In Shining Armor

by Blair Babylon

  Flicka couldn’t quite breathe. Warmth rolled off Maxence’s body, brushing her bare arms and shoulders, and the way his mouth moved near hers fascinated her.

  She stepped back as they waltzed, increasing the space between them. Her voice choked in her throat. “I don’t think so, Maxence.”

  He chuckled. “A man has to try. It’s probably better that we just continue to coordinate our charities, right?”

  “Right.”

  His smile turned a little sad. “Sometimes, I regret proposing to you a few years ago. I blew my one chance with you.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she said. “I was honored. I considered it. But I was only seventeen.”

  “You’re twenty-one now.”

  “It’s just awesome how you can do math like that. So clever of you.”

  He pressed her waist, bringing her a little closer to his chest. His move felt more like affection than whatever it was he radiated when he turned it on, so Flicka moved farther into his arms.

  Maxence said, “You’re the only person I can talk to here, or ever at these things.”

  “So let’s talk more often.”

  “I’ll come watch you in The Leeds in September, just as friends.”

  “I’d love that. Text me when you get back to Colombia, and send me some pictures of Pontifical Javeriana University.”

  When Maxence kissed her goodbye on her cheek, the sadness in his eyes almost broke her heart, but they both knew that she wasn’t a suitable woman for him. He needed someone . . . different.

  The third time Flicka danced with Pierre, the photographers rushed the security guys to take their photos, but Flicka barely noticed them.

  Pierre smiled at her, and they reminisced about Wulf and when they were at Le Rosey together. One time when she was six, Flicka had fallen out of the twin bed that Pierre had vacated for her and ended up with her head pillowed on his stomach.

  He’d been too sleepy to move her off, he confessed, even though her skull had bruised his ribs. It had been better to let them both sleep.

  Flicka remembered it, and she’d laughed with him.

  They’d had a drink or two in the wee hours of the morning, catching up.

  Flicka talked to him about music, and he knew enough from his cousins Christine and Alexandre harping on it that he’d followed along. As a frequent patron of the arts, because he was a prince, he had good taste in music, too. He told her about the soloists that the Monaco Philharmonic had lined up for the next season, mentioning that he had a box for the symphony and the orchestra. If she’d like to see any of those august performers—and they were the cream of the classical crop—he could certainly make time to attend the event with her.

  They’d ended up in a hallway off the main ballroom, where a baby grand piano had been stashed. She’d played a quick piece for him, one of the selections she’d prepared for the first rounds of The Leeds competition.

  Pierre had marveled at her performance, complimenting her in just the right things because he had been around classical music his whole life, both in opening the seasons of the Monaco Philharmonic and other classical music groups because he was part of the royal family and from being dragged to recitals for his cousins, Marie-Therese, Christine, and Alexandre. Pierre told her that she needed to play more for him, that he’d really liked each one.

  When she’d lifted her hands from the keyboards and looked up, she was a little giddy with champagne and dancing, like the hallway was sparkling with glee.

  Dieter had been standing down the corridor from them, his hands folded in front of himself.

  His face had been perfectly neutral, but he wasn’t watching the rafters and shadows for skulking assassins.

  Dieter had been watching her with a blank expression on his face.

  When her gaze had met his storm-cloud gray eyes, he’d held her gaze for a moment and then looked away.

  Flicka should have known then.

  Raphael

  Dieter Schwarz

  I didn’t know anyone

  by that name.

  Dieter walked through the Shooting Stars Cotillion, shouldering aside guests and other security alike.

  Flicka was going off somewhere secluded with Pierre Grimaldi, and Dieter didn’t like it. She wasn’t supposed to leave the main floor except for the obvious reasons. They set up operational protocol to keep her safe and yet allow her the most latitude possible. If they had to watch her like a hawk every damn minute, he would need to call in additional security personnel. He couldn’t be a watchdog and a damn sheepdog.

  In the gala event, he’d stayed along the walls and on the balcony with the other security staff, watching.

  He’d seen the guest list before the event and known to stay back and as far away as was safe for Flicka.

  Two men with the last name of Ilyin were there, and he recognized the name Piotr Ilyin.

  And others.

  When she’d danced with Pierre Grimaldi for the first dance, he’d clenched the balcony rail with his fists until his knuckles had ached.

  Lord, she was beautiful out there, her slim body bending and swaying to the music. He’d wanted so much to be there with her.

  But he’d seen the guest list, and he had to stay back.

  It was stupid for him to have attended at all.

  Now, as he followed Flicka and Pierre Grimaldi out of the ballroom, he shoved his way through the scrum of the guests, far too visible to anyone who opened their eyes and looked at him.

  He had to get out of the crowd, and damn soon.

  Flicka was probably heading for that piano out in the hallway. Pianos called her.

  He wound through the crowd—tuxedos, ball gowns, and black suits with guns under the arms—toward the hallway outside the ballroom.

  A man touched Dieter’s arm. “Raphael?”

