With her eyes full of stars and her body full of him, Dree climaxed like she was falling into the universe, and waves of heaven washed through her.
With a grunt, Maxence grabbed her in his arms around her shoulders and hips and thrust up into her blindly, a spasm of need before he throbbed deep inside her, and his body clenched with release.
They slid down into the covers, wrapped in each other’s arms, and slept for a few hours until an alarm from Maxence’s phone warned them that they had only two hours left before they landed.
Maxence sprang up and was in the bathroom to shower before Dree got her eyes properly open, and he was dressed in khakis and a blue dress shirt when he came out.
Darn it, Dree had missed her chance to check out his back tattoo again.
Chapter Seventeen
High Noon
Maxence
Maxence was in New Mexico to do a job, and he knew the job he had to do.
His funny little chérie wanted him to perform this medieval act of service of asking her father for her hand in marriage, so he would do this for her.
After they’d rung the front doorbell but before anyone had answered the door, Dree shook Maxence’s arm and said, “Don’t tell them you’re royal or a prince or anything, at least not for a couple of days or so. They’ll freak. He’ll probably say no. Let them get to know you first before you spring that on him, okay?”
And then, a tiny blond sprite, like a wee version of Dree, opened the front door and screamed back into the house, “They’re here, Mama!”
When they walked in the house and were being introduced to a line of children, all resembling Dree in many ways, one of the medium ones said to him, “Y’all sure do talk funny. Where y’all from?”
Dree piped up before Maxence had a chance to answer, stepping in front of him and saying, “Monagasquay. It’s over in Europe, kind of by France and Italy. And don’t ask so many questions, Grant.”
Another kid bent sideways to talk around Dree to Maxence. “Is that true?”
The slightly taller kid next to the first one backhanded her on the arm. “Andrea said that’s true. What are you asking the stranger for, Kelly?”
He was, indeed, a stranger.
Dree introduced Maxence, Casimir, and Arthur to her parents. “Mama and Daddy, I’d like to introduce you to Casimir van Amsberg, Arthur Finch-Hatton, and Maxence Grimaldi.” She turned to them. “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Clark.”
They shook hands all around.
Dree’s mother announced, “Y’all call me Mama Beatrice.”
Her sunny smile was a reflection of her daughter’s, and Maxence melted a little.
Her father, Bartholomew, scowled at them from under his sandy hair, close-cropped but thinning, and slitted his gray eyes at them. When he harrumphed, his paunch punctuated the sound with a bounce.
After an excellent lunch of lamb chops and scalloped potatoes, Maxence helped clear the table and managed to be in the kitchen alone with her father for a brief interval while Arthur and Casimir were in the dining room gathering serving dishes. “I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss. Might we take a walk after lunch, alone?”
Dree’s father stopped and turned, looking at Maxence out of the corner of his eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. Just something I’d like to discuss with you, man-to-man.”
“Alright, I’ll tell the missus we’re going to walk out on the back forty for a bit as a postprandial stroll.”
Half an hour later, Maxence was marching out into the fields with Dree’s father. Even in the very early days of February, the scrubby plants of the high desert ranges were beginning to bud. Her father had donned a straw cowboy hat.
Bartholomew Clark turned and stared back at Arthur and Casimir, who were walking a short distance behind them. They were just far enough away that Maxence couldn’t yell at them to go the hell back to the house. “Why are those guys following us along?”
Maxence shrugged. “They said they wanted to see this. I’ve been trying to dissuade them, but nothing has worked. I’ve tried bribery and threats. Do you have horses? Perhaps we could ride out a bit and leave them behind.”
“Well, now,” Bartholomew chuckled. He called back behind them, “Come on up here, boys. We’ve got nothing to hide.”
Maxence bit his tongue as Arthur and Casimir jogged through the meadow to catch up with them, grinning like evil loons.
Arthur slapped Bartholomew on the shoulder. “I was hoping you’d say that, old chap.”
