“Oh, yes, that.”
Dree laid her head back on his shoulder. “And your knight-in-shining-armor complex kept your brain too occupied to notice the boat.”
He frowned. “My what?”
“Never mind.” She spread her fingers on his chest, his short masculine hair rough under her palm. His heartbeat had decreased somewhat, she counted, down to around ninety beats per minute. His regular heart rate was between fifty and sixty, so he still had a way to go. “But tonight, the boat was anchored.”
“There must be a storm somewhere tonight, whipping up the chop. That month with the pirates, before the little prince had convinced them he was a revolutionary like them, that he wanted nothing more than the downfall of the ruling party that had taken over their country and ground their villages into the dust, there was a storm. In the dark, sealed can of the locked storeroom, it sounded like something was brushing the walls, rubbing against them like snakeskin on sandpaper. Then, the floor under the little prince’s legs undulated. The whisper outside became a howl, and the floor bucked and threw him through the dark, banging his shoulders and arms against the steel walls.”
Dree forgot she was supposed to be interrogating him, and she wound her body more tightly around his. “That must’ve been terrifying.”
Maxence didn’t answer.
“Was it dark on the yacht tonight?”
“The movie producer preferred candlelight to floodlights. He kept remarking upon the stars, which were particularly visible because there was no moon.”
“Oh, Jesus. So, it was dark.”
“While we were eating, I kept my eye on the glittering crescent of Monaco, shining along the shoreline a few hundred yards away, but the sea around the ship was fathomless.”
As Maxence told the story, his body relaxed and his heart slowed, even while her body contracted around him.
Dree knew how the story ended, but she wanted to keep him talking. “How was the little prince rescued?”
“Princes have always been courtiers, especially younger princes who will not inherit the throne. The little prince finally found his voice. When a lackey brought him water, the little prince talked to him. When a kidnapper brought him some food, the little prince talked to him. They spoke French, and they couldn’t help themselves but talk back. Within a few days of the first time he managed to get one of his kidnappers to talk to him, the little prince knew their philosophy and had convinced them he was one of them. He recited their manifesto back to them. He railed against their oppressors.”
Dree brushed her fingertips over his muscle-bound flesh, his skin as warm as if the Mediterranean sun were captured in his body.
“Two weeks after the kidnapping,” Max said, “they allowed him out of the storeroom for meals. A few days after that, he was bunking with the crew’s junior members on filthy mattresses strewn among the pipes. He became a good little revolutionary, swabbing decks, peeling potatoes, cooking rice, and listening to the captain’s nightly tirade in French about dictators and tyrants. He taught them songs of revolution, even though he’d learned them from seeing musical theater in Paris and Geneva. A week later, he gave a speech in French to the pirates, a carefully crafted treatise that could only have been written by a child receiving a world-class education in rhetoric at one of the most elite schools on the planet. A few days after that, the little prince announced he would be their spokesman, he would convince the world their crusade was right and true, and so they set him adrift in a tiny rowboat just a few hundred yards from freedom. He rowed to the shore, swam the last fifty yards in a desperate attempt to wash the stink off himself, and walked barefoot through the streets of Monaco and up the road until he passed the statue of his ancestor, François Grimaldi the Malicious—who had captured a fortress by convincing the soldiers guarding the gate that he was a harmless monk before pulling a knife and slaughtering them—and into the palace where he had been born.”
“You saved yourself,” Dree said, coiling as tightly around him as a vine clinging to a tree.
“I talked my way off the yacht tonight, just like I convinced those amateur revolutionaries on the tanker ship that I was one of them, so they would release me to carry their manifesto to Monaco and France.”
“You did what you needed to do to survive, Max.”
Maxence nodded. His eyes were open, but his gaze was turned inward.
“What commitment did you get from Silverman?”
“Eight movies and a mini-series for HBO over the next two years.”
“Your goal was five.” She’d taken notes during the strategy meetings.
He shrugged.
“Good job, there, Max.” She snuggled closer to him. “If pirates kidnapped you now, you’d probably not only talk your way out of it, but you’d return in a month standing on the prow of the ship, with one foot braced on the pointy end, and invade Monaco as the Pirate King.”
He shifted and looked down at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yeah,” Dree said, caught up in her fantasy. “If they gave you a month, you’d take over a pirate ship. You’d start talking, and a few speeches later, they’d be your merry band of pirates, ready to raid and pillage. You probably wouldn’t just invade Monaco. You’d probably have to conquer France, too.”
He was silent for a moment, then chuckled. “That’s funny. You’re funny.”
“No, seriously. You’ve been back in Monaco for only a few days. Before that, you traveled all over the world, like Africa and Nepal and places. You didn’t come back here.”
“No, but I don’t see—”
“And then, like, you walked back in and took over. You literally strolled into the palace and announced the king had returned, and all the servants bowed down to you.”
“That’s hyperbole,” he said, dismissing it.
“Nuh-uh. You called people into meetings, and they came, and then you talked to them until they were ready to do anything you wanted. I watched it happen time after time because I didn’t have to take notes. I was just writing down whatever, so I’ve had plenty of time and brain capacity to watch what you were doing. When you talk, people listen.”
