Once Upon a Billionaire

Chapter Four

These people were plumb crazy over the man. They must not know him real well, Maylee thought to herself. Sure, Griffin Verdi looked suave and elegant, but he was not a nice man. He’d done nothing but snarl at her since she’d woken up, mocked her clothes, said she wasn’t a good employee, and then tried to ignore her. She could see why his last assistant hadn’t wanted to come with him.

She’d been nice and fixed his clothes, and had he even said so much as a thank you?

Not a peep.

Still, he’d stopped talking about sending her back, which was a small win. It’d be a long trip, but she’d smile and take the double time and enjoy her first trip to a foreign country. She’d dealt with cranky men before—her Pepaw wasn’t exactly a gem—and she knew how to handle men like him. You simply ignored their pissy moods, remained pleasant, and they’d eventually come around.

Maylee followed Griffin as he walked down the red-carpeted tarmac and followed him to the limo waiting for him. It was ridiculously shiny, the windows heavily tinted, and on the door was another one of those family crests like the one that had been on the wall of the plane.

Not exactly inconspicuous.

Maylee shouldered her bags as assistants loaded Griffin’s luggage into the car. No one touched her bright plaid suitcase. She guessed the help’s luggage didn’t get to mix with the viscount’s.

“Shall I take that for you?”

Maylee turned around and saw a man in a suit and a dark hat. The chauffeur. He was young and handsome and had the same accent that Griffin did. He was also smiling at her with appreciation, his hand extended to take her things. She beamed a smile at him. “I’m not sure where my stuff is supposed to go.”

“It can go up front with me. Just like you.” He winked at her. “So I can listen to that lovely accent of yours.”

She grinned at him. “Well, thank you kindly, sir.”

“Mr. Sturgess,” he said, taking her bag and giving her another flirty smile.

“Mr. Sturgess,” she repeated, smiling and extending her hand. “I’m—”

“—my assistant,” Griffin cut in, clearly displeased. “And she will have to ride in the back with me to go over my schedule.”

Mr. Sturgess’s face lost its friendly smile, and he gave Griffin a crisp nod. “Of course, my lord.”

Maylee gave the driver an apologetic look as he opened the door to the back seat and Griffin slid inside. Maylee was surprised by that, as it was common for women to get into the car first, but Griffin was a lord something or other, so she guessed she fell below him on the totem pole. Keeping a bright smile on her face, Maylee entered the car after her new boss.

Griffin didn’t speak to her for at least a half hour. They drove on, and Maylee was distinctly uncomfortable as they headed through the city. After a while, though, she stopped caring what he thought and just enjoyed the sights. Bellissime was gorgeous. The streets were narrow and paved with cobblestones, and the buildings that lofted above them seemed old and full of personality. In the distance, mountains soared above the rooftops, and everywhere, people walked the streets. It was so charming and quaint, like all the stories she’d heard of Swiss villages. No one ever talked about Bellissime when they mentioned tourism, and she didn’t understand why. The little city was so very pretty.

They turned down the main thoroughfare and Griffin looked behind them. He groaned.

“What is it?” Maylee turned to look, but all she saw were more cars.

“The paparazzi are still following us.”

She gave him a surprised look. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“I’d rather hoped they’d give up once we left the airport.”

She glanced out the window. It seemed like they were heading through the heart of the city. In a limo. With a big crest on it. This man didn’t know the first thing about subtlety, did he? But she didn’t point that out, because he was already cranky and he could still send her home. So instead, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“L’hotel de Bellissime.”

“Sounds fancy.”

He shot her a vaguely scathing look. “It is the premiere hotel in the city.”

“So why not stay with your mama and them?”

“First of all, I’m not even sure what language ‘mama and them’ is. It’s certainly not English.” He toyed with his cufflinks. “Second of all, we are not staying with my mother because of various reasons.”

“What reasons?” she couldn’t help but ask.

