Once Upon a Time: Billionaires in Disguise: Flicka

by Blair Babylon

  “I’m sorry,” Dieter said. “Yes, he is. I’m sorry.”

  “He told Quentin to hold me down, and he had a knife.”

  “Did that asshole cut you?”

  “He held me down. He said he’d make me have a baby, that he would flush my birth control pills down the toilet and make me have one. He said he needed me to produce royal heirs, and he didn’t give a shit how it happened. He said that he should have known that I would be just another stupid woman like all the others. He said that he thought I would be different because I’m a damn princess. He said I should have understood. He said that he was taking me back to Monaco tomorrow on the plane, and I wasn’t going to leave the palace ever again. It’s a fortress, you know. It can keep people locked inside, too.”

  Dieter’s soft swearing outside the curtain didn’t stop. Flicka recognized profanity in at least four languages, covering the spectrum from Pierre’s parentage and his toilet habits to exactly how Dieter was going to kill him.

  His swearing got funny after a while, as it went on and on and on in a furious monotone, detailing Dieter’s weapons and Pierre’s body parts, and Flicka snorted a laugh through her sobs.

  She said, “He was drunk. When he dozed off afterward, I ran. He shot at me.”

  A sharp gasp from outside the shower. “He missed?”

  “He missed.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Dieter said.

  “You can’t,” she said, almost laughing again as hysteria mixed with rage. “He’s the sovereign prince of Monaco. People would notice.”

  “Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn’t.”

  “Pierre said that he wasn’t going to lose the throne over one silly little girl with bourgeois notions about marriage.” Tears spilled out of her eyes again, and she scrubbed them into the warm, falling water. Damn it, her ancestors had played the Great Game for generations and had won more often than not, but they hadn’t gotten all weepy about it. “I’m so stupid.”

  “You’re not.”

  Dread coiled in her throat. “Oh, God. What if I am pregnant? I didn’t take a pill tonight.”

  “I can get you a morning-after pill from a pharmacy tomorrow.”

  Flicka managed to look up, and the shower sprayed the side of her face. “How do you even know about stuff like that?”

  Dieter cleared his throat. “I have three older sisters. One overhears things as a teenager.”

  Stunned shock numbed her rage and pain. “You never said that you have sisters.”

  The curtain moved, and a man’s hand rested on the side of the tub, palm up. “It wasn’t important then, and it’s not important now.”

  No, what was important was escaping from and divorcing her husband who owned an actual, if small, army.

  Flicka swallowed the words and stupid sucking sounds that welled up in her. She laid her fingers in Dieter’s offered hand. His fingers curled around hers, and she held on tightly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No reason to be sorry. None at all.”

  “I shouldn’t involve you like this.”

  “It’s my job. I work for your brother, and he has tasked me with your security. We’ll consider this an extension of those orders.”

  “I can pay you.”

  His whisper coarsened. “Never.”

  “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Dieter held her hand around the edge of the shower curtain. “You did the right thing, coming to me. I’m glad that these last few months, we’ve been able to talk so that you did come to me. I will always protect you, Durchlauchtig. Anything, always.”

  They sat like that, holding hands around the edge of the shower curtain, until Dieter said, “Please get out of the shower. I can’t watch the water hitting your face like that.”

  Flicka tried to stumble to her feet, but she slipped. The silk of her dress made a horrible rubbing sound on the porcelain. “I can’t stand up. The zipper stuck, and I can’t get this thing off.”

  Without letting go of her hand, Dieter stretched toward the bathroom vanity. “If you don’t care about the dress—”

  “I don’t.”

  “—I can cut it off of you.”

  “Just don’t look at me.”

  “Turn over a little. Lean toward the back of the tub.”

  Flicka held onto the long bar down the side of the tub and rolled away from him.

  The soggy fabric pulled against her, and cool steel touched the back of her neck. The dress loosened around her chest and waist as the fabric ripped away from the knife.

  “There,” Dieter said, his voice husky. “You should be able to push it off.”

  Flicka shoved and rolled the dress down her torso and kicked it off her legs.

  The thin, wet fabric thunked as if a brooch were pinned to the inside of a seam.

  While she was down near her feet, she shut off the water.

  When she turned back around, Dieter’s hand was peeking through the curtain, holding a towel. He said, “It’s warm, if you take it. I’ll wait outside.”

  Flicka wrapped it around herself and stepped out of the shower.

  A long, white bathrobe was draped over the towel warmer.

  She dried herself, shrugged on the robe, and managed to unsnarl the Laurel Tiara from her hair.

  She searched the dress and found a small piece of jewelry pinned to a seam on the inside. The delicate spun gold and tiny diamonds surrounded what looked like a yellow and black military ribbon, studded with a gold wreath and mountaineering tools. She ripped the silk getting the pin out and held it in her palm, sticking into her wet flesh.

  In the mirror, a lunatic with matted, wet hair and dripping clown makeup stared back at Flicka. Bruises ringed her throat. The skin on her upper arms was sore like she would be marked there, too.

  Her knees wobbled, but she took a washrag and wiped the mascara and eyeliner off her cheeks and scrubbed the melting contour and foundation from her skin. Most of it came off. She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling it as best she could, yanking the knots. Blond strands caught under her fingernails and between her fingers.