Arthur and Dree’s father had gotten along swimmingly over lunch, talking about breeding farm animals and the differing types of wheat and rye grown in England on Arthur’s farmland versus in the southwestern US. Arthur hadn’t mentioned that his tenant farmers grew the crops on his earldom’s estate that dated back beyond medieval times or that he was exactly the sort of English lord that Americans had fought their revolutionary war against.
Bartholomew was going to be disappointed Max was the one who was trying to marry his daughter. The two of them were having a deep heart-to-heart about cattle-feed corn.
Bartholomew asked Maxence, “So, young man, what is it you wanted to talk about?”
The southwestern high desert sun flooded the air with golden light.
Arthur goaded him, “Yes, Maxence. What is it that you wanted to ask Mr. Clark?”
Casimir was grinning. “Yes, Maxence. Go ahead. Spit it out.”
Maxence sucked in a deep breath.
It was ridiculous that he was nervous. He was the sovereign prince of an entire country. A century ago, he could have had these peasants’ heads chopped off if they squawked.
“Mr. Clark, sir.” Oh, God. His voice was shaking. “Your daughter Andrea is an amazing woman. I would like to make her my wife, and I’m asking your permission to ask for her hand in marriage.”
Bartholomew Clark squinted at Maxence. “Do you have an income that would allow you to marry my daughter?”
Casimir’s grin didn’t change, but Arthur snorted. He covered it up with a sneeze and scowled at the dead plants around them. “So sorry. Allergies.”
Maxence told him, “I believe it’s sufficient.”
Arthur ducked his head and whispered to Bartholomew Clark, “Ask him what he does for a living.”
That twatwaffle. Max was going to box Arthur’s ears when they were next alone.
Bartholomew turned his head, still squinting his pale eyes so much like Dree’s. “Yeah, what do you do for a living, anyway?”
“I’m sort of a politician,” Maxence admitted.
Bartholomew reared back, almost stumbling back on his heels. “A politician! I don’t know about that. I never met a politician who could tell anything like the truth.”
Max backpedaled with his answer. “I suppose it’s fairer to say that I work for the government. I don’t ever have to stand for election again. Just the once, and that’s done. I’m practically a civil service worker now, so to speak.”
Bartholomew nodded. “So it’s a steady job then.”
“The steadiest. The last five people who had this job worked it their whole lives.”
His whole life.
Maxence shoved that thought aside.
Her father asked him, “Don’t you retire over there?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. A friend of mine’s great-aunt has the same job, and she’s been in the same position for nearly seventy years now. Her husband chose to retire from it though.”
Bartholomew frowned. “And she didn’t get a promotion?”
“It’s not that kind of job.” Flicka’s great-aunt was Queen Elizabeth the Second of the United Kingdom.
“All right then. They do things weird over in that Monagasquay, do they?”
Maxence admitted, “The name of the country is actually Monaco. ‘Monagasquay’ is a joke Dree and I came up with. She was being funny with her sister.”
Bartholomew scratched hi
s chin. “Where have I heard of Monaco before?”
“James Bond films, perhaps? That’s what it usually is. Monte Carlo is in Monaco.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it, maybe. I heard you’ve got a casino over there.” Bartholomew fixed him with a steely blue eye. “Do you gamble, Maxence?”
“It’s illegal for Monegasque citizens to gamble in the casino. It’s for tourists only.” That was absolutely the truth, although royal family members were expected to make frequent appearances for publicity purposes.
“Are you Catholic?” Bartholomew pressed.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I seriously considered the priesthood for many years. Meeting your daughter made me realize that I would rather spend my life married to her with a family than be a priest.”
Bartholomew nodded. “So, you’re a devout man?”
All those hours spent in front of a crucifix that never answered must be some sort of faith. “Yes.”
Dree’s father asked Max some softball questions about kids and raising children, and Maxence answered those easily. He seemed satisfied.