He glared at her again, as if he didn’t like the line of questions, but he still answered. “My mother firmly believes in the appearance of royalty, even though I’m simply a viscount. She believes that no titled man of good family should have less than thirty staff on hand at all times and should never give less than the appearance of complete and utter wealth to the common people. This includes several estates, as many society functions as one can possibly squeeze into one’s schedule and, of course, keeping it all heavily documented in the newspapers and magazines so everyone else can see just how very regal we are.” His tone dripped with contempt.

Maylee blinked, trying to process this information. “Did you say . . . thirty staff?”

“At the very least.”

“Good gravy. For what?”

“Whatever is deemed necessary. Several valets, a butler, kitchen staff, maids, an equerry—”

“Someone to cut your meat into itty-bitty royal chunks for you—”

He snorted, but a hint of a smile curved his austere face. “Something along those lines, yes.”

“It sounds a bit ridiculous.”

“It’s utterly ridiculous,” he agreed. “I spent my formative years being completely and totally hovered over by one person after another. I hate the fuss. Loathe it. I refuse to live that way.” For a moment, he looked so utterly tired that she felt sorry for him. Then, he glanced at her again as if remembering himself. “Regardless, that’s why we’re staying at the hotel.”

“I see.”

The car fell silent again. She glanced over at Griffin, but he looked so miserable, a stress-line between his brows, that she felt guilty for bringing the conversation around to family, when it clearly bothered him. Maybe a change of pace would do them both good. “Well, Mr. Griffin,” she said in a cheery voice, dragging a pen and a pad of Post-its out of her purse. “Why don’t we work on your schedule while we wait?”

He continued to stare out the window so she bent over her pad of Post-it notes and began to write. “That sounds like a good idea,” he said. “I . . .” his words trailed off. “What on earth is that?”

She looked up at him to see him staring at her Post-its with a frown.

“What is what?” she asked.

“You cannot possibly keep track of my schedule on Post-it notes.” He shot her an appalled look.

She forced another bright smile to her face. “It’ll be fine. Don’t you worry. Now, what’s on track for tomorrow?”

“First of all, I don’t know what’s on my schedule. That’s your responsibility. Second of all, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t belong on a Post-it note. Get out your laptop.”

The man was such a snob. Paper wasn’t good enough for him? “I don’t have one.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have a laptop?” He gave her an incredulous look. “Everyone has a laptop.”

“Not everyone, Mr. Fancypants.” Maylee poised her pen over the Post-its. “Now . . . your schedule?”

“We’re not doing this on paper. It’s all saved online. We’ll just have to wait until we get to the hotel, and then you can borrow my spare.”

“You have a spare?”

He gave her another scathing look. “Of course. I’m not poor.”

Ouch. “Well, I am.”

“That’s evident from your wardrobe.” He stared out the window again.

All right, any budding likability he might have had was promptly squashed by that. Maylee tucked her pen and Post-its back into her purse and stared out the opposite window. Did the man even know how to be pleasant?

She sincerely doubted it. No wonder his assistant had come down with a cold. She’d have faked measles to get out of his company for the next few weeks herself, if so much money wasn’t involved.

Sitting back, she watched the quaint buildings of Bellissime pass by and thought of all the things she could buy her family with the bonus she was getting for this trip. That made her feel better.

Maylee’s initial pleasure at the sight of the hotel—a beautiful pink building with columns and covered with green ivy—immediately fled when Griffin groaned. Cars were everywhere, people lining the sidewalks with cameras in hand. More paparazzi.

“This is ridiculous,” Griffin said. “They’re determined to make my life hell on this trip, aren’t they?”

Was he serious? “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Griffin—”

“Mr. Verdi, and I’m sure I will mind—”

The man was determined to be unlikeable, wasn’t he? “It’s your own fault.”

That hadn’t been what he expected, clearly. He turned and gave her an incredulous look. “What did you say?”

“I said, it’s your own fault,” Maylee repeated, her voice mild as she peered out the window at the big, swanky hotel. “You’re trolling down what is probably the equivalent of Main Street around here, in a big ass limo with a royal seal on it, heading to the most luxurious hotel in the city. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘Gee, I really want my privacy.’”

