“Yes. Well.” He straightened and tugged at the tight collar of his uniform. “See that you keep those things in mind, please.”
“Yes, Lord Montagne Verdi.” Her voice was so quiet and stiff that it didn’t even sound like her. Her gaze was averted, and he knew that if he made eye contact with her, she’d probably be teary-eyed.
And that made him feel . . . shitty.
He stalked away, furious with her . . . and himself.
Damn it, what was he supposed to do? Just ignore his employee stomping all over decorum simply because she was American? He didn’t see Luke Houston going around and adjusting people’s ties or calling people by the wrong title.
Then again . . . Alexandra had probably coached Luke for hours on how to act in front of her family. And Luke was an actor, so he was used to handling situations with other famous people.
Maylee was simply out of her league.
Which made him feel guilty again. He stopped just as he re-entered the portrait gallery. He should go apologize to her and explain that how they acted in private wasn’t the same as how she should act in public or in front of the queen.
“Darling, is everything all right?”
His mother. Griffin turned to the Princess Sybilla-Louise. “It’s fine, Mother. I was just educating my assistant on proper manners. The scene we had with the portrait won’t happen again.”
She looked down her long nose at him. “Does she truly call you Mr. Griffin? That’s so improper.”
“I am told it’s a form of respect in Southern states, but yes, it’s a bad habit of hers. One I intend she correct.” He offered his mother his arm and led her back toward the others. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You know, darling, you’ve let your staff become far too familiar.”
“It’s fine, Mother.”
“I have my equerry spend a few days with all of my new staff so he can educate them. It’s clear that you need to do so with yours. It might do her good. Oh, but then you only keep the bare bones of staff, correct?” She sniffed. “That must explain that poor girl’s manners. No one to show her how to be a proper servant. You should really hire someone to take her in hand.”
“It’s handled, Mother.” He was barely paying attention. He kept thinking of Maylee’s flinch as he’d laid into her. He hadn’t been wrong . . . exactly. But he could have gone about it in a much kinder fashion.
She’d been so excited to be at the palace, and here he’d yelled at her more or less in front of everyone. She had to be humiliated.
Griffin decided he would apologize later. In private.
***
When he finally emerged from the portrait session, Maylee was nowhere to be found. The photographer hadn’t seen her since Griffin had forcefully corrected her, and no one in his family would remember her, since employees—even bad ones—tended to blend into the wallpaper as far as they were concerned.
Except, perhaps, when it came to George, the womanizer. And he didn’t want George to remember her.
Just when he was ready to give up on finding his assistant, he spotted a familiar blonde wealth of curls out by the sedan. Maylee’s back was to him, and the chauffeur, whose name he didn’t remember, was patting her on the back, comforting her.
Griffin stalked toward them, just in time to hear a bit of their conversation.
“—They’re not like regular people, much as we like to think so. It’s just something we have to remind ourselves of. If we don’t, they slap us back down.” The man ran a hand over Maylee’s shoulder. “Don’t let it bother you too much, love.”
Love? A furious retort lodged in Griffin’s throat, then died as the two of them turned around and faced him. Maylee’s eyes were red, and she’d clearly been weeping. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, her scarf tying it into a semblance of neatness.
But she gave him a game, polite smile, clearly pretending all was well. “Ready to leave, Lord Montagne Verdi?”
He nodded, noting the flat delivery of his formal title. The chauffeur leapt into action and opened the back door of the sedan. Griffin gestured that Maylee should get in.
She shook her head. “I’ll ride up front with Robbie. It’s only proper.”
And when she wouldn’t meet his gaze, he didn’t argue the point.
When they got back to the hotel, he offered to check her room for her.
She declined.
Nor did she come knock on his door later. He even left the adjoining door unlocked, just in case she got scared and needed to come sleep next to him.
To come cuddle, you mean, he told himself.
He felt like a prat. He was no better than his brother, was he? Lusting after his staff and then slapping them down when they got too familiar.
***
The next morning, Maylee was all business. Her crazy hair was smoothed back into a bun that looked as if it was ready to fly apart at any moment. Her suit was sedate, and she didn’t speak unless he spoke to her.
In short, it was like an entirely different person had showed up to be his assistant that morning.
And Griffin wasn’t sure he liked it.
He tried to make conversation. “Maylee? Which tie do you think I should wear this morning?”
She’d picked one out without saying a word.
At breakfast, she’d ordered toast and coffee, and when she ate, she only nibbled at bites and looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but beside him. She kept her gaze downcast and worked on his laptop while he tried to read his book.
He tried, but failed.
Maylee’s silence was driving him insane. After a few more minutes of quiet, he closed his book and looked over at her.
She gave him a cool look. “What can I help you with, Lord Montagne Verdi?”
“You can start by letting me know if you plan on sulking all day?”
A bit of her old spark flared, then died again. Her mouth flattened. “I’m not sulking.”
“Aren’t you? You’ve not spoken two words since we sat down.”
“Forgive me,” she said in that icy voice. “I thought that was what you wanted in an assistant.”
He got irritated at that. “You know, if you’re going to be like this, I can just send you home.”