Bartholomew Clark snapped his fingers. “I know where I’ve heard of Monaco before. That’s where that Cary Grant movie, To Catch a Thief, was filmed. I’m a big Cary Grant fan. I’ve seen all his movies. Now he was an actor.”
Max’s toe caught a root in the soil and he nearly fell on his face. Yes, Cary Grant had starred in To Catch A Thief.
And so had his grandmother, Grace Kelly. “That was a great movie.”
Casimir and Arthur, who’d been walking ahead of them, turned back. They both crossed their arms and watched Maxence.
“What?” Max asked them.
The two of them didn’t speak but just kept looking between Maxence and Bartholomew Clark expectantly.
Bartholomew had picked up on it, because of course, he had. They were being so obvious that Dree’s old dog in the dog bed in the corner of the kitchen could have picked up that they were hinting at something. He asked, “Something going on?”
Dree had told Max not to tell her family about the royal thing, so Max had to trust that she knew what was best.
Maxence said, “My grandparents met while that movie was being filmed. My grandfather was from Monaco, and my grandmother was an American working on the film.”
“Your grandmother was American?” Bartholomew asked, his smile broadening.
“She was born in Pennsylvania and had been living in California, working in the film industry.”
“Did she get to meet Cary Grant?” Bartholomew asked, his light eyes widening.
Oh, yes. “I believe she must have.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful. We’ll try not to hold living in California against her.” Bartholomew reached up and clamped his big rough hand on Maxence’s shoulder, shaking him around a little. “I didn’t know your grandmother was American. That’s all well and good. What did your grandfather do for a living?”
“He worked for the government, too.”
They all started walking back to the house again.
Maxence raised his eyebrows at Casimir and Arthur because their sabotage attempt had backfired.
Just as they started back again, Bartholomew grumbled, “You are going to get her a proper ring, aren’t you?”
Casimir and Arthur turned around. Arthur clapped his hand over his open mouth, lest he laugh out loud at that.
Maxence paused. “I beg your pardon?”
Bartholomew grimaced at him. “That chunk of plastic on her finger can’t be real. You get my daughter a nice diamond for her engagement ring, not some piece of cubic zirconia horse-hockey. Three months’ income, Maxence. That’s what I want to see on her finger.”
His grandmother, Grace Kelly, had owned two engagement rings, the one he’d given Dree, and a ruby and diamond eternity ring in the colors of Monaco. His grandfather had given Grace the eternity band first, and then he’d bought the ten-carat Cartier white diamond when she’d needed a prop for High Society, her final film before she’d married.
Maxence said, “Of course, sir. It’s a family tradition to have two engagement rings. I think my grandfather would be pleased if it happened again.”
“I knew you two were already engaged when you walked in, no matter how she tried to hide the ring under the table,” Bartholomew said, hiking through the tall grass. He clapped Max on the shoulder. “At least you did the right thing eventually. We’ll get along fine, I think, Maxence.”
“I’m glad, sir.”
He really was.
Chapter Eighteen
Barn
Maxence
The rest of the afternoon and evening was uneventful, thank Mary and all the saints. No additional talk of Monaco, Grace Kelly, or royal things occurred.
After supper, Maxence, Casimir, and Arthur stretched out on the couch. The rugs and sofas didn’t seem adequate for three large men to sleep on, and the bedrooms were all spoken for and overflowing with children.
Just after eight-thirty, Dree’s father stood up and slapped his hands on his denim jeans. “Welp, it’s getting late. The missus and I need our beauty sleep. Grab a sleeping bag there in the corner, and I’ll show you fellows out to the barn.”
Maxence stood and headed for the sleeping bags. On missions, he’d slept on bamboo mats, cement floors of churches, dirt floors in straw and dung houses, and more. A barn sounded great. If it had straw bedding rather than an all-cement factory-type farm, all the better. At least they had sleeping bags.