Griffin’s mouth thinned. “Then what do you suggest?”

“Get a regular car,” Maylee said immediately. “None of this limo business. Get a regular car, and skip the seals and just go to a regular hotel. Go down the back roads instead of parading down Main Street. You’ll be a lot harder to find that way.”

“In other words, slink away like a common thief?”

“No, like someone who values their privacy.”

He turned back to the window. “It’s a good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion, isn’t it?”

The man was an insufferable ass, but she was being paid to put up with him. “I guess it is,” she said and kept her voice cheerful.

The next morning, Maylee had a fresh outlook on things.

She’d parted with her employer last night, utterly infuriated with Griffin Verdi. She’d had to check him into the hotel since he “didn’t do that sort of thing on his own” and that was what his assistant was for. She was beginning to think that this assistant in New York City should have been nominated for sainthood. Griffin liked to preach that he didn’t like hovering, but he also didn’t like doing anything for himself. So she’d checked him into the hotel, had staff arrange to bring up his luggage, and she’d had to tip them because Griffin hadn’t had cash on hand. Embarrassed, she’d pulled out a few dollar bills, and then ended up taking down names and promised to deliver a real tip later. Everyone seemed very understanding and kind.

Except Griffin.

He’d been given one of the finest rooms in the hotel and Maylee had been agog at how wondrous and luxurious the suite was. Heck, even her adjoining room, clearly meant to be staff quarters, was sumptuous. This was the kind of place, she decided, that left chocolates on the pillows, and she was excited to be staying there. She’d never been someplace so posh.

Griffin had simply looked down his nose at all of it, asked Maylee to arrange for a change of linens for his bed since he didn’t trust the staff to do a good job, and then had picked up a book and began to read.

He was . . . a bit of a pretentious jerk. Okay, a lot of one. She was sure he had a nice side, though. Everyone did, right?

So she’d unpacked her things in her fancy room, found a money exchanger with the help of the hotel’s friendly concierge, and then had tracked down the staff and given them their tips supposedly from Mr. Verdi, and went on and on about how pleased Lord Montagne Verdi had been with their service. Everyone had been thrilled, and when the manager had met with Maylee to see if anything else could be done to ensure that Mr. Verdi’s stay was a comfortable one, she asked for a tour of the place and met all kinds of fascinating people from all different walks, from the kitchen staff to the linen staff. Everyone was so sweet and friendly, and they were giving her advice on the best places to get food, to places to avoid, to the best ways to avoid the paps camped out up front for the royal wedding.

She immediately loved Bellissime and its friendly people.

Maylee had slept in a revoltingly delicious bed that was probably the size of her apartment in New York, complete with feather pillows and thick duvet cover. So far, everything on the trip was wonderful except for her employer. Even Mr. Hunter wasn’t nearly as grumpy as Mr. Griffin, and she’d eventually won him over.

She’d win over Mr. Griffin, too. She just had to give it time.

The next morning, Griffin was feeling guilty.

He’d been an ass to Ms. Meriweather yesterday. He knew he was, and yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. Every time she’d made a soft exclamation of wonder at a sight in Bellissime, he’d been annoyed. Every time she’d smiled at someone and thanked them with her soft drawl, he’d gotten even more annoyed. It wasn’t her as much as it was Bellissime, and the weight of being a viscount and a member of the royal family. Even in New York City, he had a certain amount of anonymity. He was only recognized when he wanted to be. Here? He couldn’t show his face anywhere without someone bowing and scraping.

And having Maylee tell him it was his own fault hadn’t helped.

Nor had the feeling that she’d been right.

That evening, alone in his bed, he’d had a difficult time going to sleep. The hotel was silent, and when he’d given Maylee her leave for the evening, she hadn’t checked in on him once. She’d just disappeared, as if she had been utterly grateful to get away from him. And that didn’t set well with him, either. Kip was his assistant, and he knew Griffin’s habits from long years of working together. He’d check in on Griffin once or twice in the evening, even if Griffin was doing nothing but reading a book, just to ensure that he didn’t need anything else.