  Now her skin looked raw, almost blood-streaked, like her eyes. Her green irises in the middle of her bloodshot eyes looked horrible.

  If it had been anyone other than Dieter out there, she probably would have hidden in the bathroom.

  Instead, she walked out to find Dieter sitting at the desk, loading bullets into the magazine of a gun.

  He glanced at her but went back to what he was doing. “I’ll sleep on the couch. You can have the bedroom.”

  “Please don’t,” she said.

  “It’s sensible. I’ll be between you and the door.”

  “Please,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone in here.”

  Dieter looked up at her, his dark gray eyes appraising her from her bare feet to her bedraggled hair. “You’re sure?”

  “Please.”

  He stood. “Let’s find you something to sleep in.”

  Insomnia

  Dieter Schwarz

  I do not know how Wulfram stands

  being awake all the time.

  Dieter found one of his oversized gym tee shirts for Flicka and dressed in his pajama pants and a tee shirt.

  He lay down on the other side of the bed from where she huddled under the covers.

  Her red-streaked eyes and blotchy nose from crying were killing him. The bruises on her neck and arms drove him insane. His hands itched to punch the walls.

  If Dieter ever saw Pierre goddamn Grimaldi again, he would rip his damn arms off and beat him to death with them.

  He wasn’t being funny. He wanted to bash that asshole’s head in and see his skull crunch with the bones of his own limbs. Blood and brain matter would fly.

  And Dieter’s anger still wouldn’t be quenched.

  But he should not think about that right now. He knew what Flicka needed.

  He laid his gun on the nightstand, the stock toward him so he could grab it if he needed to
. While Flicka had been in the shower, he had pushed the couch in front of the door to the hallway and fully engaged all the locks. If someone tried to kick that door in, they would probably break their leg. Nothing short of a shaped charge was getting through there.

  While he was out there, he had gone through Flicka’s purse.

  No passport, damn it. That would have made things easier.

  When he’d found her phone, he turned it off, dismantled it, and removed the battery to keep anyone from tracing it.

  Now, lying on the other side of the bed from her, Dieter rested quietly and controlled his breathing.

  In the military, he had learned to force himself to sleep anytime, anywhere, in any position. He had napped hanging from trees in a harness made of two webbed belts, and he had dozed standing up, strapped to the wall of a military cargo jet.

  But now, with the soft warmth of Flicka’s body wafting through the sheets and Quentin Sault and his Secret Service jackasses out there, Dieter was wide awake.

  He deepened and slowed his breathing, relaxing his limbs, so he appeared to be asleep.

  Just after he did that, within a minute, something cool and soft alighted on his bare biceps.

  His breathing did not falter. He continued that deep, slow, sleepy inhale, and breathed out just as slowly.

  For a moment, nothing moved except his breathing.

  Flicka’s fingers slid over his bare arm until her hand rested on his skin.

  Dieter didn’t move, didn’t change the pace of his breath.

  Within a few moments, the sobbing hitch in Flicka’s respiration smoothed, and she settled down to sleep, her hand clutching his arm.

  There.

  When they had been together, she’d cuddled against him at every opportunity. She slept next to him like a chilly kitten drawn to warmth.

  She probably needed this.

  He certainly did.

  He had craved Flicka’s soft touch for years, even though he’d tried to school his mind to stillness and calm.

  And now he wanted more of her soft touch and her fragrant skin.

  If he had thought for even a second that he could somehow chase away the memory of what must have happened to her earlier in the night, he would have tried to seduce her.

  But he knew that wouldn’t happen, so he set his desires aside.

  Dieter allowed himself to drift into a light sleep, rousing at the slightest puff of the air conditioner or of anyone walking down the hall on the other side of the walls.

  At seven in the morning, predictably, his phone buzzed.

  Three

  Dieter Schwarz

  The first time I betrayed my best friend, Wulfram,

  was when I had an affair with his sister.

  The second time was to save his life on his wedding day.

  The third time was to save both their lives.

  Dieter snatched up the phone jiggling on the nightstand. “Ja, Durchlaucht?”

  Beside him, Flicka sat up halfway, still clutching the blankets to her shoulders.

  He held up his hand, palm toward her, for silence.

  Over the phone, Wulfram von Hannover told him, “Pierre can’t find Flicka.”

  Dieter rubbed his face, knowing that Wulfram would hear the subtle signals of sleep. “Did she make it back to his suite last night?”

  “He says she didn’t.”

  Liar.

  Dieter said, “Sheisse. And he waited this long to call us?”

  “Quentin Sault and his team were searching.”

  Yes, they had been.

  And now, counter-intelligence.

  He stood, knowing Wulfram would hear that, too. “Did you try tracing her phone?”

  “There’s no signal. It’s off or dead.”

  He’d made sure of that last night when he’d removed the battery. “Did they check the surveillance footage? Did she leave the hotel?”

  “There’s no record of her leaving the hotel via the front desk, but some of the surveillance cameras are not working.”

