“But Rae just had her baby a few days ago!”
“He’s going home later today. I think I know what we’ll do.” His eyes glinted silver in the blue light from the flickering clock and the moonlight. “Be ready. I love you, my Durchlauchtig, more than anything else in the world, but be ready.”
He ran out of the room with Flicka grasping the air behind him.
Covert Operation #2
Flicka von Hannover
Some covert operations require daylight
and lawyers.
Flicka stood straight and still, smiling and squinching her eyes as if she were happy.
Pierre’s hand rested lightly on Flicka’s back near her waist, and he was smiling as if pleased and proud that he had managed to keep himself standing upright in the throne room of the Prince’s Palace. Daylight shone between them, though. He wasn’t mauling her for the cameras.
They stood beside the empty throne. Pierre wasn’t sitting in the low, gilded chair, of course. Sitting on the throne would be presumptuous, and Pierre was always conscious of how things looked.
A swarm of cameras bolted to different heights of tripods aimed at the two of them, and they clicked simultaneously when the photographer thumbed the remote in her hand. She said, “Now, Your Serene Highnesses, look up toward the sunlight, if you would.”
Flicka raised her chin, as did Pierre, as if they were anticipating a new era for the Principality of Monaco. The morning sunlight glaring through the three stories of glass stung her eyes. She blinked but kept her mouth wrenched up in a smile.
Four enormous chandeliers like crystal fountains showered light on the room. Several stories above the inlaid marble floor, paintings of the labors of Hercules adorned the arched ceiling.
The predominant color in the throne room was red: red curtains around the windows, red silk brocade with its subtle pattern of fleur de lis on the walls, the same red brocade on the chairs pushed to the sides of the room, red velvet covering the chandeliers’ chains, and red carpet on the steps leading to the elevated throne dais. Darker red silk upholstery covered the throne itself, matching the deep red, velvet curtains framing the dais and the enormous crown suspended thirty feet or more above where the monarch would sit in majesty.
Flicka had seen it done better.
But she stood beside the throne with her ex-husband and smiled, doing her part, because although Pierre hadn’t threatened Alina yet, she wouldn’t put it past him.
Raphael should have taken Alina with him last night. He could have wrapped her in a coat or something and smuggled her out.
Nevertheless, every minute, Flicka was ready to leap away from Pierre Grimaldi and into Raphael’s arms if he and Rogue Security broke through the tall windows, swinging from rappelling ropes, or stormed through the wide doors at the other end of the hall, brandishing rifles.
The photographer smiled her bright red lips that matched the walls and said, “Turn your feet toward me, please, and just a little closer together?”
Pierre didn’t move, and Flicka shuffled a quarter of a step closer to his side.
The photographer grinned harder. She probably hated both of them. “Perfect, now everybody smile!”
Flicka continued smiling.
At the other end of the throne room, a man’s voice said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go in there.”
She looked over at the far set of doors.
Pierre half-stepped in front of her and spread his hand to signal her to stay back.
She wasn’t sure if Pierre was being protective—and he had always been as protective as his Secret Service bodyguards had allowed him to be right before they hustled him into a waiting SUV—but maybe he was making sure she didn’t get away. She didn’t want to assign malice where he might be trying to be kind.
Of course, he was planning to kill the baby growing in her uterus, so maybe she could not possibly overstate his malice.
A cluster of men in dark suits stormed into the throne room.
One of them cried, “Sir, your Grace, sir! If you’ll listen as I explain the new rules to protect the Princess from any unnecessary commotion—”
A man’s very familiar voice said, “You can’t stop me. I grew up in this palace. I’ve been living on planes for a goddamn week, between Uncle Rainier’s funeral and then a concert in Canada and a wedding in the States. Don’t piss me off. I have the right to go anywhere in this palace that I damn well want to, and he’s with me.”
Flicka raised up to her toes. “Alexandre?”
The flock of Secret Service agents jumped apart, looking at their shoes somewhat guiltily. Two very tall, blond men marched into the throne room.
