Maxence did not allow himself any sort of recognition of her innuendo, though his dick weighed with rushing blood and his heartbeat galloped from merely sitting across the table from her. She was so close that he could almostsmellher. If he buried his face in her neck and bit her, the cucumber-rose soap from the hostel last night and the wood smoke from the hotel’s towels and sheets would scent her flesh under his mouth.
He said, “As the heir apparent, I’ll be taking over the sovereign’s business office. I’ll mention to the receptionist to expect your arrival. The office is well-supplied with notepads, pens, computers, so you don’t need to requisition anything before you present yourself. Have one of the staff members find you some clothes commensurate with your position as my personal assistant. Eight o’clock, sharp. Thank you.”
He took his phone from his pocket and clicked it. The screen brightened, displaying a stack of texts that had downloaded when he’d connected to the plane’s WiFi system.
Hundreds,it appeared, which was to be expected.
“Max,” Dree said.
He didn’t look up. “You’re dismissed.”
“Augustine.”
He glanced at her before he could restrain himself. “What?”
Her eyes were flared open, and he could have sworn that the color wasangry blue.“You want me to be yoursecretary?”
He nodded. “Personal assistant. Admin.”
“I don’tthinkso.Dude,I have a master’s degree in nursing and am a highly trained medical professional. I amnotyoursecretary.”
He looked her straight in her eyes. “You said you’d go with me and do whatever I wanted. This foray into palace politics is going to be difficult. I need an admin I can trust.Thisis what I want.”
“This is like the joke where the prostitute tells the guy that for a hundred bucks, she’ll do anything he can say in three words. So he gives her a C-note and says, ‘Paint my house.’”
“Amusing. Eight o’clock.” He glanced at the road-stained, red ski jacket and, by extension, the grimy jeans she was wearing. “Professional attire.”
“What’s really going on?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Maxence went back to his phone. “And when we disembark from the plane in Nice and the helicopter in Monaco, you should stay back with the other staff.”
Because the media would be plastered to the fences, snapping their cameras and shouting obvious questions, Max was sure.
The number of texts to return seemed insurmountable. He scrolled, scanning the names and a few words of the messages. Texts spun up his phone’s screen.
From the corner of his eye, Maxence could see Dree’s immobile form, her pale skin and silvery golden hair shining. A beam of sunshine slithered across the polished wood of the table and climbed over her hand as the plane banked, the floor slanting underneath Maxence’s feet.
More texts continuously arrived and flowed down the screen of his phone.
Texts had, indeed, “blown up” his phone.
Every member of every royal family in the world began their missive with “Cousin.” Kings of African and Middle Eastern kingdoms used this term, as well as deposed sovereigns of Europe, regardless of whether or not they had any genetic relationship. They expressed their condolences for his brother’s untimely death and congratulated him on becoming the heir apparent to the throne of Monaco.
Maxence hadn’t even pieced together what had happened to Pierre.
The hundreds of other texts were from the minor nobles, ministry workers, and some highly placed citizens of Monaco with much the same sentiments. Some of these seemed to convey genuine emotion. Others appeared to be an initial salvo before an ask for a government job, contract, or other favor.
From across the table, Dree said, “When we met in Paris, you seemed like a cavalier rich guy who was out to do thingsjust because.And then in Nepal, for the most part, you were entirely different, solemn and industrious and there to do a job in a world that needed you. And now I feel like I don’t know you again.”
“Nonsense.” Max sipped the Scotch. Smoke from the burned barrels it had aged in for fifty years filled his throat and nose.Delicious.Scotch tasted better when poured into a proper cut-crystal glass. “I am His Serene Highness, Prince Maxence Charles Honoré of the House of Grimaldi of Monaco, Duke of Mazarin and the Count of Polignac, as I’ve always been.”
And yet, she still examined him, as if she could see that her first impression of him in Paris had been a whisper of who he might’ve been if he’d had no predestined responsibilities, and her experience of seeing him working had been a projection of who he wished he could become but had no real hope of attaining.
Max asked her, “What?”
“Nothing.” It sounded like she didn’t mean it.
No matter what he pretended when he had a few moments of whimsy or what he aspired to, Maxence was a man with a tattoo of demon wings on his back because his friends who knew him best in the world had seen him for what he really was.
