Max shook his head. “She refuses to return to Monaco.” She’d departed and not left a forwarding address after their meeting with Alexandre.
“We’re probably going to need her vote when the Council meets. Besides, isn’t she scheduled to play a violin solo at the Sea Change Gala? We could conscript her then.”
“I have it on good authority that she will not accept it.”
Nico shrugged and knifed his lunch. “Alexandre exaggerates everything.”
“I heard it directly from her, and she threatened to send assassins after me if I managed to elect her.”
Nico nodded. “She would do that.”
Maxence chopped the slabs of steak on his salad into smaller pieces. “She specified that they would be ninja assassins, and she would abdicate immediately afterward.”
Nico laughed. “Jesus, my name didn’t come up, did it?”
“No.”
“Thank God. The serene and esteemed Lady Christine would probably send those ninja assassins after everyone who had ever uttered her name in connection with the throne, just to send a message.”
Maxence nodded. “She would be malicious.”
Nico chuckled. “Like however-many-greats Uncle François the Malicious.”
“Exactly. Christine would be so malicious, we would have to erect statues to her maliciousness.”
“Do you think she would disguise herself as a nun to escape Monaco, instead of as a monk to slip inside and take the castle and the throne?”
“And thus, we return to the matter at hand, which is who would be a good and just ruler for Monaco and won’t run screaming in the other direction when we attempt to install them.”
Nico twitched his head to the side. “The Venn diagram of those two populations do not intersect.”
“That is the value of a hereditary monarch. The power falls to someone who has been groomed for the position but has not sought it.”
“If only it were possible to make sure that the person it fell to would accept it.”
Maxence nodded and forked another bite of salad into his mouth.
“I’m talking about you, Max.”
“As you said, if only it were possible to ascertain that in advance because in this case I absolutely won’t.”
“Fine.” Nico named a few more of their relatives, each one becoming more distant than the last.
Finally, Maxence said, “I don’t think Margaux Taylor’s line is even a member of the Council of Nobles. Isn’t she your third cousin on your mother’s side?”
Nico nodded. “It was just a thought. Margaux is too young, too.”
Maxence flipped over his phone again and played a quick succession of taps between the two red dots glowing on the screen, ending with a long press to the lower one.
Nico frowned at the phone. “Is there something you need to look at?”
He set the phone face down on the table again. “Not at all.”
Beyond Nico’s shoulder, Dree was blinking and biting her lower lip, an exquisite display that made him want to bite it, too.
Maxence said to Nico, “You are one of the few people here I would trust to take on the job.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve already said I don’t want it.”
Maxence was careful to keep his eyes on his plate and his voice flat. Putting persuasion in his voice would be highly unethical. He was meticulous about that. “Our discussion was several weeks ago. I was wondering if you had considered it more in the meantime.”
Nico stirred his salad with his fork. “The job does come with a pretty nice office.”
Maxence gestured with his fork to the mahogany bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes and the beautifully made desk sitting underneath the window in the Mediterranean sunlight. “All this could be yours.”
Nico shook his head. “How would an art history major manage to run a country?”
“Prince William of the UK is an art history major.”
“Yeah, but he’s always known he was going to be the king someday. They’ve been teaching him how to do it his whole life. Being a medevac helicopter pilot was just a few years of normalcy before he got down to seriously taking on his duties and breeding heirs.”
Maxence told him, “The formal duties are pretty easy. You have a valet to dress you, and they know the protocol minutiae. I don’t know which ribbons and sashes and honors to wear to which occasion, and evidently, there are rules about that,” Maxence admitted.
Nico shook his head. “I would not know the first thing about ribbons and sashes and stuff. I have one honor right now, and it’s an Order of the Somebody-Something, Fifth Degree. I just know that whenever I’ve got to wear a morning suit or white tie, I put that one on because it’s the only one I have.”
Max said, “The business end is mostly common sense. Grandfather and Uncle Rainier taught me enough so that I could muddle through if anything happened to Pierre, though nobody expected anything to ever happen to him.”
Creases gathered around Nico’s eyes as he winced. “I’m sorry about Pierre, Max. I can’t imagine losing my brother.”
Maxence shrugged. Pierre’s quick, quiet funeral Mass and burial in the royal Catholic cemetery had been offered before Max had returned from Nepal. Pierre had been allowed that because the Church’s current opinion was that mental illness and depression resulting in suicide did not allow the person “full freedom” not to commit the sin, and they may have repented the instant before their death. Max doubted both for Pierre, but he couldn’t contradict Pope Vincent de Paul when he’d allowed the Mass and burial in the royal Catholic graveyard.
Instead, he said, “It was a shock. But anyway, they taught me the rudiments of it. The business end of this is not difficult. The main job is to make sure that the ministers in charge of the ministries are doing their jobs and aren’t corrupt. Beyond that, it’s all details that you can leave to them. Indeed, I think it’s better that other people are responsible for specific aspects of Monaco’s economy and culture, and you should leave those subject matter experts alone to do their job.”
