Once Upon a Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club 4)

“It’s so good to see you again, Griff,” Princess Heloise cooed at him, leaning on his sleeve and pressing her ample br**sts against the sleeve of his tuxedo.

“Likewise, Your Highness.” He was not on a first name basis with the woman, no matter what she thought.

She delicately steered them past the crowd and into the center of the dance floor, making sure that everyone possible saw the two of them together, including the photographers. “I told myself I would be positively bereft if I didn’t see you here tonight. How are things in the States?”

“Fine.”

“I’ve heard you’ve made yourself quite the fortune over there,” she said, toying with his lapels in a far too familiar way. “And rumor has it that you’ve financed the repairs of George’s little house and your mother’s palace. That’s so sweet of you.”

He raised an eyebrow at Heloise. As a rule, royals didn’t talk about money. Whether you had it or not, no one spoke of personal fortunes. It was assumed you’d simply conduct yourself as if you were richer than Croesus. The fact that Heloise was flaunting protocol and talking about his money meant that she was far too interested in it.

“Is that why you’ve been on the lookout for a mere viscount tonight, Your Highness?” His words were sharp, and his eyes watched George’s retreating back. The man disappeared between double doors reserved for the staff.

Damn it all. Griffin’s hand clenched.

The princess of Saxe-Gallia laughed, batting at his arm as if he’d said something hilarious. She fluttered her eyelashes at him, and for a moment, he was struck by how she looked. Flawless makeup, flawless pale blonde hair, low-cut dress, and dripping family jewels. Heloise was stunning, of course. But all he could see was the artificiality of her appearance.

And he’d made Maylee fix her appearance so she would be exactly like this.

Hell.

Heloise continued to stroll the room, leading him right past the photographers again. “So when are you going to marry, dearest? My father has been pressing for me to find a good union for myself, but I’m bored with all the nobles in Saxe-Gallia, and all the available European princes are too young or way too old.” She gave him a mock pout.

“Perhaps you should find yourself an American, like my cousin,” Griffin said smoothly.

Heloise froze. She blinked, at a loss of words, and he felt a vindictive stab of spite. If she insulted Americans—as he suspected she would have—she would then be insulting her host’s bridegroom. But if she admitted otherwise, she would probably feel as if she was insulting herself. Heloise simply gave him a brilliant smile and squeezed his arm. “Or perhaps I should find myself a viscount. I hear they’re all the rage.”

And she leaned in and touched his jaw, just as a photographer knelt in front of them and took their photo.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Griffin waited for Heloise to remove her hand, and then gave her a polite smile. “I’m not looking to marry, Your Highness.”

“It’d be a wonderful political union.”

“I’m not interested in furthering politics, either.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m surprised you’re turning me down, Griff dearest. You know my family’s lineage is immaculate and I’m fourth in line to the throne of Saxe-Gallia.”

As if that was a selling point. “And I’m the one who brings the enormous wallet to the table, yes?”

Her mouth tugged into a forced smile. “Don’t be gauche. That sounds like something you’d hear from—”

And she paused.

Griffin laughed. “Were you going to say ‘an American’?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But there were spots of high color on her flawless cheekbones.

He merely smiled.

***

“There’s just one rule,” Maylee said as she gently touched the neck of Her Royal Highness Crown Princess Alexandra. “You can’t thank me or pay me in any way, or this won’t work.”

The tearstained eyes of the princess nodded into the mirror, and then she winced anew.

“All right, then,” Maylee said, and gently felt the sides of the princess’s neck. They’d called her in from Thomas’s side and asked if she knew anything about first aid. The princess had been burned with a curling iron and asked Maylee for help. She’d volunteered, of course, and the equerry had whisked her to the princess’s dressing rooms.

The private chamber of the princess was in an uproar. Luke held his fiancée’s hand, looking almost as distraught as the teary princess. Nearby, a serving maid sobbed into her hands, and staff moved in and out, not sure what to do. A woman was busy trying to repair the princess’s makeup even as tears spilled down Alex’s pale cheeks, and an older woman held an ice pack to the back of the princess’s neck.

Maylee had immediately swept in. “I can fix this.” She’d taken the ice pack from the woman and realized too late that she’d more or less just elbowed aside the princess’s mother and another royal highness. Nothing she could do about that, though.

And so Maylee had removed the ice pack, put her hands on the sides of the princess’s neck, and began to talk. When someone was hurting, she pitched her voice low and smooth and made the person describe the injury. It seemed that the princess’s hair stylist—who was the woman sobbing in the corner—had been trying to curl a few stray tendrils with a last-minute application of the curling iron. A nervous servant had dropped a tray of wine, breaking a bottle, and the woman had jumped.

When she did, her curling iron ended up flattening on the princess’s neck and burning the tender skin. The mark was long and bright red, and it looked like it would blister. The skin surrounding the burn was hot to the touch, so she stroked her fingers over the good skin next to it and kept the princess talking. Was she excited about her wedding? Did she want to dance at tonight’s party? Was Luke a good dancer?