  It took all his military training, all his control, not to look at the man.

  Dieter turned his face away and grunted, “Nein,” in the most guttural, Germanic accent he could muster, mimicking Wulfram von Hannover or some of his other security and house personnel, the ones who had been with Wulfram when he had lived in Germany.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the interloper was short and sandy-haired, so he was not the worst-case scenario that Dieter had been anticipating since he had seen the final guest list months before.

  But the man’s accent, even on that one, terrible word, had sounded Russian. There was a certain swallowing of the vowels, a quickness to the pronunciation, and a slur over the initial R so that it sounded like a W.

  Dieter dove into the crowd, following Flicka.

  As he strode after her, his heart raced. His lungs cramped as he labored to breathe normally and not betray his panic.

  When he found her, Flicka was indeed sitting at the piano in the hallway, playing one of the pieces she was practicing for The Leeds competition.

  Her perfect face glowed as she gazed up at Pierre Grimaldi, heir to the throne of Monaco, owner of a fortress with thick walls that would keep anyone safe inside and an actual army.

  Pierre smiled down at her, a sparkle lurking in his dark eyes.

  Flicka should be with someone like him, someone who could keep her safe.

  She should never be with someone like Dieter Schwarz. If certain people knew his soul was aching with love for that beautiful woman, if they knew she was his heart incarnate, they would kill her.

  Last Night

  Flicka von Hannover

  I should have fought harder

  for him.

  At the end of the evening, Pierre kissed Flicka’s knuckles and handed her into her car.

  Dieter drove her back to their apartment at Kensington Palace, silent the whole way.

  She was still buzzing from the champagne and the conversation and the dancing.

  When they pulled into the driveway at the palace and gave the car to one of the garage guys, Flicka pretended to be a little more drunk than she actually was and tripped over an
imaginary pebble.

  Dieter caught her before she could stumble, of course, and whisked her up in his arms.

  Flicka laid her head on his burly shoulder.

  He pressed his cheek to her hair for a moment, and then he set her on her feet, holding her until she was steady.

  Oh, too bad. She’d wanted him to carry her inside like he sometimes did.

  No matter.

  When he shut the apartment door behind them, Dieter sighed.

  Flicka had turned back, still slaphappy and chattering from a long night of sucking in the energy of the cotillion.

  As much as she loved music—and she was in preparation for the final rounds of The Leeds International Piano Competition in September, having passed the preliminary rounds just a few weeks before in April—these charity events were a high that she loved, too.

  Dieter had loosened his black bow tie and was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. His broad shoulders hunched, defeated.

  She asked, “What is it?”

  “We have to stop,” he said. The furrow between his honey-colored eyebrows deepened. Usually, the only time he frowned like that was when he was studying something that made no sense, and he was trying to force the information together like pounding a jigsaw puzzle piece into place.

  “Stop what?” She dropped her purse on the round ottoman that served as a coffee table between the couches. “Stop staying out so late? I assure you, I live for these nights. This is what Cinderella wanted when she went to the ball, to dance all night and feel glorious.”

  “We have to stop pretending.” Dieter scowled as if the carpeting was confounding him.

  “Stop pretending to be sober? Excellent idea. I have a chardonnay in the kitchen that’s just begging to die.”

  Dieter said, “We have to stop pretending that our relationship could ever work out.”

  Flicka was wound up tightly that night. Organizing that cotillion had taken six months and countless meetings and events.

  Each of the debs had had to do a charity project. With Flicka’s guidance, the fifteen girls had chosen social justice and other important causes rather than planting flowers at their families’ estates to help the bees. Flicka had overseen those projects, coordinated the events, taught the debs about the financial ends of charities, and evaluated the success of each project with each of the girls. She had worked for hours every damn day for it, in addition to her studies at one of the world’s most rigorous music conservatories and preparing herself for the initial rounds of The Leeds competition, a major milestone in her musical career.

  And this was the night Dieter picked to have a fight about the future of their relationship?

  She snapped. “Are you freaking drunk?”

  “No, Flicka. I don’t drink when I’m working, and I was working tonight. Because I’m not a prince. Because I’m not a nobleman. I’m just a soldier, and I was working tonight.”

  “No, you’re not ‘just a soldier,’ not to me. You’re my Lieblingwächter.”

  “I might be your darling guard, my Durchlauchtig, but I am just a bodyguard, a soldier, a mercenary.” He looked up at her, his gray eyes wider. “Flicka, we can’t pretend this could work out.”

  “I’m not pretending.”

  “I drove you home in another man’s car tonight.”

  “Of course, you did. Only an idiot with more money than sense keeps a car in the heart of London.”

  Dieter shook his head. “It was your brother’s car.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I don’t own the clothes I’m wearing.”

  “Yes, you do. You needed evening dress for these occasions I have to attend. Of course, we had a bespoke tuxedo tailored for you because you’re too muscular for regular sizes.”

  “And I wear a gun under my jacket.”