“So, there’s the formal events and fundraisers, where you have to stand there and look regal, and then there’s the business of maintaining the country.”
“Correct, and then you’ll need to beget some royal offspring.”
Nico rolled his eyes and blinked. “I’m not even dating anyone, but I’d always had a stupid plan to run off to Las Vegas and get married.”
“You’ve got years.” Maxence shook his head. “But the citizens of Monaco will not be denied another royal wedding. Flicka and Pierre were married in Paris because she insisted on having three receptions for charity fundraising, and she is who she is. Nobody can deny Flicka anything when she decides she wants something.”
Nico shook his head. “Pierre shouldn’t have been under so much pressure to marry a European royal.”
Maxence bit his lip on one side. Pierre’s suicide had been an act of aggression meant to inflict pain on others, especially Flicka, not a desperate attempt to end his own suffering. Pierre never suffered from anything.
At the end of the office, Quentin Sault stood at parade rest and hadn’t flinched.
Pierre had probably meant to hurt Sault, too, one last desperate insult to his loyal security man to show Sault he was worthless. That kind of targeted torment was utterly in keeping with Pierre’s personality. He’d never missed a chance for a quiet, vicious stab in the back.
The number of times Pierre had said something like, “Those pirates should have starved you to death,” to Max when they were teenagers were incalculable. In their twenties, Pierre had become more subtle but no less sadistic.
Nico laid his fork down and leaned back in his chair. “It still seems overwhelming. I can’t imagine walking in and taking on the responsibility for forty thousand people and the economy of a country.”
Maxence nodded. “And that’s why we’re having problems finding someone who will do it.”
&nb
sp; “It’s daunting. Again, anyone who thinks they’d be great at it is probably a megalomaniac and a narcissist.”
“How about this: if you were to take on the role and if we could get you elected, which are two different problems, I would stay in Monaco at the palace for six months and walk you through it. You could learn everything you’d need to about being a sovereign in six months.”
Nico smirked. “Royal on-the-job training, so to speak.”
“Exactly.”
He leaned his head against the back of his chair and squinted at the ceiling. “And if I’m still hopelessly floundering in six months?”
“Either I’ll stay for another six months, or you could abdicate,” Maxence assured him. “Surely, with six more months to observe people, we could find an excellent replacement if you decided it wasn’t for you.”
Nico’s eyebrows and mouth tugged up in the middle, a bit of grudging acceptance. “I’ll think about it, but I insist we don’t discuss this with anyone else.”
“Of course not.”
“I prefer my head firmly attached to my neck, and I have plenty of lead in my bloodstream from eating paint chips as a kid. I don’t need any additional lead introduced into my body.”
Maxence chuckled. “I want to argue with you that surely Jules wouldn’t murder someone who stood between him and the throne, but we both know I’d be lying.”
Maxence leaned sideways to look past Nico’s shoulder at Dree, who was finishing her salad. “Taking notes?”
Dree nodded and went back to her tablet, scribbling notes with her stylus.
Max flipped over his cell phone again and tapped the top red dot a few times, and then he pressed both of them, holding them down, longer, harder.
Beyond Nico, Dree’s body went rigid, and her knuckles clenching the stylist turned white as the tiny vibrator he had inserted inside her and nestled inside her folds buzzed from the remotely operated app on his phone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Death by Tiny Toddler Stomping
Dree
Even though it was only a few weeks after Christmas, Monaco was lovely and sunny and absolutely delicious.
In the palace during work hours, Dree sat in her little admin chair and scribbled notes that had nothing to do with what Maxence was talking about in the meetings.
Some people, Max worked hard to convince with logic.
Others, Maxence smiled and spoke like he was reading Scripture to them, and Dree forgot to write down fake notes for ten or twenty minutes at a time. She wasn’t sure what to call that thing he did, whether it was charm or charisma or an angel speaking through him.
But it was something.
Sometimes during their lunch hour, she and Maxence ducked out of the palace. They often had to sprint to dodge palace security and the astonishing number of video cameras installed on Monaco’s buildings and streetlights as they made their way to the convent where Sisters Ndaya and Disanka, plus the little girls Majambu and Mpata, were staying.
Maxence had been trying to make arrangements to send them home ever since they’d arrived a little over a week earlier, but they were fatigued from the long flight to Monaco, over twenty-four hours of traveling, and the religious sisters were not eager to get back on an airplane with two little girls barely older than toddlers for another trip like that.
“Why don’t you just put them on that fancy private plane that we took to Nepal?” Dree asked him as they caught a rideshare car to the convent when they were just over the French border. “Surely it has the range to get them to the DRC.”
He’d answered in a low voice, “I don’t know who to trust. Palace security may have been infiltrated by people who might want to use them as leverage during the election. They’re safer in the convent than surrounded by possibly compromised security personnel.”