The guy on the left was Alexandre Grimaldi, Pierre’s cousin. His long, blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore a black tee shirt with his black suit slacks and jacket, as was befitting a guy who saw himself more as a musician than third in line to the throne of Monaco. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, and he looked haggard.
The other tall, blond man was—
“Wulfie!” Flicka shrilled and leaped off the dais, running toward him.
Yes, the other man was Wulfram von Hannover, Flicka’s older brother who had raised her from the time she had been six and he had been fifteen.
She slammed into him, and he caught her under her arms and whipped her into the air like he used to do when she was little. He crushed her in his arms, holding her against his chest, and she laid her head on his shoulder.
She wouldn’t cry. It would give everything away, and there would be too much explaining to do.
Flicka held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut.
Her brother’s deep voice near her ear whispered, “I was so worried.”
“I couldn’t,” she said. “There’s someone in the Welfenlegion. They might have hurt you or Rae.”
“I know all about it. It’s almost over. I promise.”
“Is Rae here?”
“No. She’s at home. She had the baby. They’re both well. Victoria Augusta.”
Victoria Augusta because, of course, Wulfie had given his baby a name suitable for a monarch. Flicka squeezed him more tightly and whispered, “Did Raphael send you?”
“Who?” he asked.
Oops.
She pushed back from his shoulders. “I mean, Dieter. Did Dieter send you?”
His sapphire blue eyes narrowed. “You don’t make mistakes like that.”
“It was just a silly mistake, silly. But did he?”
He set her back from him and held out his hand, palm up, to Alexandre.
Alexandre Grimaldi dumped a folder of paperwork in his outstretched hand. Wulf must have slapped it at Alex’s chest to hand it off when he’d seen Flicka sprinting at him, full tilt.
Wulf lifted his head and announced to the room, “I am here to take possession of Alina Schwarz. As her father has been out of communication for over a week, I am designated as the child’s legal guardian for any absence, temporary or permanent.”
This was why Raphael had said that Wulfram was in France. First, they would liberate Alina, which was just fine with Flicka. With a legal ambush, Wulfie would walk out of the Prince’s Palace with Alina without a shot fired.
She turned to leave. “I’ll get Alina. I’ll be back in one minute.”
“No,” Pierre said, and he stared between the two of them. “We’ll need lawyers to review those documents. I can’t just hand a child over to you because you have some legal papers—”
Wulf’s angry glare at Pierre should have ignited the air between them. “I have a platoon of lawyers in one of the receiving rooms, though your Secret Service wouldn’t allow them through. I assure you, if you want to drag this out, I’ll litigate in France, Switzerland, the US, and Monaco simultaneously. We have papers ready to file in all four jurisdictions. I can have court dates on your schedule every day, two or three times a day, on different continents, for as long it takes. You don’t want to be held in contempt for not appeari
ng in court. Do you, Pierre?”
Flicka tried not to cackle at Wulfie’s reference to Pierre’s traumatizing twenty-four hours in a Las Vegas holding cell, and she looked between the two of them.
As children, her brother Wulfram and Pierre Grimaldi had lived together in their boarding school’s dormitory for years, until Wulf had taken custody of Flicka and moved into a house off-campus. Even afterward, Pierre had been at their house often, studying with Wulf and eating supper with them, until he’d been driven back to the dorms at night. Even after school and college, they’d done business deals together. Wulfram had stayed in the Prince’s Palace with Pierre for weeks when he’d done his annual vacations through Europe to maintain contacts and settle matters. They’d been best friends.
Now, Wulfram’s jaw was set hard, though Pierre’s lowered eyebrows and shoulders looked ashamed and resigned.
Wulfram turned to Flicka and growled, “Do you want to leave Monaco, too?”
Pierre and all the Secret Service agents stepped forward, a wall of dark suits encroaching on her, ready to pull her under and away if she told Wulf she wanted to leave with him.
Wulfram and Alexandre had certainly been frisked for weapons before they’d been allowed past the antechambers, and Pierre’s Secret Service agents must be heavily armed. Carrying weapons and defending the prince were their entire job descriptions. Wulfie and Alex wouldn’t win any sort of a fight in this room.
