Page 100 of In Shining Armor

Monaco

Pierre Grimaldi

Pierre Grimaldi sat at a rear table at the wedding reception and toyed with his wine glass.

His wife was missing.

She was out there somewhere after conferring with her lawyers in Paris, preparing to divorce him.

And he was sitting at a damn impromptu wedding for his cousin while his life fell apart around his ears.

Alexandre Grimaldi, Pierre’s cousin and third in line to Monaco’s throne, had married a commoner, but at least she was tolerably upper-class for an American and ostensibly Catholic.

The fact that Georgiana Johnson was Catholic had pacified Pierre’s uncle, the reigning sovereign prince of Monaco, just in case Pierre did something asinine that would cause him to lose his spot in line for the throne.

Something like getting divorced.

If Pierre did allow himself to be thrown out of the line of succession, his younger brother Maxence would immediately abdicate. Maxence was somewhere in the Congo or Botswana or somewhere, doing “good” in the world instead of doing what he should be doing for Monaco.

Maxence had proclaimed often and loudly that he would never assume the throne as the Prince of Monaco. Pierre didn’t doubt Maxence’s resolve in this at all, not in the slightest.

Which meant that man out there, the one slowly dancing at his wedding reception, would inherit the throne.

Alexandre Grimaldi was unfit, unsuitable, and impossible as a sovereign. He had fashioned himself to be a rock star after he had destroyed his promising classical violin career with an ill-advised murder.

Pierre would shoot Alexandre himself before he allowed that man to be crowned the Prince of Monaco.

Alexandre’s long, blond hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and he danced with a loose casualness that offended Pierre where he sat. That idiot lookedhappyout there, dancing with his new wife.

Seriously, Pierre had been miserable at both his weddings: The first one, because he had known that he was making a terrible mistake by marrying the woman he loved, and the second, because marrying the suitable and formidable Flicka von Hannover would lead to nothing but grief for them all.

But he had done it.

Because Pierre always did what Monaco needed.

Now the beautiful and appropriate Flicka von Hannover had been missing for nearly a week, and her older brother Wulfram von Hannover was glaring death threats over the wedding reception crowd at Pierre. Wulfram’s new wife, Rae Stone-von Hannover, kept trying to draw his attention away, but those dark blue eyes stared at Pierre, unblinking in their fury.

Pierre looked over the crowd again. He had hoped that Flicka might show up that night. After all, the bride was one of her best friends, and the groom was one of her old school chums. It wasn’t inconceivable.

If Flicka had sneaked in to pay her respects, perhaps they could have found a detente. He had decided on an offer for her: that she produce an heir for the principality through medical intervention, and they would live separate lives.

Surely, Flicka would accept never seeing him again. He’d done everything wrong after Wulf’s wedding. He’d had too much to drink. Abigai had been hounding him all night, and he’d lost his temper with Flicka.

She had to forgive him.

He would send her jewelry until she forgave him.

And then he and Flicka could go their separate ways, and he could live out his private life with Abigai.

If Flicka didn’t agree to his terms, he would have to bring her back here to Monaco. He didn’t want to do that, but Monaco demanded it.

There must be a legitimate heir, and he had to provide one.

Pierre hoped she would show up.

So he sat, slowly getting drunk, and waited.

Past the bodyguards that ringed his table, Wulfram von Hannover moved toward Pierre, his fists clenched. His wife pulled him back, talking fast.

His Secret Service bodyguards tightened their circle. They’d been warned about Wulfram von Hannover, Pierre’s former closest friend.

But Pierre did what was necessary for Monaco. He gave up whatever was demanded of him, whether it was a legal marriage born of love or a friendship that spanned decades.

Monaco sucked it all away from him.

Quentin Sault strode over to him. The bodyguards parted to let him through.

Sault leaned down and whispered, “We’ve found her. We’ve sent a team. She should be in the palace by Tuesday morning, and then you can decide what to do with her.”