She gave him a blank look. “I don’t think you can, Mr. Gr—, er, Lord Montagne Verdi.”
“You don’t think I can?”
“No, sir.” She gave him a challenging look.
“And why do you think that you are so very crucial?” God, she was infuriating.
“Because you have a full schedule today, Lord Montagne Verdi,” she said. “Kip double-booked two of your appointments again so I have to see which one I can move to ensure that everyone is happy.” She closed the laptop and gave him a tight smile. “But I suppose since you’re so in control, you already know that, correct?”
He said nothing.
“Mr. Verdi, if I may be so blunt,” she said, and that soft drawl was nearly gone from her voice. “You say that you wish to be independent and don’t want hovering, but I find that you are not very independent at all.”
Griffin tugged off his glasses so he could give her an appropriately scathing stare. “I beg your pardon?”
“You should,” she said mildly. “But in the meantime, I’d like for you to quit threatening my job, because I don’t think it’s in danger.”
“You’re fired.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, but you may not like having a country bumpkin like me here, but you still need me.”
“And why is that?”
She tilted her head, and he watched as one curl sprang free from its jail. “What time is your first appointment today and where is it to?”
He licked his lips and thought. Was this a trick question? “I’m meeting with . . . a board of trustees . . .” He tried to think.
Her eyebrows went up. “Go on.”
“Over a . .
. donation of some kind.” He waved a hand. “That’s what they’re always about.”
“Wrong. You’re having a late breakfast with your mother at ten in the morning. Then, you’re going to a polo match with your brother, George. And then you have a family dinner at your mother’s later tonight.” She gave him a prim look. “Which you would know if you knew anything about your own schedule. I, meanwhile, have packed your suit for dinner this evening, selected a different tie and shirt for you to wear to the polo match so it doesn’t look like you’re recycling your clothes, and have arranged for you to have a breather in between in case you need to get away from your family because they’re hovering.” Her voice was utterly cool. “So I’ve tried to accommodate that. And I certainly won’t be hovering in the future—”
“Maylee—”
“Further, you don’t carry money. You can’t tie your own tie, can’t pick out your own clothes without assistance, and you don’t drive yourself anywhere. Let’s face it, Mr. Verdi, you’d be lost without someone here to hold your hand.”
“That is ridiculous—”
“Yes, it is,” Maylee said quietly. “Which is why you shouldn’t treat me like I’m garbage just because I work for you.”
“I do not!”
“You constantly act like I’m not good enough to breathe your air, Mr. Verdi. I may not be the assistant you wanted . . .” Her voice broke a little and she paused. “But I’m the one you got, so you just need to suck it up and deal.”
He scowled at her. “I can drive myself.”
She crossed her arms. “So drive yourself. Do you want me to untie your tie so you can do it yourself as well?”
Griffin put a hand protectively over his tie. “No.”
She waited.
He threw his napkin down on the table. “For the record, I am completely capable of handling such things on my own. You tie my tie because it pleases me to have it done. I have a driver because I am rich enough to pay someone else to drive. Are you going to chide me for not cooking my own meal and having someone else deliver it to the table?” He gestured at the breakfast laid out before them.
She said nothing.
Furious, Griffin snatched his book off the table. “I am going to drive myself to Her Royal Highness’s palace for breakfast this morning. You,” he said, pointing at Maylee, “can stay here and pack your bag. I don’t need servants. I’m not helpless.”
“Of course not, Lord Montagne Verdi,” she murmured in that toneless voice.
Griffin stalked away from the table. She wanted him to prove that he was capable and independent? Fine then. “I will see you tonight.”
“Until then,” Maylee said, and sipped her coffee.
He was helpless?
He’d show her.
***
An hour later, Griffin had to admit to himself that he was hopelessly lost in the maze-like streets of Bellissime. He parked the sedan on the side of the street and jerked open the glove compartment, searching for a map. Nothing. Goddamn it. He slammed it shut and got out of the car, then began to pace.
So driving himself was harder than he’d suspected. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to drive; he did. It was that he had no clue of where he was going. He could recognize his mother’s palace from the outside, knew the street it was located on. He just had no idea how to get to that street. Nor could he ask for directions without looking like a fool. Frustrated, he tugged at the tight collar of his shirt . . . and then swore again when he felt the knot of his tie loosen.
Blast.
Jerking at his tie, he turned to the car window and used the reflection to loosen his tie. Maylee thought he was helpless? He’d tie his own fucking tie and she’d be forced to eat her words. Then he’d send her home in disgrace, and everyone would know just how terrible of an assistant she was.
So he undid his tie and tried again.
And again.
And again.
Someone passed him on the street and frowned, as if trying to figure out what he was doing. Irritated, Griffin ripped his tie off and shoved it into a pocket. He’d just go with a loose collar. Fuck it. He got back into the car and pulled into the street. He’d just use his fucking phone app. He pulled out his phone, and a red battery symbol flashed at him, and then the screen went dark.
Fuck.
He tore onto the street, determined to find it on his own . . . and was lost again for another half hour.
