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “Hannover is in northern Germany, and we’re on the Mediterranean coast of France. It’s at least twelve hours by car, maybe double that by train. If we stay on this road,” he gestured to the city street that was turning into a highway, the buildings and streetlights spreading farther apart, “it’ll be about fifteen hours. They will expect us to use the fastest route. If we go through Geneva, it might throw them off.”

  She swiveled in her seat. “Are we going through Geneva?”

  “Unless we turn around.”

  “It’s only three hours by plane,” Flicka said. “I used to fly down to Monaco all the time during summers to hang out with Christine.”

  “I remember,” Raphael said. “I came with you a few times as security.”

  Flicka giggled and leaned closer to him, bumping her shoulder against his. “I still can’t believe we didn’t get caught.”

  A grin pulled at his face despite the sour adrenaline in his veins. “Well, I was supposed to meet your every need.”

  She laughed, an easy, happy sound. “You sure did.”

  He reached over and held her hand while he drove through the night, out of the vibrant city of Nice and into the French countryside. “It’s going to be a long car ride, and I’m already tired. Can you drive later?”

  Flicka bit her lip. “It’s been a long time. Wulfie likes to drive. I don’t. I can try. You might have to stay awake the first little bit to teach me again.”

  “If we stopped somewhere to rest, that would change the time when we would arrive at certain places. It might throw Pierre’s Secret Service off, too. As a matter of fact, we might want to drive overnight and sleep during the day.”

  “Getting a hotel is going to be problematic,” Flicka said. “Credit cards can be traced. Bunches of cash looks suspicious.”

  Raphael didn’t have much more cash after the train tickets, and he didn’t have his wallet on him. None of the Rogues carried identification into an operation if they could help it. “Check the glove compartment.”

  Flicka flipped down the litt
le door and poked through it, opening things. “This envelope has about a thousand euros in it.”

  Raphael glanced over, inventorying what she was finding, as he drove. “That’ll probably be enough for gas.”

  Gas was expensive in Europe.

  “But not enough for hotels,” she said, frowning. “We can sleep in the back seat of the car, if we can find someplace to hide it.”

  The two-door M3’s back seat was minimal, at best. It was built for yachting clothes or a briefcase.

  “Was there a phone in there?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Cell phones ping towers and can be tracked. Voice recognition software was improving every day. If Pierre had involved the French police or intelligence services, any technology could be in play.

  Leaving the car stationary might increase the odds that Pierre’s Secret Service or the French police might find them. Hiding the car and sleeping elsewhere was a better option, if they could figure something out.

  He said, “We’ll drive as far as we can tonight, and then we’ll see where we are.”

  Checkpoint

  Raphael Mirabaud

  Our first child.

  What a thought.

  Our first child.

  Raphael steered the car through the night, its headlights reaching through the cold air and flitting snowflakes to the long ribbon of asphalt in front of him. Inky mountains loomed on both sides of the road in the obsidian night. Clouds blocked out even the moon and stars.

  Flicka slept in the passenger seat, her slim form just visible in the moonlight streaming in through the windshield.

  The night weighed heavily around them. Raphael was more exhausted than he had let on. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours for a week or longer. The little rest he’d gotten on Geneva Trust’s plane to the States had been fitful at best, and it had been a long time ago.

  He wanted to stop for a few hours and maybe sleep, but it was four in the morning, before sunrise.

  Early mornings are the hardest when you’re homeless. Earlier at night, some places stay open late, like bars, where you can go in and get warm for a while, but even bars in big cities or college towns don’t stay open much later than two in the morning. Even the earliest of breakfast diners don’t open until six, and then you’d better have money for at least coffee so they’ll let you sit in there for a while.

  Only the most desperate people roamed those dark hours before the dawn.

  Ahead, red pinpoints twinkled in the darkness.

  It might be a fire, or it might be Christmas lights, or it might be a police checkpoint.

  Should he wake Flicka up?

  Not if he was just going to drive past some Christmas lights. Raphael had never seen her so tired.

  He smiled as he drove because he realized why she was sleeping so much.

  As he neared the red lights, it became apparent that a police checkpoint crossed the road in front of them.

  Shit.

  Waking Flicka wouldn’t help matters. Indeed, letting her sleep might look even less suspicious to an officer than if Raphael roused her and they were both awake.

  He couldn’t turn around, either. Running from a police checkpoint never worked.

  Raphael preferred not to discuss how he had learned that fact.

  He drove smoothly and calmly, coasting to a stop where the police officer had placed a frail, wooden barricade across the road.

  Raphael rolled down his window and whispered, “Bonjour, officer.”

  The French policeman flicked a flashlight beam around the car, noting that Flicka was sleeping in the passenger seat.

  When the police officer shone his flashlight on Flicka, her head was turned away, and her chest rose and fell as she breathed deeply in sleep.

  The police officer consulted something on his phone, maybe a picture, but he shrugged and stuffed his phone in his pocket. “Cold, tonight.”

  “Very cold,” Raphael said.