  “Sheisse! Do they have any actual information for us?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be right there, Durchlaucht. Keep Sault and Grimaldi there. I’ll need to talk to them.”

  “I will.”

  “We’ll find her, Wulfram. Don’t worry. Keep Rae from worrying. I’ll find her.”

  “Can you go? Can you search for her? I can’t leave Reagan. I can’t. Alina is at home—”

  Dieter said, “Suze Meier, one of the nannies, is keeping her. I’ll call and see if I can spend a few more days here. In the meantime, I’ll organize Rogue Security to trace where she went. I’m sure we’ll have everything taken care of in a few days.”

  He turned.

  Flicka was staring at him from the bed. Her blond hair frizzed in a broken halo around her head, and she was holding the blankets close to hide the bruises on her neck and arms. The terror in her wide, green eyes broke his heart.

  Neither Pierre Grimaldi nor Quentin Sault would ever touch her again, even if Dieter had to assassinate Grimaldi and murder Sault. He was perfectly competent to do both.

  He looked right into her eyes and said to Wulfram, “No matter what happens, I’ll find Flicka, and I’ll keep her safe. You can count on me.”

  “I know I can trust you, Dieter,” Wulfram said.

  No, Wulfram shouldn’t trust him, not when Dieter betrayed him so easily.

  But he would keep Flicka safe, no matter how many people he had to kill to do it.

  Once Upon A Time,

  the princess ran away.

  She needs a knight

  In Shining Armor.

  See In Shining Armor

  at Google Play.

  Sneak Peek at In Shining Armor

  Dieter Schwarz

  Flicka has no idea

  How risky it is

  To get her out of Switzerland.

  Dieter stopped the SUV in a vacant lot behind a row of shops in Geneva.

  In the rearview mirror, he could see Flicka sitting in the back seat, more quiet than he had ever seen her. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, almost crunched into a fetal position.

  He wrenched himself around in the seat. “Time to go.”

  She nodded and uncurled herself, reaching for the SUV’s door handle.

  Dieter stepped out of the car and was around the side before she closed the door. She stumbled sideways as gravel slid out from under her feet, and he grabbed her arm.

  Another black SUV careened into the small lot.

  Flicka stared at the enclosing buildings around them wildly, and her breath was instantly gasping.

  “It’s okay,” he told her. “They’re Rogue Security.”

  The SUV stopped beside him.

  “Are you sure?” She stepped closer to him, ready to dodge behind his back as they had practiced many times and used more often than he cared to remember.

  Dieter turned toward the vehicle and reached back, shielding Flicka and ready to fight. His other hand hovered near his waist where he had hidden a small handgun.

  Aiden Grier, the ginger Scot who was everyone’s best friend and drinking companion but especially friendly to people with interesting information, climbed out, didn’t look at either Dieter or Flicka, and walked toward the driver’s side door of the SUV that Dieter had driven.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Dieter said. “You’ll ride in back again.”

  He climbed in the shotgun seat, while Flicka clambered in the back. As soon as she had fastened the seat belt, her legs curled up again, and she buried her face between her knees.

  Dieter wished to high Heaven that wrapping his arms around her would make her feel better, but he suspected for so many reasons that it would make the situation worse.

  Magnus Jensen was driving. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Flicka, and his steel blue eyes slid toward Dieter for just a second before he jammed the SUV in reverse and sprayed gravel leaving the parking lot. “I didn’t even know th
at yard was back there.”

  “During Oktoberfest, the couple who own the Greek restaurant turn it into a beer garden,” Dieter said.

  “I’ll have to check that out.”

  Magnus drove them to the train station, paused at the front while Dieter and Flicka climbed out, and drove away into the traffic.

  The sun glared on the back windshield as Dieter turned Flicka to go into the railway station. He bought two tickets from a machine, feeding Swiss francs into the slot, and they walked directly to a high-speed, mag-lev train waiting at the track.

  Because Switzerland had joined the Schengen agreement allowing free passage over borders with neighboring countries, they didn’t need passports, immigration visas, or rigorous customs inspections. All of those were good reasons that Dieter had chosen the train over an airport and a plane flight.

  The Gare de Genève-Cornavin railway station was one of the more beautiful in Europe, Dieter thought. Swiss sunlight—not glaring like in the south of France but not wan like the Scandinavian countries—poured through the glass panes that layered the walls and ceiling. Even the blond marble and light wood looked like honey-colored sunshine.

  He led Flicka to the first-class compartment and handed her into the row. Her small purse thumped on the floor when she sat down. He took the seat next to the aisle.

  The seats were placed so there were two on one side of the aisle and one on the other, much like the wide, recliner-like seats in the first-class area of an airplane. He’d considered getting a compartment, but that might draw too much attention. Pierre’s Secret Service people might be looking for people purchasing compartments.

  Flicka settled in the seat with her legs curled up again, and she hugged her knees to herself.

  Dieter sat beside her. “What can I do to help?”

  She sucked in a shuddering breath and whispered, “I would like a small gun.”

  The train coasted under their feet, nudging them back in the chairs as it accelerated. “I don’t like my principals to be armed. If there is an attack at some point, I don’t want you to become a target because you’re returning fire. I can rescue a live hostage.”