Once Upon a Billionaire

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-else 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.”

“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 Bellissime, 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—

“Thank you,” she said, and gave his knuckles one last rub, then released his hand. “Should be right as rain tomorrow.”

Oddly enough, the ache in his hand was nearly gone. Strange. He shook it out once more, frowning. “How did you do that?”

She shrugged. “I’m a burn talker. You rub the pain out. It’s not a burn, but the concept is the same.”

“Thank—”

She put her hand to his lips, stopping him before he could get the words out. “If you thank me, Mr. Griffin, you’ll ruin it and the pain will come back.”

He nodded, spellbound by those small fingers on his lips. He wanted to kiss them . . . kiss her. She was all soft yet authoritative today, and he found it an arousing combination. Competence and confidence. He liked that in her.

She pulled away and gave him a smile. “You still haven’t apologized.”

“I told you I’m quite bad at it,” he said, fascinated by her. By that springy, white-blonde hair that was even now escaping her bun. By those dark green-brown eyes that watched him. That light sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks.

“It’s easy enough. Just repeat after me. ‘I am.’”

“I am.”

“Sorry.”

“Very sorry,” he whispered. “I’m a prat.”

“Whatever that is, yes, you are.” Maylee smiled again, and it was like the sun bursting from the clouds. “My mama would say you’re a nasty varmint when you’re cornered.”

“Whatever that is,” he told her, “I’m sure I am.”

She reached forward and straightened his collar, smoothing it. “Tie?”

He pulled it out of his pocket and offered it to her.

Maylee began to fix his appearance, and he watched as she licked her lips as she concentrated. “I’m not a quitter, you know.”

“Hmm?” He was captivated by those lips. Her upper one was a small half bow, but her lower one was full and lush. It made her look like she was constantly pouting, like she was begging to be kissed. He found those lips utterly entrancing, especially when they gleamed after she licked them.

“I said, I’m not a quitter,” she repeated as she expertly looped his tie into a knot. “You can pile as much shit onto me as you like, but I’m staying. I’m a Meriweather. We don’t run and hide from our troubles. You can be as mean to me as you want, Mr. Griffin, but I’m going to do my job to the best of my ability, no matter how nasty you are.”

She thought he was nasty to her? He got frustrated, but . . . he liked her. Hell, parts of his body liked her entirely too much. “I’m sorry,” he told her, and meant it. “I wasn’t trying to be nasty. I’m not good with . . . people.”

“I know,” she said, and gave his tie a pat. “But I like you anyhow.”

That smile did in all his self-control. Griffin’s hands went to her shoulders and he dragged her forward a few steps, pressing his mouth to hers in a tight, awkward kiss. She was stiff in his arms—hopefully in surprise—so he relaxed his mouth and swept his tongue against the seam of hers, encouraging her to let him in.

He felt her give a gasp, and then her hands grabbed his lapels, and she was kissing him back, her mouth opening to accept his tongue.

And oh, fuck, it was glorious.

Maylee’s tongue swept against his, their lips melding, and he realized she kissed with all the intensity and enthusiasm that she approached life with. She kissed like there was no tomorrow. She kissed like it was her greatest joy on earth. She kissed and tongued and licked and made these low noises in her throat that told him how much she was enjoying the kiss.

And his cock was as bloody hard as a rock.

He groaned when her tongue rubbed against his. He wanted to push her down on the bed and strip that dowdy, prim suit off her and see what she was wearing underneath. Camo underwear? He didn’t fucking care. On her, it’d be amazing.

She broke the kiss, mewing little pants escaping from her throat. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

He blinked at her, dazed. “What?” He needed to kiss her mouth again. To feel it part under his tongue, to thrust into her mouth and feel her receive him . . . and imagine that it was his cock.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

That was a blast of cold water on his ego. He stepped away from her. Oh, fuck. He was sexually harassing an employee, wasn’t he? Dear God, he was a repulsive, repulsive man.

Her fingers patted his jacket, smoothing where she’d clutched it. “You’re going to be late to your lunch appointment.”

Fuck his lunch appointment. He scrubbed his good hand down his face. “Maylee, I sincerely apologize for touching you.”

“Why? It was a mighty good kiss.”

He didn’t know what to say. “I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”

“Oh.” She flinched. “I see.”

“Because of who you are,” he said quickly.

Her look grew even more hurt.

“No, no,” he said. “It’s not the commoner thing. Well, it is partially that, but—”

“We should go, Mr. Griffin. I mean, Mr. Verdi.” And she was back to giving him those hurt, unhappy looks all over again.

Hell, he’d fucked up once more.