Griffin gazed down at her as she chattered. Her springy hair was escaping the knot at the base of her neck, and white-blonde tendrils were blowing in the breeze around her face. Her feet picked their way along the sidewalk, and her hand remained in the crook of his arm.
She was his employee, and yet she was trying to cheer him up because he seemed melancholy. That was . . . thoughtful.
For a brief, crazy moment, he wanted to stop her in her happy chatter and put his hand under her chin. He wanted to cover her mouth—that soft mouth with the full lower lip—with his, and see how she’d react. Would she blush and spout some countryish saying? Or would she fling her arms around him and give into the kiss with enthusiasm, as he suspected she would?
Or . . . would she slap his face because she was his employee and she was just being nice by talking to him?
Griffin patted her hand and continued walking, listening to her speak about her adventures in New York. It was clear after hearing a few more stories that Maylee was terrified of the city. He didn’t blame her. For a girl raised in a small town in the South, he imagined it was a very different sort of place.
But she never gave up. She never turned around and went home. She soldiered on, because it meant that her family would have a better life and more money.
When Gretchen had saddled him with Hunter’s laughable assistant, he’d been furious at her idea of a practical joke, in a time when appearances and scheduling was crucial. But the more he got to know Maylee, the more he wondered how someone so strong and determined had ended up being a mere assistant. She was smart and she was kind and she deserved a better lot in life.
Being Hunter’s assistant was a step up from the Burger Shack, but answering a phone didn’t seem like a dream career for a girl like her.
It was clear that someone like Maylee never backed down, though. And Griffin had to admit that he’d never imagined himself admiring someone like Maylee for her loyalty, stubbornness, and her resolve to do what her family needed no matter the personal cost to herself.
After all, he was a man who had spent the last ten years of his life avoiding his family as much as possible.
***
When they got back to the hotel, Maylee hesitated outside of her front door. “Can you . . .”
He nodded. “I’ll check it out for you.”
He did, and there was nothing in her room. She smiled her gratitude at him and closed the door behind her, and Griffin couldn’t help but feel a vague sense of disappointment that she wasn’t coming over for another night in his bed.
Twenty minutes later, a soft knock came at the adjoining door. Griffin’s heart thudded and he jumped to his feet, going to the door and throwing it open.
Maylee stood on the other side, clutching a pillow, just like the night before. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail and her fresh-scrubbed face gave him a sheepish smile. “Would it be weird if—”
“Not at all.” He gestured to his bedroom. “Come on in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Griffin,” Maylee’s voice was clearly relieved. “You’re the best, you know that?”
He was either the best, or the most ruled by his dick. Of that, he couldn’t decide. She bounced into his bed on the left side and tossed the pillow she’d brought into the middle of the bed. He turned to look at her and paused. “Are you wearing camo pajamas?”
“Yup,” she said, adjusting the blankets around her. “My mama had some extra fabric so she made me some PJs. They’re not the rough camo, though. Just cotton. You want to feel?” She held out a sleeve for him to touch. “It’s soft, I promise.”
That innocently worded request was enough to set off his body again. Damn it, why did he react to every word she said? He immediately flicked the lights off and then adjusted himself, flattening his cock against his belly and tucking the head into his waistband so it wouldn’t tent out—just in case.
“Oh, we going straight to bed?” she asked. “You’re not going to read?”
“Not tonight,” Griffin told her. “Go to sleep.”
“Night, Mr. Griffin,” she told him in a cheerful voice. As if they were truly having a slumber party.
He sighed.
Chapter Seven
Days Later
“Oh, lordamercy! Look at the pretty gardens!” Maylee exclaimed as their sedan drove up to the royal palace of Bellissime. Her hand touched the glass of the tinted car windows, as if she could somehow get a better look by pressing herself closer. “I’ve never seen flowers like that. Ain’t that something!”
“They’re plants,” Griffin said, not looking up from his book. He’d found a few references to Tarshish in his book and was poring through it, looking for additional information that could also point to Atlantis and back up their theory about the ancient city being in the swamps of Spain. “Truly exciting,” he said in a dry voice, then flipped a page.
“Do you suppose there’s a hedge maze?”
“There is.”
She gasped so loudly that his head jerked up. “Oh, do you think we can go see it?”
He frowned at her. “These are the royal gardens. They’re not for anyone to go gallivanting around in. Especially not today.”
Maylee looked disappointed. “Of course not.” She clasped her hands on her lap, resting them on the laptop.
She looked rather elegant today, Griffin had to admit. She was wearing a pale blue dress with a matching jacket and heels, and her wild curls had been pulled back with a matching scarf that acted as a headband. She was quite fetching, really. He felt like he should tell her that, so she knew her appearance met with his approval.
So he said, “You look very appropriate today, Maylee. Well done.”
Instead of giving him one of her brilliant smiles, she gave him a frown.
Damn it, what did he say now? He ignored the fact that she turned back to the window and grew silent. He had more pressing things to worry about.
