“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 f**ked her, br**sts 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 c**k 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 c**k 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.