She stood and brushed off questions from her friends and her husband and chased the woman.
Flicka pushed through the crowd, reached the woman in the black dress, and called out, “Georgiana Oelrichs?”
The woman cringed, but she turned toward Flicka. “Um, yeah, but it’s Georgie Johnson now.”
She was holding four champagne flutes in her long fingers, and she shoved them at Rae Stone and a tiny blonde who had been at the wedding that morning, too. The girls plucked the wine classes out of Georgie’s hands just before she dropped them.
Georgie turned and stared right at her. “Hi, Flicka. Can we talk somewhere?”
Flicka wound her arm in Georgie’s, just like they had when they had strolled the fields around Tanglewood together, and guided her toward the hallway outside.
Her heart warred with her head. She shouldn’t be alone with a person from her past, and she shouldn’t go off alone with anyone. Flicka was better at operational security than that.
Outside the double doors, Flicka sat with Georgie on a velvet settee bench, and they bent their heads together. So close, Flicka could see that Georgie must have been trying to overdo her makeup.
Her heart hurt more.
Georgie said, “I am so sorry.”
Flicka whispered, “I was so worried. You just disappeared. I couldn’t find you.”
“My father, what he did, it was so awful, and I got you involved. I am so sorry.”
Flicka rolled right over what Georgie was saying, “When I emailed, I got a bounce from the lawyers. I couldn’t find you. I wanted to help you.”
They murmured to each other, talking about the past.
When Flicka looked up in a belated attempt to be aware of her surroundings and watch for danger, Dieter Schwarz was again standing a few feet away, watching over her.
His suit bulged under his arms where he holstered his guns, but his shoulders were broad under his suit.
When she had seen him stripped to the waist in the hospital yesterday morning, his chest had been more defined and ripped than the last time she remembered seeing him without a shirt, two years before.
That suit looked good on him, too. Really good.
Georgie was nearly crying, explaining why she had run away years before and how the lawyers wouldn’t let her call anyone, and then she just couldn’t.
Flicka told her, “Oh, Georgie. It was nothing. It was a pittance. I missed you. I wanted you back. Are you okay?”
Georgie twined her arms around Flicka’s neck and sobbed. “I’m not.”
Flicka had been sobbed on many times. Again, one of the hazards of visiting disaster zones and of building schools and giving out micro-loans that changed people’s lives.
She held Georgie carefully. “I don’t care about the money, Georgiana. I care about you. I would have helped you, and I want you back in my life. Do you still play?”
Flicka meant the piano, of course. Just seeing Georgiana again made her hands itch for the piano. She hadn’t played in weeks.
She missed it, even the incessant scales and finger exercises, and she missed it a lot.
Georgie nodded. “Every day. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”
Stupid jealousy rose in Flicka. No matter. Nothing to be done about it except re-organize her time. Today, sometime, she would find a piano and work.
In the meantime, she told Georgie, “Play for me.”
Hearing Georgiana play would cement them together and lock Georgie back into her life.
Music had always bound them together. Music bound Flicka to everything.
Beyond Georgie, Flicka saw Dieter look around the room, check the windows, and then brush his gaze across her.
He had never looked at her so often before.
Even when they’d been involved with each other, at events, Dieter had been so careful about her security and decorum. There, he had kept his eyes everywhere but on her.
All except for that one last night.
That night, the one that had ended their relationship and broken Flicka’s heart, Dieter had watched her all night long.
In The Closet
Flicka von Hannover
Strike Two
Flicka paced around the reception in the hotel as the guests ate the brunch and cake and drank the champagne, making sure everyone was having a splendid time.
Her brother Wulfram and his bride, Rae, seemed happy. She rarely saw that slow, real smile reach Wulfram’s dark blue eyes, and he looked serene and pleased every time she happened to glance over at him.
Good. He deserved a nice wedding, even if it had been a bit impromptu.
She glanced over at him again because she always kept an eye on Wulfram when they were together, which wasn’t often anymore. Planning her own wedding and negotiating the marriage details like the prenuptial agreement, over and above her usual charity and social commitments, had kept her very, very busy for a year.
Now, surely the wedding busyness would abate and leave her some time to work on her piano. She was still in her mid-twenties. She might compete at The Leeds again next year if she could muster enough time to practice.
The meeting room was crowded with the two hundred or so guests, and it looked more crowded due to the richly colored tablecloths and flower arrangements. The dark red, Delft blue, and purple consumed the space much more than if she’d chosen something light like soft yellows and pale greens, but a small reception was exactly the place to enjoy the riot of saturated color and bright, shocking white. That part was quite perfect.
However, Flicka was missing her husband again. Several of his school friends had asked after him, wanting to have a conversation at one of these rare social occasions where people of their class could sit and chat.
Too much of the time, especially at charity events or arts functions, they were on display and had to perform their roles. That left little time for real communication.