Maylee hadn’t. He’d released her and she’d been gone.

Perhaps he was being too harsh with her. She was a soft, fluffy thing and smiled so much that he was sure she had tender feelings. He’d probably made her cry with his cold mannerisms, and that made him feel guilty.

It hadn’t helped that that night, he’d had filthy dreams about her, those white-blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders as he’d slid her into his lap and fucked her, breasts pressing against his chest, her mouth hot on his skin. She’d panted and moaned like a wild woman in his dream—no polite reserve there—and his mind had been filled with that soft drawl crying out for more as he pounded into her.

Griffin had woken up in a sweat, his cock aching.

Downright embarrassing. A cold shower had rid him of his erection, but not of the unsettling memories of her mouth on him. Those had lingered, even as he’d dressed himself in the day’s jacket and slacks. His tie hung around his neck, waiting for her to fix it.

And Griffin tried not to picture her standing in front of him, then grabbing the tie and dragging him down for a kiss. Because he wasn’t attracted to her. He wasn’t.

So he tried to tie it himself.

And naturally, he couldn’t. Griffin gave it three tries before he sighed, crossed his hotel room, and went and knocked on Maylee’s door.

“Be there in a jif,” she called out.

He pictured her sliding a bra strap over her shoulder, those frizzy curls brushing her bare skin, and he shifted, uncomfortably aware of his cock hardening. He grabbed his book—a non-fiction brick of a book about the Royal Expedition Society —and held it in front of him.

A moment later, the door opened. Maylee looked . . . different today. Gone was the wretched polyester suit. In its place was a black knit skirt that showed slim, pale legs, those same ugly loafers, and an equally ugly orange brocade jacket with an enormous pin on one side. Her corkscrew blonde hair was pulled into a bun, strands of kinky hair escaping and sticking up at wild angles and making it look even messier than usual. Her eyes seemed dark and her lips were glistening and pink with gloss. Maylee smiled at him. “Yes, sir?”

He gestured at his tie. “Can you fix this for me?”

“Of course,” she murmured, and stepped closer, grabbing the ends.

That had been so very close to his visual from a few moments ago that he nearly groaned aloud, lust flaring through him. He counted backward from a hundred again, trying not to notice that the tip of her tongue poked out between her lips as she concentrated.

“All done,” she said a moment later, and gave his chest a friendly little pat. “See for yourself.”

The front of his shirt still felt warm from her touch, but he went to the mirror and checked. Sure enough, his bow tie looked immaculate. Better, he had to admit, than when Kip tied it. “Very good. Shall we go down to breakfast?”

“Sounds great,” Maylee said. “I’ll just get my bag.” She disappeared into her room and he grabbed his spare laptop. When she returned, she had that ugly saddle purse with her again. He bit back a “Really?” and said nothing. Today, he was going to try and be nice to Maylee. He really was. It wasn’t her fault he was stuck here.

She beamed at him. “Y’all ready?”

He flinched at her twang.

This . . . could be harder than he thought.

As they emerged from the elevator down to the main floor of the hotel, Griffin half-expected to be bombarded with more paparazzi or at the very least, fawning staff.

To his surprise, they made it to the restaurant without a peep, and as soon as they got to the dining room, the maître d’ greeted them with a smile. “Your table is this way, Lord Montagne Verdi.”

Maylee beamed at the man and then gave Griffin an expectant look.

Griffin nodded at him and was surprised to see that a private dining room had been opened at the back. Normally when he visited, he was in the common dining room with the others. Why had he never been separated before?

They sat down and the host poured them two glasses of water and laid menus in front of them. “Your waiter will be by shortly to take your orders. Please let me know if I can get anything for you.” And then he disappeared.

There was no gushing over his title. No “Can I have my picture taken with you?” No diners staring at him as he drank and ate. It was silent, and they were alone.