  “But the tuxedo looks fantastic on you.”

  “I wasn’t holding you in my arms tonight. The tech giants, billionaires of all kinds, noblemen whose ancestors have ruled European kingdoms, politicians with old money and new money, the scions of Swiss banking families, and Russian oligarchs were all vying for your attention, and they deserve it.”

  “I told you that I wanted you to dance with me. You would have fit right in, the way you carry yourself. And you said I should dance with other men.”

  “I couldn’t dance with you. My job is to keep you safe, not to dance with you and not to sleep with you.”

  “I could have brought you as my date—”

  “I’m not your date. I’m your hired bodyguard.”

  “It was my cotillion! I could have put you or anyone I wanted to on the guest list. You could have taken the night off and been with me.”

  “Yes, it was your cotillion, and you are the very pinnacle of your world. You’re the catch of your generation, Flicka. You’re beautiful and rich, and you know so many of the most powerful people in the world. You could be a major classical musician, or you could rule the world through soft power. Or both. Or with your connections, you could run for office and lead Germany. Your father is a member of parliament, no matter how lazy he is about the work he does. You should be with someone who could help you, not drag you down to their lowly level.”

  “I hate it when you talk about yourself that way!”

  “I have nothing to offer you. I walked away from the charity cotillions and the money and the power. You know what’s funny? If I hadn’t walked away, I might have met you and been the type of man you should be with. But if I hadn’t walked away, I wouldn’t deserve someone like you, someone sweet, and good, and who honestly has sneaky plans to change the world. There’s no way we could ever have been together.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You belong with a prince, Durchlauchtig. You belong with someone who is already on the guest list at charity cotillions, who can buy jewelry and safety and islands and anything else you want.”

  “But I don’t want—”

  “You shouldn’t be with me, the son of no one, owner of nothing, an ex-commando who doesn’t even hold an official military rank anymore, with half a degree and no money to speak of.”

  “Money doesn’t mean anything,” she tried again, getting scared now that he might mean it. “I don’t care about wealth and stupid, material things, whether it’s a shiny rock or a car that looks subtly different than other people’s cars. I really, really don’t. The world would be a better place if no one ever inherited as much money and stuff as I have, if all that money and treasure went into making people’s lives better, if no one gave a rat’s ass about stupid status symbol crap.”

  “You might think you want someone like me now, but you won’t. You don’t know what being with someone like me would be like. You wouldn’t be rich. You wouldn’t be safe.”

  “But we’d be together.” That last word screamed out of her throat.

  “That’s the worst thing that could happen to you, Flicka. You deserve to spend your life with a prince, not a mercenary. We have to stop, Durchlauchtig.” He turned to leave.

  “If you walk out that door, don’t come back,” she told him. “Don’t ever call me again. Don’t you dare even talk to me.”

  He didn’t turn to come back, and he didn’t stop walking away. “I’m sorry, Durchlauchtig.”

  “And don’t call me that ever again, either. It means something to me. It obviously doesn’t mean anything to you.”

  Dieter walked out of her apartment at Kensington Palace, leaving her behind.

  Flicka ran to the door to try to stop him, to make him hash it out with her so she could talk some sense into him even though her head was still spinning from the champagne, but the hallway was empty outside her door.

  One of the Queen’s black-suited Secret Service men walked toward her and nodded. “Madam, I’ve been tasked with overseeing your safety tonight. Should you require anything, I’ll be at your disposal.”

  Flicka shook her head. “Thank you. I’m fine.�
��

  She closed the door, locked it, and leaned against the steel and wood.

  When her knees couldn’t hold her upright any more, she slid down the door to the floor.

  When her chest hurt too much to support her, she lay down on the carpeting in front of the door.

  When her willpower could not hold in her grief any longer, she sobbed.

  Why Flicka Married Pierre Grimaldi

  Flicka von Hannover

  Heartbreak changes people.

  For a year after that, Pierre Grimaldi courted Flicka, escorting her to all the right charity and high-society events during the holiday season and through the spring.

  As Flicka finished her piano performance degree in June, she and Pierre were seen at more and more of the usual events for their status, and people began to whisper that a proposal must be imminent.

  He even watched her compete at The Leeds piano competition in September. Flicka played Prokofiev on an enormous concert grand in a huge hall in front of an orchestra, her fingers flying over the keys, and she made the Concerto Finals. Chang Lin won that year, but Flicka came in third. It was more than a respectable showing, considering that she had eight years left to compete before she turned thirty.

  Flicka drifted through it all, concentrating on her music, her charities, and occasionally slipping away from the palace security staff for a day of walking in the park in silence. In those moments, she considered walking away from it all forever, to walk the Earth like a normal person who did not worry about assassins or dynasties.

  She knew the German word for what she felt: fernweh. It’s the opposite of homesickness. It’s a desire to be anywhere else, a loneliness for leaving.

  She didn’t let herself consider what else she might actually be longing for. Flicka did not torture herself.