Flicka said, “I belong here in Monaco with my husband. I’ve been keeping busy, decorating my suite. I’m quite interested in the use of stone materials like limestone and granite.”
Wulf blinked, and his jaw went harder, if that were possible. He stared at Pierre over Flicka’s head. “Flicka is coming with me.”
Those words that she stressed were from their old code, of course, the one she and Wulfie had worked out years before when she had been back in the dorms at Le Rosey boarding school for upper school and he had gone into the Swiss army to serve his year-long conscription as all Swiss citizens do.
Fiddlesticks meant that she was all right in every way that mattered, so she had used that one months ago in her text message after she’d run away from Pierre in Montreux.
Limestone meant that she was generally not safe, which meant that they were not safe at this moment, surrounded by Pierre’s Secret Service. Limestone meant that it was not safe to talk.
The word decorating meant that she was in active danger, such as she had been kidnapped, or another serious crime was in progress.
She’d never had to use those two words before.
Pierre shook his head. “Wulfram, she just told you she didn’t want to leave, that she’s busy here.”
“I said that she is coming with me.”
“Flicka isn’t going anywhere with you,” Pierre said. “She’s the Princess of Monaco, and she’s staying here.”
“She isn’t the Princess yet,” Wulfram said, “and you’re not the Prince of Monaco yet, either.”
Alexandre spoke to Pierre, “I’m on that council of nobles, and I won’t vote for you.”
Pierre shrugged at Alexandre. “There are thirty nobles on the council. Go ahead and vote no-confidence. Everyone knows Maxence wouldn’t accept the principality, so you’ll look like a self-serving idiot, trying to take the crown with your one, singular vote. It won’t go over well, Xan Valentine. You haven’t been here. You haven’t done your duty for Monaco like I have, all these years. I’ve been the one making the appearances, negotiating the conventions and business deals, and being seen in the casino and marketing materials. Go back to your rock band. No one will elect you Prince.”
Flicka considered raising her hands and trying to calm the three men down, but she wanted to walk out of the Prince’s Palace with Wulfram and Alina.
Let them argue.
Let Wulfram win.
“But you aren’t the Prince of this country yet,” Wulfram said, “and Flicka isn’t your prisoner. She should leave with me if she wants to.”
Pierre lowered his chin, and his eyes narrowed. “I will be confirmed as the Prince when the council votes in a few days. I am the highest ranking family member, so I am the de facto sovereign Prince. She stays here in Monaco with me, where she belongs.”
“She’s leaving with me,” Wulf ground out, glaring at the highly trained, armed Monegasque Secret Service men standing around him. If Raphael had been there, the two of them might have stood a chance in hand-to-hand combat. “I understand what you think you are, but I’m telling you this right now: back down. Let Flicka leave with me. You’re the monarch of a country—”
“Yes,” Pierre said, and his tone was smug.
Wulfram said, “—so what you do has repercussions for your country.”
“In a few days, I will be Monaco. You won’t be able to touch me.”
Wulfram continued, “If someone were to wage war against you, it wouldn’t be the kind of war that this antiquated, medieval fortress was designed to withstand. Wars now are fought with financial and cyber weapons. If someone dumped enormous amounts of certain companies’ stock into the markets while simultaneously shorting those stocks, those financial instruments would go into freefall. I know Monaco’s finances, Pierre. I know your personal finances. You would go bankrupt within a few weeks. Monaco itself might take a month or so longer, but I can destroy it.”
“Monaco is a country. We have a national bank,” he scoffed. “You’re just one person.”
Wulfram laughed a deep, rolling laugh that echoed on the domed ceiling far above and reverberated from the walls. “No, Pierre. I’m the head of the House of Hannover, and I control most of the assets for the House of Welf. I’m the Queen of England’s stockbroker and the financial expert for most of the royal houses of Europe. You’re just a lordling, the titular head of a casino and a beach. Within a week or two, word will reach the street that the House of Grimaldi is insolvent and taking Monaco down with it. I will burn Monaco to the ground. I’ll bury you.”