It was . . . nice.

He looked over at Maylee as she spread her napkin in her lap. She seemed unaware that anything was unusual, but it was clear she was trying hard to please him today. Her ugly brocade jacket wasn’t polyester, for one, and she’d tried to tame her hair. She’d even worn makeup. He stared at her slick pink mouth and that full lower lip that she nibbled on as she set his laptop off to one side and began to boot it.

She was young and innocent, and she was trying really, really hard. It wasn’t her fault she was completely out of her depth. She’d received a phone call from her employer asking her to take a last-minute job halfway around the world, and she’d been stuck with his surly ass. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t want to be here, experiencing a host of social events he didn’t want to attend for a wedding.

But, still. An employer did not apologize to his employee. A viscount certainly did not.

Her gaze flicked over to him and the smile she gave him was tentative, uncertain. Very different from her smiles in the past.

And for some reason, that made him feel like more of an ass.

The waiter came by a moment later and they both ordered, Griffin first. He couldn’t help but notice that Maylee had ordered the same thing he had. Was she unfamiliar with the food on the menu? He watched her for a moment longer, and she sipped her water with an anxious slurp, her gaze darting about the room.

Definitely nervous around him.

Hell. Griffin leaned back in his chair and regarded her. “I . . . apologize.” There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? He was rather proud of himself for doing so.

Her pale brows drew together and she looked confused. She glanced over her shoulder.

“I’m talking to you,” he said, irritated anew but fighting it back. He wasn’t that much of a beast, was he? “I realize I haven’t been the most pleasant of employers, and I apologize for that. I’m unhappy to be here and I’m taking it out on you, and that isn’t fair.”

Her eyebrows rose again, as if she couldn’t quite believe this admission. Then, it happened. That slow smile unfurled on her face, lighting it up. Her green-brown eyes danced with happiness and her entire face seemed to glow. She was rather pretty when she smiled, he noticed.

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin.” She beamed at him. “That’s right sweet of you.”

He didn’t even correct her English, or her bizarre misuse of “mister.” That was him being nice. Again. He grunted and glanced away, not wanting to stare at her. But he felt . . . better. He liked that smile of hers. It was completely and utterly sincere, and her eyes shone when she smiled.

Not many people were sincere around him, and he appreciated the ones who were. He began to pick up his book so he could get a few pages in, then put it back down, because she was still smiling at him. Like she expected . . . conversation. Since he was in a charitable mood, he obliged. “I trust your sleep was pleasant?”

“It was wonderful,” she gushed. “The pillows were as fluffy as baby lambs. I can hardly believe that they give those kinds of pillows to hotel guests. Aren’t they afraid people will steal them?”

He nearly choked on the water he was sipping. “Steal?” From L’hotel de Bellissime? Did she realize that the people who stayed in his suite were usually visiting royalty or celebrities? Did she think everyone had the same accommodations? But she seemed so thrilled about everything that he didn’t correct her.

He didn’t even point out that it was pronounced “pillow” and not “piller.” He was heading straight for sainthood if this kept up.

“Yup. Every time I went on a trip with my aunties and uncles down to Georgia or Florida or someplace, they’d strip the motel room of everything they could carry off. Said it was expected.” She shook her head. “I’m guessin’ most folks don’t do that, then.”

“I can assure you, I’ve never stripped a hotel room of anything.”

“You’d want to if you had my pillow,” she said with a cheery nod. “Best pillow I ever snuggled.”

For some reason, the mental image of a sleepy Maylee, curls tossed on her pillowcase, clasping a pillow to her breast . . . did unspeakable things to his groin. Griffin cleared his throat. “I shall take your word for it.”

The waiter delivered their breakfasts, and Maylee was effusive in her thanks. She chatted with him about the weather, the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, and how pretty his home country was. The man’s attention was completely removed from Griffin, and he conversed with her for a few minutes as if they were old friends, and then disappeared.

Griffin frowned as he picked up his silverware. “The staff is acting odd this morning.”

