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.