By that time, he was beyond patience. When he saw a man walking down the street, he swerved over to the side of the road and hopped out. “Excuse me.”
The man stopped and looked at him, startled. “Um, hello, your grace—”
Griffin waved a hand, dismissing the man’s mangling of his title. He wasn’t a grace. “I will pay you one hundred Bellissime notes if you can drive me to Her Royal Highness’s summer palace.”
“Uh, okay,” the man said.
“Splendid.” Griffin pulled out his wallet. It was empty. He didn’t carry cash. Blast it. He raised a hand. “Wait here. I’m going to find an ATM.”
He left the bewildered man behind and stormed down the street, looking for a bank. He found one two blocks away and rushed over.
Griffin couldn’t remember his pin number. He stared at the screen and snarled. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Three tries later, and he was locked out. He jerked his card out of the machine and stormed back to his car. The man on the sidewalk looked at him curiously, but Griffin ignored him. He’d just find the fucking place himself.
He got into the car, slammed the door, and then punched the steering wheel so hard he saw stars.
***
When he eventually made it back to the hotel, Griffin was in a foul mood. Ignoring the curious looks of the staff, he went up to his room, his now-swollen hand cradled against his chest. But instead of going into his room, he knocked on Maylee’s door.
She opened it, and surprise flared in her eyes, then wariness. “Can I help you, Mr. Verdi?”
He pushed into her room. “You win.”
“Excuse me?”
Griffin searched her room for an open suitcase. There was none. Nor was there one by the door. She hadn’t packed because she knew she wasn’t going home. That was as relieving as it was infuriating. He turned to her. “I said you win. You were right. I’m fucking helpless. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“Why are you sorry?” he snapped. “You’re the one who won.”
“No,” she said, and those big green-brown eyes smiled up at him for the first time in a day. “That’s what I wanted to hear. ‘I’m sorry.’”
Oh. He licked his lips, considering. He wasn’t fucking sorry. He was pissed as hell. He didn’t like the realization that he congratulated himself on how independent and how different he was from all the others in the royal family. How very liberated he was. What a fucking joke. He was just as helpless as the rest of them. Without an assistant, he was useless.
It wasn’t a realization he was happy to make.
And his hand fucking hurt. He shook it, trying to jiggle away the pain. “I’m a Verdi. We don’t know how to apologize.”
Maylee’s mouth quirked, as if she was hiding a laugh. “I noticed you’re not very good with humility. Do you need help?”
“No,” he said, but it sounded sulky even to his own ears. “I’m tired of needing everyone’s help. I drove around for two goddamn hours this morning and couldn’t find my own arse if it bit me. I messed up my tie, my hand, and I think I locked myself out of my bank account.”
A small giggle escaped her.
He turned to glare at her. She should have been cautious of his feelings, damn it. He was having an uncomfortable moment.
But she was smiling, that round, pretty face lit up with humor, and her fascinating eyes were sparkling.
Griffin relaxed a little. He supposed it was a little funny. Here he was, a member of the royal family of Bellissi
me, a billionaire, and an important man . . . and he was completely useless.
“May I see your hand?” She stepped toward him, her own outstretched.
He extended it toward her, annoyed with himself. “I tried to beat a steering wheel into submission,” he said grumpily. “The steering wheel won.”
She giggled again, and Griffin’s mouth twitched as if it wanted to smile at her in return.
Her hands touched his aching one, and cool fingers brushed over his skin. “Tell me about where it hurts,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on his swollen knuckles.
“It hurts bloody everywhere,” he muttered. But her fingers felt surprisingly good on his hand. Soft, strong, and soothing.
“Of course it does,” she told him. Her face was one of concentration, and he watched as she gently rubbed the skin between his knuckles and felt the bones of his hand with her fingers. “Hands aren’t meant to be punching cars.”
“Not the entire car,” he admitted. “Just the steering wheel.”
“Of course. Did you teach it a lesson?”
“More like it taught me.”
She chuckled again. “I don’t think there’s anything broken here.” Her rubbing fingers were relaxing him. When her hand smoothed over the back of his, he felt an uncomfortable awareness in his groin.
Now is not the time, he sternly reminded his cock. I’m busy apologizing to my assistant.
“I can see that it hurts,” Maylee told him. “Did you want to give me the pain?”
“What?” He tried to jerk his hand out of hers, but her grip was astonishingly tight.
“You’re supposed to say yes, Mr. Griffin. That’s how this works.” Her hands kept rubbing his, working over his knuckles. She moved a little closer, and his hand was practically pressed against her breasts. He wondered if she even realized what she was doing. She seemed to be utterly focused on his hand.
“Are you trying to do that folk-healing business on me?”
Her hands rubbed on his again, and damn it all if his cock didn’t respond once more.
“Tell me you want to give me the pain,” she told him, but her voice was so husky it made him think about giving her . . . other things.
“I’d give it to you,” he told her, fascinated. And because that sounded sick and dirty, his cock got even harder. He’d give it to her, all right. His mind was full of images of him giving it to her. On the bed, on the floor, with her pressed onto a table—