“Oh?” She looked innocently curious. “I thought he was lovely.”

Of course she did. The waiter was clearly flirting with her. Perhaps Maylee’s uneducated drawl was some sort of aphrodisiac to men who only heard fluid French and British English. Who knew.

He decided to let it go and took a bite of his toast, then opened up his book and began to read, enjoying the peace and quiet of breakfast without scrutiny. Maylee was quiet as she ate, too, though that happy smile remained on her face.

Griffin had only read a page before a shadow fell over his book, dampening the light. He glanced up and frowned as two men approached the table, one dressed as a chef, and one as a waiter. He closed his book with an annoyed sigh. The silence had been too good to last, he supposed. Now he’d have to endure the stream of questions. Bracing himself, Griffin frowned at the two men and leaned back in his chair. “What is it?”

Maylee shot him a quick look—as if he was the rude one—and turned her smile on the men.

“Beg your pardon,” the waiter said, and looked at Maylee. “I’m sorry to intrude, but my companion wanted to thank you for your help last night.”

He had no idea what the man was talking about. Or why he was looking at Maylee and not Griffin.

“Oh, no!” Maylee’s hands rose into the air and she shook her head. “You absolutely cannot thank me. It won’t work if you do.”

“What won’t work?” Griffin asked, perplexed. He glanced between the two men and Maylee.

The cook said something in French, and the waiter nodded, translating. “Etienne, he says the pain is gone this morning.”

Maylee beamed, proud. “I’m so glad to hear that. Tell him to be more careful when pulling the bread out of the oven next time. I—”

“Excuse me,” Griffin cut in. “What are you talking about?”

That warm smile was turned on him, and Griffin felt momentarily dazzled. “Burn talking,” Maylee said. “Mr. Etienne here,” she said, gesturing at the cook whose name she’d just butchered, “had a very nasty burn on his hand, so I offered to take a look at it.”

“Why?”

“I’m a burn talker.” Maylee folded her hands on her lap as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “It’s a gift. My mama can talk the warts off anyone, but I’m only good with burns.”

“I . . . see.” Folk healing. How . . . strange.

“It worked, my lord,” the waiter said. “The burn has bothered Etienne for days, to the point that it made it difficult for him to work. But Ms. Meriweather worked on his hand and fixed it right away. Which is why—”

Maylee raised a hand again, smiling. “Remember—no thank yous or it won’t work anymore.”

The men nodded and, after a few more moments of chatter, they glanced his way and then left.

And again, Griffin was surprised.

“Sorry about that,” Maylee said with a small smile. “I asked them not to come up while you were seated, because I know you said you hate hovering.”

“I do,” he admitted, and glanced around the empty private dining room. He could hear people in the next room over, but theirs was blissfully quiet. “Is that why we’re here instead of in the main room?”

Maylee nodded. “Last night, I talked to the manager a bit to learn some about the place.”

Griffin was surprised at her thoughtfulness. “Oh?”

“Yes, and I told him how much you value your privacy and asked what we could do to make sure that you wouldn’t be bothered during such a stressful time. We discussed a few things and among them, we suggested that you dine in here if the room isn’t in use. No one wants their breakfast interrupted,” she admitted with a careful bite of her eggs. When she finished chewing, she added, “I told them that if you were able to enjoy your meal in peace, you’d probably stop by and tell the kitchen staff if you enjoyed it. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous. I know they’d love to hear from you. You’re a big deal to them.”

Trade a few minutes of compliments for peace and quiet while he dined? It was genius. He pulled his book out again. “That’s very thoughtful of you. And yes, I am enjoying having a nice quiet breakfast. Thank you.” With another bite of toast, he flipped his page and continued reading about the exploits of Edward Shackleton.

“I’ll move over to this other table and work so I don’t bother you,” Maylee said, picking up the laptop.

He looked up from his book and glanced at the laptop, then at her. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her to stay, but he nodded instead. “Thank you. You have the schedule Kip left?”

“It’s all right here,” she said. “I’ll give you a rundown of the day when you’re ready to go.”