Today, he could no longer avoid his mother and brother. Griffin watched the palace approach with a sense of encroaching dread, and straightened the cuffs of his ceremonial jacket. As was tradition, it was dark blue with golden epaulets and dozens of medals he’d received simply for being born into the right family. The ridiculous jacket was his least favorite part of the pomp that came with being in the royal family, because he felt like a sham. Not only that, a sham in a hot, uncomfortable, tight-necked coat made of thick wool.
And it was a warm day. Ridiculous. It would look appalling if members of the royal family were beaded in sweat in the photo.
The sedan stopped in front of the palace, and attendants came to the door of the car. Maylee turned to him with a wide-eyed look. “What should I do?”
“Do not address anyone unless spoken to first,” Griffin said in a blunt voice. “Try to tone down your accent, smile, be polite, and stick to the other servants.”
She flinched.
“What?”
“Servants? I’m not a servant. I’m your assistant.”
“In the eyes of the crown, they are one and the same. Now, you should let me out first.” He gestured at the doors. “I outrank you. It’s only proper.”
“Of course,” Maylee murmured.
They managed to make it inside the palace without causing a scene, for which Griffin was grateful. It seemed that Maylee had taken his instructions to heart. She walked several steps behind him, kept her eyes downcast, and greeted no one who walked past.
There was something that struck him as wrong about that.
“Viscount Montagne Verdi,” the butler announced, and the great double doors to the common room in his grandmother’s palace opened.
Griffin greeted them with a nod, and before he could take two steps into the room full of waiting royals, his mother was upon him.
Her Royal Highness Princess Sybilla-Louise moved toward him, her gloved hands extended. His mother looked as hale as ever, tall and robust, her clothing practically glittering from all of the beads and sequins and God-knew-what-el
se she was wearing. Sybilla-Louise’s hair was a stately, steely-blue upsweep, a tiny crown adorning the top of her head. She gave him a critical look and then leaned in to kiss his cheek.
“You look well enough, my dear,” his mother said. “I’m glad to see that living with the Americans suits you.”
Her voice was not quite approving. She still hated that he’d given up any claim to the throne in exchange for the right to go to college in the Americas. It was his mother who had suggested that he be removed from the rankings of HRH and demoted down to a viscount. She’d done it to punish him and keep him in line; however, Griffin couldn’t be happier. He had no desire to handle any of the crown duties.
“Mother,” he said, ignoring her comments. “You look well.”
“It’s a wonder,” she said, her voice taking on that long-suffering tone he remembered well. “What with the royal family marrying commoners right before our eyes.” And she gave him a look that told him that she did not approve, even though she was here for the official wedding portraits.
“Is Cousin Alexandra happy? I suppose that is all that matters,” Griffin said. He tucked his mother’s hand into the crook of his sleeve and led her deeper into the crowd.
“Does it matter? She could have married a prince. Instead, she is marrying an actor.” His mother gave a haughty sniff. “It’s like she thinks Bellissime needs to be Monaco or some such nonsense.”
Count on his mother to focus on what the royals of Monaco had done decades ago. A sister country to the small French-bordered kingdom, Bellissime often felt in competition with the Monaco royalty. It seemed that hadn’t changed since he’d last talked to his mother.
A quick glance behind him showed him that Maylee had moved to the line of servants in the back of the room and was talking to one of them. Good.
“Brother! Glad you could make it.” A big hand clapped Griffin’s back, and he turned to look at George. He was everything Griffin wasn’t—athletic, dashing, more interested in sports than learning, and had married a gorgeous Swedish duchess who was busy producing heirs for the family. At thirty-two, George was four years older than him, a father thrice over, and owned three palaces.
George had also been completely penniless before Griffin had taken over his finances. Her Royal Highness Sybilla-Louise, too. In fact, all the staff that she currently insisted she had to have? And her summer and winter palaces? All paid for on Griffin’s dime . . . and yet they disapproved of his lifestyle.
Not that he was bitter about that sort of thing.
“Come and say hello to your cousin and the American,” George said with a wide grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Interesting fellow.”
For the next hour, Griffin greeted and chatted with various members of his extended family. There was his grandmother, who was ancient and barely did any governing anymore. She simply sat on her throne and smiled at everyone, petting one of her infamous longhaired white cats. There was her daughter, Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra Olivia the Second, who had removed herself from the line of succession once she hit the age of fifty-five, stating that the last thing she wanted to do was spend the rest of her life attending to the throne. She’d abdicated in favor of her daughter, the Crown Princess Her Royal Highness Alexandra Olivia the Third, the twenty-five-year-old bride-to-be who was marrying the American.
The American was Luke Houston, who was shorter than Griffin had imagined, as Hollywood handsome as he’d expected, and charming and friendly. Southern, too, if he recognized the accent as similar to Maylee’s. He liked the man, but he felt a bit sorry for him for marrying into such a starchy family. Still, his cousin Alexandra looked at Luke with quiet approval. In the undemonstrative family of royalty, she was practically fawning over him. Griffin just hoped Alex knew what she was getting into. Marrying a commoner—especially an American one—meant a lifetime of snide remarks from family.