“But I’m next in line. If I wanted to, I could just call the Crown Council and say, ‘Elect me,’ and they would. It would be mine if I wanted it.”
Dree flipped over and pushed herself up on her elbows. “Yeah, everything is yours, if you want it. Whether it’s the throne of Monaco or a pirate ship, you walk in and take command.”
Chapter Sixteen
Prayer II
Maxence
Maxence pressed his palms together, his shoulders and pectoral muscles straining.
Sweat dripped off his eyebrow in the shadowy closet.
He spent hours praying the Major Hours of the Liturgy every day.
Every Sunday and other days of holy obligation when he was at home in Monaco, Maxence and his security staff strolled from the palace to the Cathedral of Our Lady Immaculate, which was over a century old and held the bodies of Maxence’s ancestors, parents, and older brother. The ten-minute walk through the medieval town of Monaco-Ville on the headlands high above the harbor allowed Maxence a few moments to reflect before they entered the Cathedral and Maxence sat with the congregation outside of the altar rail. He did not attempt to assist during the Mass as he would have outside of Monaco. In this tiny city-state conquered by his ancestors, Maxence was just another soldier, not a priest.
No matter how he longed to stand above the altar and take the consecrated host from the priest.
They could tell him that he wasn’t a cleric when he was in Monaco, but they couldn’t take prayer away from him.
But that afternoon was different.
He’d dug into the back of his closet and found his duffel bag from Nepal. The musty, sweaty shirt he’d been wearing when Quentin Sault found him was crumpled into a ball in the bottom corner, and he’d put it on. The white square had been in a pocket of his toiletries bag, and he’d wedged it into the cl
erical collar, scraping his Adam’s apple in the process.
The shirt stank of grime and labor. The stench of an unwashed man had ripened into something genuinely foul.
He hated the smell of his unwashed body and his own filth, but wearing the shirt was the last time he’d felt close to the Divine.
So he endured it, his soul crying out to God in the small, dim closet.
Light from a small overhead lamp bathed the crucifix. The closed door behind him muffled any sound or vibration.
His consciousness shrank to the confines of the closet.
Maxence reached out his hand and slammed the switch above his head where he kneeled.
The light above the crucifix extinguished, and the darkness that snapped through the tiny, enclosed closet was absolute.
The inside of Maxence’s head screamed.
His skin crawled under the reek of the shirt.
The blackness and the tiny space, filled with his own breath and his stench, pressed on his flesh, smashing him.
I give you my pain.
I give you my fear.
I will endure anything if you show me the way.
Give me a sign, or give me certainty, or give me the strength to put my feet on the right path.
When Maxence couldn’t stand it anymore, he slapped the light switch to turn the light back on.
He was lying on his side on the rough carpeting, staring up at the silent wooden carving.
Chapter Seventeen
His Highness, Prince Jules Grimaldi
Maxence
January days turned into January weeks.
Another dawn and another day Maxence spent at the office dealing with the minutiae of Monaco and the interminable quest for the next sovereign prince.
Dree Clark was installed in her admin’s chair, ostensibly taking notes for the palace archives but actually writing down whatever he told her to, which usually did not resemble the conversation in the slightest. She was lovely, sitting there in a pearl pink dress and ivory shoes the color of her skin. Maybe if they had a moment between appointments, he would have her sit on his desk with one foot on either side of his hips so he could run his hands up those shapely legs of hers to her panties and see if they were wet.
And if they weren’t, they would be soon enough.
He wanted to take her somewhere remote, somewhere far away, where he could have a week with her for all the depraved things he craved, not stolen minutes between meetings or after midnight.
Maxence was considering clawing his way out of the palace through the walls to spirit her away. That inclination increased tenfold when the office phone at his elbow clicked and the receptionist said, “Your next appointment is here, His Highness, Prince Jules Grimaldi.”
Seriously, the medieval walls were probably only a foot of stone and plaster. Max could probably dig his way through with his hot chocolate spoon.
The door at the end of the long office opened.
Maxence wondered if his uncle Prince Rainier IV had ever had that trapdoor and secret passage installed under his desk as he’d griped about for years.
Jules Grimaldi bounded up the long carpet, his hand extended to shake as he grinned. “Maxence, so good to see you again.”
He rose and extended his hand in return. “Uncle, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
His uncle Jules’s hand was cool and damp like shaking a fish, and Jules grinned a mischievous smile. “I heard both Duke Alexandre and Lady Christine Grimaldi have returned to Monaco!”
Maxence shrugged. “I hadn’t heard.”
“But this is excellent news! We can hold the Council of Nobles meeting and elect a sovereign prince!”
“I think that’s premature.”
“But Maxence, my dear boy, you are already doing the job. Don’t you want the title and recognition that goes with it?”
Ah, Uncle Jules had come to play. “Someone needs to handle the day-to-day business of the principality. Since I am the first in line to the throne, it naturally falls to me, and I am at least moderately trained for the job. Uncle Rainier saw to it that I had at least a remedial education in administration, though of course, he prepared Pierre much more thoroughly.”