He nodded again and returned to his book.

The dining room was silent, and Griffin sipped his hot tea as he ate his breakfast and read. The sunlight poured in through a nearby window, and it felt like an island of calm in this moment. Occasionally, he would look up and see Maylee working on the computer, taking notes on her sticky pad, or occasionally chatting with one of the staff nearby. They were always smiling and happy to see her.

All so bloody happy around his assistant. He wasn’t sure if he found that interesting or irritating.

Maylee’s first day in Bellissime was an exhausting one.

Once they’d finished breakfast, she’d given Griffin a brief overview of his schedule for the day. For someone who didn’t visit the country much and wasn’t getting married, he sure did have a heck of a social calendar. There was a museum visit, a fitting at the royal tailor, an afternoon tea with a dignitary of a neighboring country, a visit to a charity of something or other, a photo op with another viscount, and an interview for a gentleman’s magazine that dealt exclusively with archaeology and exploration, which she learned was one of Griffin’s passions. And it was her job to herd him along and ensure that he got to them all on time.

It had been a struggle, but Maylee was proud of herself for keeping things going. At one point, she’d panicked to discover that the venerable Kip had double-booked Griffin to tea, so she’d had to smooth a few feathers, make some phone calls, and reschedule his appointment with his mother for the next day. She hadn’t told Griffin, because she knew he’d give her that particular down-his-nose look as if it was her fault.

But she’d managed it. She’d spent the day with her phone pressed to one ear, laptop on her thighs, and waiting in the limo as Griffin went to one social appointment after another.

It was obvious he didn’t like any of this; his mood got fouler as the day went on, though he was always polite and gracious to the people waiting for him. It was just Maylee and the driver, Mr. Sturgess, who received the brunt of his unhappiness.

Between Griffin’s appointments, Maylee had to also juggle incoming press requests to interview Griffin, more requests to visit local charities, and somehow make arrangements in regards to the wedding. She had to make calls to the palace to speak with the Royal Wedding Coordinator—who hadn’t wanted to talk to her at first, thanks to her accent—so she could find out what clothing colors should be avoided for royal appointments, and when and where the rehearsal dinners, wedding breakfasts, and the like would be held. The locations were secret, Maylee was told, because the press would get a hold of the information and descend like a horde.

She couldn’t argue with that. The moment they saw the seal on Griffin’s limo, they were followed everywhere. She really had to talk to that man about an inconspicuous ride.

But at least the worst was over and Griffin had only snarled at her once (when his tie was askew and he was about to drive up to his tea appointment). She’d fixed it without so much as a thank you from the man. Not that she blamed him—if she was feeling frazzled by his schedule, she could only imagine what it felt like to be the pony in the dog and pony show.

The grueling day was over, though, and even if she hadn’t had a chance to eat—or breathe—since the quiet breakfast, she’d gotten Griffin to all his appointments on time and looking respectable, and now they were back at the hotel. He’d disappeared into his room for the evening and that meant she was finally free to explore Bellissime.

Of course, she was so tired that all she wanted to do was take a shower and raid the mini-bar in her room to see what she could scarf down before breakfast tomorrow.

Maylee took a long, hot shower, luxuriating in the fancy soaps and shampoos that were complimentary with the room. She made sure to hide the bottles once she was done with them, so the staff would replace them daily and she could get new ones to bring home with her. Maybe Mr. Griffin wouldn’t mind if she snuck his extras, she mused as she wrapped one of the huge, opulent towels around her torso.

Humming to herself, Maylee tucked the top of the towel in at her breast and headed into her room. She moved to the bed and began to adjust her towel when she noticed the closet door was slightly ajar. With a frown, she crossed the room and went to go close it . . . but something about it nagged her, and she peeked inside it instead.

A man stood there, camera in hand. “Don’t scream,” he whispered, “I can offer you a very lucrative deal if you’re willing to work with me to get the inside story—”

Maylee slammed the closet door shut.

Then, she screamed.