So, she was hunting for her husband again.
After Wulfram’s wedding at the office of the mayor of Paris, she’d meant to talk to Pierre. In the car, she’d only managed to ensure that he’d seen his schedule and that he was all right before her phone had begun ringing itself stupid with phone call after phone call from the concierges. At the reception, he’d played the perfect husband, sitting with Flicka while they ate, talking with their friends, greeting Georgie with just a little flirt when Flicka had dumped her at the table before she had to flit off again, and so everything was fine in Flicka’s opinion.
They had a modern, sophisticated marriage. They had negotiated arrangements.
In theory, Flicka had the same negotiated privileges, though she didn’t feel comfortable thinking about them too much. She wasn’t old-fashioned. Certainly not. She was as worldly and practical as Pierre about such things.
She just didn’t—
—Have time.
That was it.
Flicka didn’t have time to even consider such a thing, not with her charities, and her music, and now with Wulfram’s religious wedding that she would certainly plan with Rae for a few months’ hence.
Any sort of affair, even a purely physical understanding, would take too much time.
Yes, she didn’t have time to indulge herself so.
But meanwhile, where had her husband disappeared to?
Quentin Sault, the head of Pierre’s Secret Service security detail who was more whipcord tough than muscular, was standing over by one of the doors to the hallway.
She trotted over to him. “Have you seen Pierre?”
Sault looked at her, angling his head up slightly because Flicka was a tad over six feet in her heels. “He exited this door ten minutes ago. Brousseau and Defrancesco are his personal protection today.”
“Thank you,” she said, polite as always even though Quentin Sault sometimes gave her the creeps. Her chills might have been the very specific knowledge that he was under orders from Pierre’s uncle, the current sovereign Prince of Monaco, and that Pierr
e’s security was prioritized over hers in every circumstance. They’d proven that at her wedding the day before when they’d left her alone in the middle of a damned kill zone.
Good Lord, where had she learned such language?
A “kill zone.” She sounded like a mercenary.
Flicka found Claude Brousseau and Jordan Defrancesco, Monegasque Secret Service, standing on either side of a closet door in the hallway that stretched beside the meeting room.
Far down the hallway, Georgie and Alexandre were whispering to each other, probably rehearsing for the music performance she had coerced them into.
Flicka was an alpha princess. If they couldn’t handle the fact that she took charge of hopeless situations and made them successes, then they needed to step back. In the meantime, they could get their butts over to the piano and sing.
Jordan Defrancesco was one of the better Monegasque Secret Service men, in Flicka’s opinion. Besides the fact that he had that strong jaw and broad shoulders, his hazel eyes surveyed the room correctly. He followed a pattern, scanning and skimming, just like Dieter Schwarz did when he was on duty.
Plus, when the bullets had been flying yesterday, Jordan Defrancesco had at least looked back at Flicka as they had shoved Pierre into the limousine. Quentin Sault and the others hadn’t even checked to make sure someone else had protected her.
Flicka asked him, “Jordan, do you know where Pierre is?”
Jordan Defrancesco had the decency to glance down at his shined shoes before returning to scanning the long hallway. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I couldn’t say.”
Jordan tilted his head at the doorway between him and Claude Brousseau.
Brousseau glanced at them talking and then pointedly turned his head and stared far down the corridor in the other direction.
Okay, so Pierre was screwing someone in the closet.
She asked Jordan, “Should I wait?”
Jordan looked straight ahead and spoke to the air. “If any physical harm threatens His Highness, I will have to intervene, using the minimal amount of force necessary.”
“So I can’t strangle him,” she said.
One side of Jordan’s mouth lifted. “Strangling would be considered physical harm.”
“So you’d pull me off of him?” she asked.
Jordan licked his lips. “Sure. Eventually.”
With that assurance, Flicka grabbed the doorknob and twisted it.
The cold knob turned in her hand because of course Pierre wouldn’t even bother to lock the door.
A neon light fixture cast chilly, blue light on Pierre Grimaldi where he stood, leaning against the back wall with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. The harsh light glinted on his strong cheekbones.
A man was on his knees in front of Pierre, his head bobbing as he sucked Pierre’s dick.
Flicka recognized the guy from the cafe they had stopped by for a coffee a few mornings before. “Seriously? The barista? Come on, Pierre. I need you out there. People are noticing your absence. Keep it in your pants for a few hours.”
She shut the door and walked away.
Strangling him would have been too much effort. She might have broken a nail, and she didn’t have time to refresh her manicure before they left for Monaco that night.
Alwaysland
Flicka von Hannover
Alwaysland
is not a love song.
At the small lunch serving as Wulfram’s wedding reception in Paris, Flicka introduced her old music friend Georgiana to her old school chum Alexandre and then worked the room, heading off conflict before it started.
It wasn’t easy. These people’s ancestors started wars that killed millions of soldiers over petty insults. They were all assholes.
