He wasn’t sure what to do. The smart thing would be to immediately send her back to the States. But then what? Admit to his mother that his one assistant had fallen sick and now he had to rely on her tender mercies? Hear the same talk he’d heard a dozen times before about hiring more staff and acquiring a massive residence to live in the style that was expected of a viscount of Bellissime? When all he wanted to do was work on his research and sponsor his pet projects?
It was one reason why he had more money than anyone else in the family. Griffin was the wealthiest national of Bellissime. While all of the royal family was wealthy to an extent, they also had extravagant households, multitudes of country homes that featured twenty rooms or more, and dozens of staff to take care of their needs. Griffin used his money for other things—like investments and joint projects with his friends in their small secret society—and he’d made his money double year after year.
So . . . he didn’t want to hear disparaging remarks about his lifestyle.
He looked back at Maylee. She was grinning at the flight attendant, pinching her dress to her side as the other woman safety-pinned it back. She was friendly, that was obvious. And surely she couldn’t be that incompetent or Hunter would not have kept her on as an employee.
And she could tie a crisp tie.
Griffin sighed. He supposed he could give it another day or two. It couldn’t possibly hurt things, could it?
Adjusting his cufflinks (another blasted item that was difficult to put on without Kip), Griffin prepared himself to emerge as the stair car arrived. Below, there was already a crowd of paparazzi waiting, along with several people from the local newspapers. Here in Bellissime, he was an important person.
How he hated that.
As the stair car came to the door, the attendant hurried forward and a moment later, the door opened. She gave him a warm smile. “Welcome to Bellissime, Mr. Verdi.”
He nodded at her and stepped into the sunlight.
A roar of voices went up.
“Lord Montagne Verdi! Lord! Look over here!”
“Viscount!”
“My lord! Is it true you’ll be looking for an eligible bride while attending the royal wedding?”
“My lord! Over here!”
On and on, the cacophony of voices shouted. Griffin ignored all of them, raised his hand, and gave a polite wave. He put on a fake smile for the cameras, thinking that he loathed this part of his life more than anything else.
“Lordamercy!” he heard a voice exclaim behind him. “Look at all these people! You some kind of celebrity here, Mr. Griffin?”
“Mr. Verdi,” he said, pausing at the top of the stairs. “And only here, I’m afraid.”
Which was why he never came home if he could help it.
Chapter Four
These people were plumb crazy over the man. They must not know him real well, Maylee thought to herself. Sure, Griffin Verdi looked suave and elegant, but he was not a nice man. He’d done nothing but snarl at her since she’d woken up, mocked her clothes, said she wasn’t a good employee, and then tried to ignore her. She could see why his last assistant hadn’t wanted to come with him.
She’d been nice and fixed his clothes, and had he even said so much as a thank you?
Not a peep.
Still, he’d stopped talking about sending her back, which was a small win. It’d be a long trip, but she’d smile and take the double time and enjoy her first trip to a foreign country. She’d dealt with cranky men before—her Pepaw wasn’t exactly a gem—and she knew how to handle men like him. You simply ignored their pissy moods, remained pleasant, and they’d eventually come around.
Maylee followed Griffin as he walked down the red-carpeted tarmac and followed him to the limo waiting for him. It was ridiculously shiny, the windows heavily tinted, and on the door was another one of those family crests like the one that had been on the wall of the plane.
Not exactly inconspicuous.
Maylee shouldered her bags as assistants loaded Griffin’s luggage into the car. No one touched her bright plaid suitcase. She guessed the help’s luggage didn’t get to mix with the viscount’s.
“Shall I take that for you?”
Maylee turned around and saw a man in a suit and a dark hat. The chauffeur. He was young and handsome and had the same accent that Griffin did. He was also smiling at her with appreciation, his hand extended to take her things. She beamed a smile at him. “I’m not sure where my stuff is supposed to go.”
“It can go up front with me. Just like you.” He winked at her. “So I can listen to that lovely accent of yours.”
She grinned at him. “Well, thank you kindly, sir.”
“Mr. Sturgess,” he said, taking her bag and giving her another flirty smile.
“Mr. Sturgess,” she repeated, smiling and extending her hand. “I’m—”
“—my assistant,” Griffin cut in, clearly displeased. “And she will have to ride in the back with me to go over my schedule.”
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—”