  The officer asked, “Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Aren’t you French?” the police officer asked.

  Raphael laughed very softly. “No wine for us. She’s pregnant.”

  A wild joy ripped through him at saying this simple truth out loud to another human being.

  The police officer smiled, and his eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “She’s asleep?”

  Raphael nodded, a ridiculous grin growing on his face. “They sleep a lot when they are with child.”

  “Don’t I know it.” The policeman played his flashlight over the car’s rear seat. “Is this your first?”

  “Yes, our first.”

  “Congratulations, and you poor bastard. On your way, then. Merry Noel to you,” the police officer said.

  “And Merry Noel to you, too.”

  The police officer stepped back, and his flashlight beam swung through the dark, indicating that Raphael should drive on.

  Raphael gripped the steering wheel and drove away, waving, as a cold sweat broke out all over his chest and back.

  That was close, too close.

  They needed to find somewhere to hide for the night before Raphael fell asleep at the wheel and killed both of them.

  And then they had to end this insanity with Pierre, by whatever means necessary.

  Refugees

  Raphael Mirabaud

  I wasn’t planning on seducing her in someone else’s house.

  Really, I wasn’t.

  Why are you laughing?

  Raphael was kneeling by the doorknob of the back door of a dark house, holding some metal wires in his teeth while he inserted others in the knob. He’d gotten the lockpicks from another envelope in the glove compartment. The damn lock was sticky.

  “I’m sure this is illegal,” Flicka whispered to Raphael and looked around in the dark. “This is breaking and entering, and it’s totally illegal. We should sleep in the car.”

  That back seat wasn’t big enough for a Pekingese. He should have specified to Vonlanthen they needed a Land Rover because they might need to camp in it.

  He said, “We’re not breaking anything.” One of the picks poked his tongue when he talked. “And we’re not here to steal anything, either.”

  Flicka clutched his priest shirt more tightly around her. “I’m fine with curling up in the car to sleep. I do a lot of yoga. I can really curl up.”

  “I can’t,” Raphael growled through clenched teeth and tried not to impale his tongue on that wire. The wintry wind cut right through his slacks and tee shirt. His fingers cramped around the picks as he tried not to shake from the cold, but he needed to get Flicka inside where it was warmer. That silk dress was literally made out of spider webs, and she had only his shirt to keep her warm. His exhausted fingers slipped on the steel wires he was jiggling in the doorknob. “Besides, this is better. The police won’t see our car parked behind the shed, and if we’re rested, we’ll drive more safely later.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” she said.

  The knob clicked, and the door swung inward, thank all the angels. “There it is. Let’s go in.”

  Flicka tiptoed in.

  Raphael listened to the air in the house, but nothing moved. No dogs. No people. And no alarms blared at their entry.

  The house was cool, but it felt much warmer on his arms and hands than the frigid air outside. She’d be okay in here.

  He pressed the door closed and relocked it. “We shouldn’t turn on the lights. The owners are probably away for Christmas, so the neighbors might call the police if they saw lights.”

  Flicka stared into the dark. Moonlight streamed in through the window above the kitchen sink, glanced off the clean counters, and brushed her bright blond hair that fell in soft curls around her face. “Okay, no lights.”

  He couldn’t help himself. Now that they were in the house, they were safe, at least for a little while.

  Raphael grabbed Flicka’s hand and spun her into his arms. Her sle
nder body curved against his strong one, and he sank his fingers into her soft tresses bound up in a bun and pulled her head back so he could kiss her.

  His mouth crashed down on hers, his lips taking every moment and movement of hers, and he wrapped his arm more firmly around her back to feel that she was safe, she was with him, and they were finally together.

  The last few days had been torture for him, but he hadn’t allowed himself to think about anything except the job he had to do to get her back.

  Anything. He would have done anything.

  Luckily, his plan had worked.

  His backup plan had been an all-out air and sea assault, and he would have led the suicide mission if it meant Flicka would walk free.

  Her fingers tightened on his tee shirt, pulling him closer, and she kissed him back. Her petal-like lips and the softness of her curves in his hands were driving him crazy, and he crowded her against a wall to kiss her more thoroughly. His tongue caressed hers as his hand slipped down to her hip.

  She broke off the kiss, panting. “I am not going to screw you in a house we broke into, no matter how much adrenaline turns me on.”

  He chuckled softly, almost gasping because his body was primed to rip their clothes away and take her right there. “I concur. At least one of us needs to stay alert in case they come home or the neighbors send the police.”

  She laid her cheek on his shoulder, and Raphael’s heart swelled. This is what he’d imagined his life would be like when his wife was pregnant with their child: holding her body close to his and running his cheek over the silk of her hair.

  Okay, he hadn’t imagined running away from the police and escaping from his wife’s ex-husband, but this moment—holding her, sheltering her—this had been what he’d imagined when he’d thought that he might have a family someday. He hadn’t been able to do this with Gretchen. She’d pushed him away every time he’d tried.

  This time, with Flicka, he would feel every moment of their child growing.