Arthur asked Bartholomew, “I say, there, old chap. What did you say?”
Oh, yes, his Lordship the Earl of Severn probably hadn’t roughed it since he’d been on a Le Rosey high school camping trip. “Arthur—”
Casimir, who’d been following Max over to the pile of sleeping bags, turned back.
“Did you say the barn?” Arthur asked her father.
Dree fidgeted in her chair. “I forgot to mention it to you guys.”
“Why, yes, of course,” Bartholomew Clark said. “Bachelors and gentlemen without their wives sleep in the barn. We have daughters, you know. T’ain’t proper for you to sleep in the house.”
Arthur blinked his silvery eyes several times, processing the information.
“Come on, Arthur,” Casimir said. “You can have the best straw tick.”
Bartholomew grinned at Casimir for knowing the lingo.
Casimir told him, “My wife is from Georgia. Come on, Arthur.”
Bartholomew smiled at Caz. “See that? Your friend is being right nice to you. Go along, now. You don’t want the barn cats to get all the best straw ticks. They’re vicious animals.”
The straw was clean and deep in the barn, and the main floor was heated as lambing season had begun. Sheep blinked their dark eyes at them when they flipped on the light and then bedded right back down.
The guys found a stall without an occupant but with a foot and a half of clean straw, so that seemed like an excellent place to sleep. Maxence switched off the light and found his way back to them by the moonlight streaming through the skylights in the ceiling.
With the warm sleeping bag zipped up and the crackle of straw under him, Maxence was as comfortable as in the Four Seasons and began to drift in the darkness.
Arthur rolled over and poked him. “Max.”
Dammit. “What, Arthur?”
“What the hell are you playing at with this girl?”
“I’m not playing at anything.”
“Look, what’s going on between the two of you is your business. I just don’t want to see you make a mistake, like marrying somebody so that it looks like you’re settled and stable, so you could be elected to the throne. I get it though, man. I would’ve done anything for the Severn earldom and estate, maybe up to marrying someone in a business arrangement to produce a legitimate heir. I’m just lucky I met Gen when I did.”
Maxence grumbled, “Do you think I’d come all the way to New Mexico and ask her father’s permission if I hadn’t
lost my damned mind over her?”
The straw rustled on the other side of the stall as Casimir sat up. “What are you talking about, Arthur? On the plane, I was about ready to tell those two to get a room.”
Arthur said, “Max, we’ve been friends since kindergarten when our respective families dumped us at Le Rosey and went on with their lives. We’re brothers because our genetic brothers never wanted us. But we are brothers, and when Casimir arrived when we were six, we became three brothers. I’m here for you, Max. I’m your family.”
Max shifted in his sleeping bag, the straw suddenly poking underneath the thin padding. “I know that.”
“You don’t have to tell me what’s going on. I trust you, and I’ll stand behind you. No matter what happens, you just tell me the story, and I will repeat it to anybody who asks for as long as anyone asks. But take it from someone who understands going undercover in a role, she’s not properly prepared. She made her first mistake when we were still on the plane.”
Somewhere in the dark, Casimir asked, “What the hell is he talking about, Max?”
Maxence asked Arthur, “What did she say?”
“She got your tattoo wrong. She said that it was devil wings, that they were the wings of a fallen angel. I worked on that drawing for a year. I watched that guy etch it onto your back. I made sure he filled in every last shadow of those feathers perfectly. I was there for the whole thing, hours and hours over weeks of appointments. Did you have it changed?”
“No,” Maxence said, swallowing hard because he couldn’t explain.
“Then she got it wrong. When you’re putting someone in undercover, which is essentially what this is, you need to have these things spelled out. When people go undercover as a couple, they take a look at what each other looks like naked, or else they’re given pictures of identifying marks like tattoos. It’s too easy to get them wrong otherwise, and she did. She blew her cover with me, Max, and she blew it almost straight away, within hours. What’s your intended outcome for this?”
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