There was a small break in the micromanaging when Georgiana and Alexandre performed one of his songs, “Alwaysland.”
Georgie’s piano work was flawless. Her performance was incredible, especially considering that she’d had perhaps an hour to work on the piece.
Flicka could tell that she had been working on her technique and music all those years since they had last seen each other. Yes, Flicka had graduated from the most prestigious music conservatory in the world, but Georgie’s playing was more personal. Some people might say it was idiosyncratic, but Flicka was lost in Georgie’s phrasing and expression while she played.
And Alexandre sang, of course.
Flicka snapped her pretty, shiny suit of armor shut around herself, but she listened.
Alexandre sang:
Or did you walk out on me, on our hopes and our dreams,
When I couldn’t break through it to you?
Because while I live,
Because while I breathe,
Because while my heart beats in my body,
I will love you like we live
in Alwaysland.
Everyone else seemed to think it was a love song, but it wasn’t. Flicka could hear the longing and pain in it. Her heart thumped every time he sang it. Her eyes wanted to get drippy, but she didn’t let them, of course.
When she glanced over at Wulfram and Rae, Dieter was standing with them. Wulfie and Rae were talking as if the three of them had been locked in conversation, but Dieter wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying.
He was listening to the music.
And he was looking at her.
His dove gray eyes were carefully neutral, as always, but he didn’t look away from her, even though he should have been watching the windows and doors.
I will love you like we live in Alwaysland.
Flicka turned back to watch Alexandre and Georgie, her heart straining because she wanted to be on the piano, she wanted to feel the music flowing through her, and because the song always caught hold of her like nothing else did.
That change in the music to a minor key, the G-minor chord that filled the final syllable of the last word with longing, destroyed her every damn time.
Georgie and Alexandre finished the song and were staring at each other like one of them was going to throw the other on top of the piano and screw their brains out.
Flicka did not know which of them to put money on.
But the song was over. She had arranged an adequate musical interlude.
And so she went back to dealing with the nobility and deposed royalty and their fragile insecurities and overblown egos.
Flicka beamed at all of them, massaging their egos and negotiating their place in the room and society, until many of them drifted away.
By three o’clock, the reception room was nearly empty.
Some of the flower arrangements had been dismembered. Dark red roses and Delft blue hydrangeas were scattered across the white-topped tablecloths and had been trampled into the carpeting. Water soaked through the lower layers of fabric that dressed the tables.
Even though the waitstaff had worked hard the whole time, dirty silverware and china littered the tables. Cake crumbs and frosting smears marred the chairs and floor.
The room looked like a food fight had taken place instead of the quiet barbs and veiled insults that had sallied through the crowd.
The DJ was packing up his speakers and tablet. The string quartet was talking quietly as they clicked their instrument cases shut.
Done.
Flicka wanted to go back to bed and sleep for a week, but she had to attend Wulfram’s second, private supper.
She hadn’t eaten much at this reception, just downed enough coffee and champagne to get her through the hours.
Pierre appeared at her side. He didn’t look any worse for not having come back to their room last night.
Sometimes while they had been dating, he would come back the next day battered, sporting a black eye or a bleeding lip. She assumed a bar fight and didn’t ask.
Wounds or noticeable bruises on Pierre would have been difficult to explain since their wedding night was supposed to be the night before, so at least he hadn’t done that.
Dieter and the ot
her security people were herding everybody to the doors for the procession to the cars that would take them to the next restaurant.
She watched Dieter from the corners of her eyes, looking at how he quietly orchestrated the maneuver.
He was a consummate professional, but there was always something dangerous about the way he moved, like he was ready to block a thrown punch or leap at an attacker, especially in public. He held himself like the commando he had been. His stories about rescuing people when he had been with ARD-10 had made her gasp with horror while sitting on the edge of her seat.
But that had been when she was a teenager, when he’d lived with her and Wulf in London.
When just the two of them had lived together at Kensington Palace, she’d helped him with his graduate school essays. His English was very good, but her grammar had been a little better. She’d just edited his verb tenses in his papers and thesis, and thus she’d learned a lot about military tactics and strategy, not to mention things from his M.B.A. classes that served her quite well as she managed her charities. She employed professional managers, of course, but she understood better what they were talking about, thanks to Dieter’s many papers.
He had listened to her piano pieces when they were almost, but not quite, ready for performance. The heightened awareness of performing for him had made her scrutinize her interpretation and technique, and she’d always found ways to improve a piece before anyone else heard it. His kind attention had given her the confidence she needed to perform the works for a grade or an audience, or in a competition.
She missed him.
But it wasn’t her fault they didn’t do that anymore.
The entourage began to move forward through the lobby of the hotel and into the afternoon daylight outside. The concrete planters outside the George V Hotel overflowed with pink and yellow spring flowers.
Once Upon a Time: Billionaires in Disguise: Flicka Page 8