Pierre’s dark eyes narrowed. “All just for revenge?”
“No, for my sister. When trading opens tomorrow morning, the hemorrhaging will begin. The pain will stop when Flicka is in Schloss Marienburg or my house in the States.”
“I don’t believe you,” Pierre said. “You can’t take on an entire country and win.”
“Try me,” Wulfram growled.
“It doesn’t matter if you do.” Pierre motioned with his hand, waving the Secret Service men closer to Alexandre and Wulfram. “You said it’ll take weeks to have any effect. Tonight is the Winter Ball. Tomorrow, the council of nobles will begin their deliberations. I’m the heir apparent. I only need a simple majority vote of confidence. I’ll make a pretty speech. They’ll vote. It’ll probably be done by tea time. At most, a few days.”
“I’ll tell them what you’re doing,” Alexandre said. “I’ll tell them that Flicka is being kept here against her will.”
Pierre shrugged. “I’ll have her say that she’s not.”
Flicka looked down at her clenching hands. Yes, he could do that, and she would stand up there and say it, lest he threaten Alina or herself. That night in Montreux had been so terrible, and her hands started shaking when she even thought about it.
Yes, she would say whatever he wanted her to.
“She divorced you,” Wulfram told Pierre. “You’re not eligible to be the Catholic prince of this Catholic country.”
Pierre shrugged. “As my wife has returned, no one will have the objection that I’ve been divorced. If I need to, I’ll remarry Flicka in the chapel here in the palace with the council as witnesses.”
Wulf demanded, “You’ll take the economy of the country of Monaco down with you, rather than let Flicka go?”
“Like you said, I’ll be declared the Prince first, and then I’ll clean up the mess. France will loan us the money. Our treaties with them will hold. Besides, I’ll have that other marriage to Raphael Mirabaud declared invalid, as Flicka and I never received
an annulment.”
“Other marriage?” Wulf asked, and his dark blue eyes tracked to Flicka. “‘Raphael’ is Raphael Mirabaud?”
“Yes,” Flicka said.
Wulf’s expression didn’t change much, but she could see horror rise in his blue eyes. “Dieter Schwarz is Raphael Mirabaud?”
She nodded, unsure why he was so upset.
“And he married you?”
Flicka told him, “I married him in Gibraltar three weeks ago.”
His left hand clenched into a fist. “Were you coerced?”
She didn’t want to have this conversation here. “No, of course not.”
“Was it to get away from Pierre somehow?”
“I’ve been in love with Dieter my whole life,” she told him. “I would have married him when we lived together in London, but he left.”
Wulfram ripped open the manila envelope he held, the one that supposedly held Raphael’s living trust and Alina’s papers.
A small piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Alexandre stooped to retrieve it and stuffed it in his pocket.
Wulfram stared at the birth certificate. “Alina Mirabaud. Her name is Alina Mirabaud.”
Pierre frowned, looking at Flicka with one raised eyebrow. “I thought you were her guardian. Shouldn’t you know the child’s name?”
Wulf growled, “Bring Alina Mirabaud to me right now.”
“Wulfie?” Flicka asked him.
“I meant every word I said,” he told her. “When you’re safe at Schloss Marienburg or my house in the States, I will pull back my wolves. This is between Dieter and me, and evidently, we have a great deal to discuss.”
Pierre glanced at Flicka, looking troubled. “I cannot, in good conscience, hand over a child to you when you didn’t even know her correct name. I knew her name was Alina Mirabaud.”
Wulf plunged his hand into the envelope and came up with a blue-bound passport. He opened it. “This passport shows the picture of Alina Mirabaud. This living trust dictates that I am to have custody of Alina Mirabaud in the case that her parent,” he read the paperwork, “Raphael Mirabaud is dead or missing for longer than a week. The fact that I called her a different name does not matter. I will take this child identified in this passport into my custody, as stated in this living trust from her father and only legal parent, and I will do it right now.”
Happily Ever After (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 5) Page 10