He was not, the princess admitted, and her admission made Luke laugh. He squeezed her hand even as Maylee continued to urge the princess to talk. Every so often, she’d ask the princess if she wanted to give Maylee the pain. The woman seemed a little skeptical, but agreed every time Maylee prompted it.

If pressed, Maylee didn’t know exactly how her ability worked. Her mama had passed down the skill to her, and it was an old Meriweather tradition. Some families had water-dowsers and people who could predict the weather. Meriweathers were talkers. Maylee touched the burned skin and gently rubbed the inflamed mark one last time. “Now, Miss Alexandra—”

“Your Highness,” her mother stiffly corrected next to Maylee.

She sounded so much like Griffin in that moment that Maylee got distracted. But she recovered and finished her sentence. “Go ahead and give me the rest of the pain.”

Alexandra blinked for a moment, and then a smile crossed her face. “It’s not hurting anymore. How on earth did you do that?”

Maylee lifted her hands. They always felt a little warm and achy after a good talking. “Don’t know. It runs in my family. My mama can talk the warts off anyone, but I’m only good with burns.”

“Warts?” said a horrified woman nearby. “How vulgar.”

“I don’t care,” Alexandra said, smiling into the mirror at Maylee. “I wasn’t quite sure when Griffin told me, but I have to say, I’m impressed. You have my thanks.” The princess waved her makeup attendant forward, and the woman rushed in, cosmetic sponges in hand, to fix the crown princess’s makeup.

“Just be gentle with it,” Maylee cautioned. “Put some aloe vera on it tonight and cover it so you don’t irritate the skin more. The mark will go away in another day or so, but it shouldn’t blister.”

“That’s incredible,” Luke said, a relieved smile on his face. He grinned at the princess again. “You sure you’re okay, baby? Up to this party?”

“It doesn’t matter if I am or not,” Alexandra said, but her smile took the sting out of her words. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready to go downstairs.” She indicated at a chair nearby. “Sit, Maylee. In case we need you again.”

“No more curling irons,” Luke said firmly. “You’re lovely just as you are.”

Alexandra’s smile curved her mouth. “We’ll just pin the rest.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at her hair, and the crying woman wiped her eyes and sprung into action.

Maylee approached the chair designated for her, but she smoothed her dress nervously. “If it’s all right, Miss Alexandra, I’d rather stand. I’m afraid I’d bust a seam or something awful, and then Mr. Griffin would be really unhappy with me.”

The princess stared at her mirror, but her gaze flicked to Maylee and then back again. “Speaking of Cousin Griffin, I see he’s dug out the family jewels?”

Maylee quickly touched both earrings and the necklace again. “Lordamercy, yes, and they’re making me as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Luke snorted a laugh.

“Indeed,” Alexandra said in a pleasant voice. “Still, he must be pleased with your work.”

“Oh, this is just a loan,” Maylee said again, her hand pressing against the far-too-expensive necklace. “I think he felt sorry for me because I didn’t have any jewelry.”

“That doesn’t sound like Griffin,” the princess said.

“What doesn’t sound like Griffin?”

Maylee turned at the sound of his familiar voice, suddenly uncertain. “Hello, Mr. Gri—um, Lord Montagne Verdi.”

He moved to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. The move was oddly possessive for an employer, Maylee thought, but she didn’t pull away. It was kind of nice, really. Like he was including her in the group instead of making her feel like an interloper.

“Has George been sniffing around?” Griffin asked, and she felt his fingers tense on her shoulder.

“He has not,” Princess Alexandra said, leaning in so her attendant could whisk mascara on her lashes. “We’re about to head downstairs, which means the dancing will start. Are you going to run out as soon as it does, like usual?”

Griffin scowled. “I do not.”

“You do,” Alexandra said, and their bickering sounded more like siblings than princess and viscount. “I told Luke you always sneak out of these functions because you hate dancing more than he does.”

“Oh, are we going before we watch the dancing?” Maylee couldn’t help the wistful note in her voice. Now that they were here and she’d met the princess—who was quite nice, really—she was feeling more relaxed. And she wanted to see what an actual royal dance was like.

“I suppose we could stay for one,” Griffin said.

“Two,” Alexandra corrected, and got to her feet in a swirl of delicate blue frothing lace. “The first dance is for myself and Luke.”

***

Twenty minutes later, the princess and her fiancé had been announced to the crowd, and the band started to play. The official ball had begun, and Alexandra and Luke moved around the dance floor in an elegant swirl.

“She’s so beautiful,” Maylee breathed. “I’m so happy for her. She looks wonderful.”

“She does,” Griffin agreed at her side. He hadn’t left Maylee since they’d emerged from the princess’s chambers. When someone called Griffin over to chat, he’d more or less dragged Maylee with him. She’d been flattered, but remained silent as Griffin chatted with another politician about the recent Bellissime election of a prime minister. She watched him as he talked, though. Even if he didn’t want to be here, it was clear that he could handle himself with the crowd. He looked utterly at ease, small talk coming naturally to him.