“But you’re so diligent at it. Anyone would think you were auditioning.”
Maxence shook his head. “I’m not having this discussion with you again. I have a doctorate in theology, and I have completed most of the qualifications to become a Jesuit. I have every intention of becoming a priest.”
“And why haven’t you been ordained, yet?” Jules asked lightly, and then his stare into Max’s eyes became more intense.
Maxence smiled. “The timing hasn’t been right.”
“Prince Rainier IV intervened with Pope Celestine VI.”
Rainier’s opposition to Max’s vocation was no secret. “Celestine is no longer the pontiff, and I will soon be at liberty to take my vows.”
“I would have thought you’d have pushed harder.”
“Even a prince has no authority over the pope.”
“But Monaco is a deeply conservative country. Many of our citizens want you to take up Rainier’s mantle.”
“I’ve made my intentions perfectly clear. I am to become a Catholic priest. I will repeat my determination to do so at the Council of Nobles.”
Jules didn’t break the eye contact, and neither did Max. “I’m surprised you think you are going to be able to escape taking the throne.”
Maxence shrugged and allowed his gaze to drift toward the office’s high ceiling and ornate crown moulding, trying to show his absolute disdain for this line of thinking. “His Holiness Pope Vincent de Paul will support me in my quest for the priesthood after a new prince is crowned. We are also a deeply Catholic country. His word will prevail.”
“You always seemed more ambitious than merely being an itinerant Jesuit, wandering about the globe with your liberation theology heresies. I thought you’d have given that up by now.”
Jules had always paid laser-sharp attention to the people ahead of him in the line of succession.
Max leaned forward with his elbows on the desk and stared straight into his uncle’s gray-blue eyes. “Why would I want to administrate forty thousand citizens from the Palais Princier when I can rule a billion souls from the Vatican?”
Jules’s grin finally reached his eyes, where it turned into fiery hunger. “That’s the Maxence I’ve always known, and now everything makes sense. I don’t like it when people don’t make sense.”
Maxence settled back in his seat.
“Your continued disinterest in the throne should lead you to call a meeting as soon as possible, don’t you think? Especially now that Alexandre and Christine are back.”
“Other Council members are not currently available. I believe we will have to wait a week or so until they return.”
“But the Sea Change Gala is just a few weeks away.”
“Yes, you’ve noted that on many occasions.”
“But it is. Official invitations must be printed.”
“That’s not your job.”
“And yet I know that it has to happen.”
“My position has always been that we should not rush to anoint a new sovereign merely because a charity event is scheduled.”
“But who will host?”
“Does the gala really need an ‘official’ host?” Maxence asked, not entirely able to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Surely, the Grimaldi family en masse can be the hosts of record, and guests will be happy to have their pictures taken with any one of the dozen or more Grimaldi who will be there.”
Jules shook his head. “That’s not why people buy tickets for thousands or tables for tens of thousands of euros, not to mention the VIP tickets. They have high expectations for the honor they will get for their money.”
“Would you like to host the Sea Change Gala, Prince Jules?”
“Oh, not me. I’ve reconsidered that. I’m abominable at these kinds of soirées. Everyone i
s expecting you, not a has-been like myself.”
“I was planning to attend, but there’s no reason for me to host officially. Indeed, many would see it as presumptuous.”
“You are the heir apparent. If you don’t host the gala, people will talk.”
Max sighed. “Let them talk. When I abdicate, as I have said so many times, their suspicions will be seen as errors.”
“And yet,” Jules said, “the Sea Change Gala is one of the most important fundraisers for Monaco’s climate change program, and preventing or reducing the effects of climate change is one of Monaco’s most important global initiatives. If you aren’t hosting, people will cancel.”
That stopped Maxence. The Sea Change Gala was vital for Monaco’s stature and program funding, and Maxence couldn’t let guests cancel and lose that revenue. “That’s a good reason.”
“I understand not enjoying these enforced social outings,” Jules said. “Why don’t you engage Marie-Therese as your co-host? That would give the gossip columns something to talk about, and it would take some of the social strain off of you.”
Maxence raised an eyebrow at Jules. “I thought you said you weren’t talking to her.”
“No, I said she’s not talking to me, which is an entirely different situation. As her father, I will continue to promote her interests, whether it’s investing her trust fund in certain financial vehicles or,” his voice dropped in sardonic distaste, “allowing her to display herself as a social media influencer.”
Maxence chuckled at that one. “When has Marie-Therese ever been dissuaded from doing something she wanted to do?”
“Indeed. If you stall much longer on calling the next Council of Nobles meeting, she might end up as the sovereign princess because all of us who are ahead of her will die of old age.”
Maxence laughed louder at that one. “I’m sure you have a good decade or three left, Uncle.”
“But the Council meeting should be soon. A week here, a week there. I’m surprised France isn’t massing troops on our border.”
Prince: Royal Romantic Suspense (Billionaires in Disguise: Maxence Book 5) Page 15