Griffin endured endless conversations about wedding colors and the weather for the upcoming day, all the while doing his best not to seem twitchy. It wasn’t that he cared about the wedding—he didn’t. However, he’d abandoned Maylee as soon as they’d stepped into the palace. He knew she felt out of her depth, and he hadn’t bothered to help her with that transition. He felt a little guilty about that.
Of course, when the royal parties eventually moved to the portrait gallery for the official photo sessions, Griffin wasn’t surprised to see that Maylee was standing next to the photographer, holding two water bottles and smiling as the man talked to her. He said something, and she laughed, that sparkle returning to her eyes.
And Griffin felt a surge of jealousy.
It wasn’t helped when the photographer—who he noticed was young, British, and rather handsome—began to arrange them in order of importance. In the front were Her Majesty the Queen, of course, Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra, and her husband-to-be, Luke Houston. In the very back? Griffin, the lowly viscount who probably would not have been included in the portrait if not for the fact that his mother was the queen’s sister. And he’d been shuffled to the rear like riffraff in front of Maylee, who was watching the entire thing with shining, fascinated eyes.
The photographer moved to Maylee’s side and took a water bottle from her, swigged from it, and then handed it back. He winked at her and said something that Griffin couldn’t hear, and Maylee laughed.
“That’s a rather obnoxious servant,” George observed, picking imaginary lint off his medal-heavy jacket. “Flirting with the camera crew. Do you suppose she’s new?”
Griffin glared at his brother, who had a penchant for chasing the skirts of any female servant in his household. “She’s my assistant.”
“She looks like a poodle with all that hair. It’s quite fascinating.”
“Don’t even think about it, George.”
George raised an eyebrow at Griffin. “Ah. Is that why she’s your assistant?”
He knew what George was implying and he wanted to punch his brother in the mouth. “No, she’s my assistant because . . .” Because what? She was great at her job? That wasn’t true. She was decent, and her friendliness smoothed over a lot of problems, but she’d never be an excellent assistant. “I’m borrowing her from a friend.”
“Ah, a swap.”
How did his elegant, arrogant brother manage to make everything sound so filthy? Griffin ignored him.
George chuckled and moved forward to his seat. “Let me know if you’re interested in a swap yourself, little brother.”
Griffin glared at his brother, stepping forward and leaning in to whisper to George despite the photographer’s protests. “You cannot be attracted to her,” he told his brother. “You just compared her to a canine.”
But George simply grinned. “I like poodles. They’re exceedingly . . . energetic.”
“Viscount Montagne Verdi, please straighten,” the photographer was saying over and over again, waving his hand to try and force Griffin back into line. Everyone was staring at him, impatience stamped into every royal face.
Griffin straightened, masking his emotions. “Apologies.”
“Hang on just a sec,” Maylee said, and stepped forward. She rushed to Griffin’s side and squeezed in next to him. Likely she hadn’t seen his mother’s horrified gaze or she’d have flinched away. As it was, she trotted up to him, flipped one of his medals over, and smoothed the braid on his shoulder. Then, she beamed up at Griffin. “There you go, Mr. Griffin. Right as rain. Can’t have you looking all raggedy in the family portrait, can we?”
And she bounded away again.
“We can’t have that,” George murmured, clearly fascinated.
Griffin was scowling when they took the photographs.
As soon as the portraits were finished, Griffin pushed away from the others and made a beeline for Maylee. She turned to look at him, a bright smile on her face. “You looked very elegant, Mr. Griffin—”
He grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her away from the others. “Please come with
me, Miss Meriweather.”
She did, her heels clicking on the marble floors as she trotted to keep up with his angry strides.
Griffin dragged her down to the end of a nearby hall, away from listening ears, though he was sure quite a few people stared at them when they left. He didn’t care. Some would think he was disciplining an out-of-line employee. George would think he was chastising a lover.
For a moment, Griffin felt so completely smothered by the entire situation he wanted to turn around, exit the building, and head straight onto the next flight back to the States.
When he finally stopped and turned around, her wide-eyed surprise irritated him. “Clearly, Miss Meriweather, I need to go over things with you again.” He raised a finger. “First, it is Lord Montagne Verdi, or my lord or Viscount Montagne Verdi. You can also use Mr. Verdi, since you are American. It is not, and has never been Mr. Griffin. I am not sure how many times we have to go over it, but we will go over it once more.”
She flinched.
He ignored it and ticked up another finger. “Second of all, do not, I repeat, do not interrupt me in front of the queen, the crown princess, and any other royal personages so you can straighten my clothing. It implies a familiarity that we do not have.”
She gave a jerky nod and said nothing, her eyes huge in her pale face.
“Next, you are here to do a job. So is the photographer. So is the chauffeur. I am not paying you to stand around and talk to them.”
She said nothing.
“And finally . . .” he trailed off and tried to think of something to criticize. He’d pretty much gotten everything out of his system at this point, but he still wanted to end on something. So he focused on her hair because of George’s lewd commentary. “Do something with that, please. A tousled look is not appropriate for palace visits.”
Her hand touched the curls springing out of her scarf. “I’m sorry, sir.”
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