“But you don’t want to be the sovereign prince.”
“A significant number of people will vote with me. If someone took them and threatened to harm them, I would do whatever they wanted, absolutely anything.”
Dree asked, “Are we talking about Jules again?”
“Yes, we’re talking about Jules again.”
They tried to see the sisters and children every other day, usually for lunch or dinner. Maxence had taken the mother superior of the convent aside and explained the situation, adding that he was glad that they were staying at the convent with people he could trust. The mother superior assured him that the convent was safe for two little girls and two religious sisters. Besides, there was a nursery school and other little girls for Majambu and Mpata to play with. It was a nice vacation for them.
Maxence was the little girls’ favorite person to play with, of course. The minute he arrived, they swarmed him. They clung to him like squirrels on a tree, scampering up and down his legs as he tried to talk to the good sisters Ndaya and Disanka, until finally he gave up and played with the girls until they were so exhausted they would nap.
It was during one of these playtimes when Max was lying on the floor and the toddler girls were leaping off the couch and landing on him, that Sister Ndaya said to Dree in English, “Père Maxence is very good with the little ones, no?”
“Oh! I didn’t know you spoke English, too! Yes, I was on a mission with Catholic Charities up in Nepal with him, and the little kids there loved him, too.”
Ndaya and Disanka nodded to each other, and then Ndaya said to Dree, “When the man came and told us we would be going on a trip to see him, I had hoped that we would be seeing Père Maxence ordained as a priest. A man of Christ like Père Maxence should be a priest, not a deacon.”
“Oh?” Dree asked, her heart pulling in her chest.
“We have worked with him for years. Most men with such a great vocation would have been ordained long before this, even those who are applying to join the Society of Jesus. Jesuits have a longer path than parish priests, but the men are ordained as priests before they take their final vows to the Society of Jesus. It is not fair that they have not allowed Père Maxence to take Holy Orders.”
“He’s kind of important around here, too. I think he just had some stuff here that he had to finish up before he could take the sacrament.”
Disanka shook her head sadly. “It’s not fair. Père Moses has often talked to us that he has never seen such a godly man as Père Maxence, and he thinks it is a great error of judgment that he has not been allowed ordination yet. We all pray for it daily because Père Maxence would be a great priest. A great man, a great priest.”
The toddlers climbed up on the sofa with their chubby knees and hands and, one at a time, hurled themselves into the air, arms and legs spread like a sweet little starfish flying through space. Maxence caught each one in his strong arms before she crash-landed on his stomach, usually feet-first. Then, he set that little girl on her feet, and she sprinted back to scramble back onto the couch while Max caught the other one before she pile-drove him in the stomach with her adorable heels.
Dree liked kids, and watching Maxence play with them was just stinkin’ cute.
Dree asked the sisters, “You think he has a true calling to the priesthood?”
Ndaya widened her eyes at Dree. “Have you ever heard him speak the word of God during the Mass?”
Dree looked back at Maxence’s divine patience with the toddlers who appeared to be trying to stomp him to death. “Yeah, I have.”
“Then, you know why.”
Yeah, she did.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Prayer III
Maxence
Maxence spread his arms out from his sides and opened his heart and his soul to God.
A small spotlight cast a cone of white light upon the crucifix nailed to the wall in the dim closet. His clothes hung on the rails on the sides, forming a fluttering tunnel that led to his tiny altar that emanated scents of lavender and clean linen. The closed door behind him blocked out the rest of the world and any shuddering sounds.
The carpet was rough under his
bare knees.
The dark air was cool on his naked skin.
He was as vulnerable as the day he was born, and his heart begged God or Jesus or Mary and all the saints to intercede, desperate for clarity or strength or anything else they had to offer
He delved into his soul, looking for answers.
His fate was in their hands.
His faith was in their hands.
Still, he found nothing.
Maybe that’s what they had given him.
Maybe the nothingness was God’s answer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Taking Notes
Dree
Sometime after midnight, Dree’s phone buzzed.
The contact name was Auggie, and it read, Take notes.
Dree washed her face and applied lipstick. She was still wearing her work clothes from earlier, which meant a sexy-professional dress.
She’d finally learned her way through the palace to Maxence’s apartment.
At his door, she checked to see if anybody was in the gilded hallway and listened in case somebody was coming around a corner. When the air was quiet and still, she slipped the key from her little satchel-bag and clicked the lock.
Even though the door looked impossibly heavy, it opened to her light touch.
She stepped into the dim room.
Bright light came from the open door and hallway behind her. Her pear-shaped shadow slithered on the thick carpeting.
Small lamps no more luminous than candlelight flickered on the piano and coffee table, but they were wan stars in the darkness. A few more always danced in his bedroom.
She took a few more steps into the room.
The door behind her slammed and clicked, locking.
Prince: Royal Romantic Suspense (Billionaires in Disguise: Maxence Book 5) Page 20