The taste of fear on the back of his tongue.
His eyes stretched.
Neon lines grew out of the darkness and formed lilies rising toward the ceiling.
Pale light dusted women’s bare arms, the sequins and beads on their gowns, and their shining hair before finding the men who wore dark suits.
The room was dim but not dark, and Maxence had a party to attend.
He drew a deep breath and stepped into the reception, greeting friends with a double-kiss and the event’s sponsors with a firm handshake after he’d wiped the sweat from his palm onto the seam of his trousers.
The cocktail party that night was being held in theSalle Médecin,the very same room in the Monte Carlo casino that had enchanted Dree just a few days before. The baccarat and gaming tables had been removed, and giant, glowing mushrooms and neon-tube flowers filled the darkened room to the ceiling five stories above as if the guests had shrunk. Eight open bars were strategically placed among the glowing flora, and the few hundred royals and oligarchs in the room threw back alcohol.Hors d’oeuvrestations were scattered among the surreal landscape to stave off inebriation too early in the evening. A five-piece string quartet scraped dissonant notes.
Security personnel lined the edges of the room, leaning against the walls and scanning the space for threats.
Quentin Sault stood at the corner of the room, having flanked Maxence as he’d walked the red carpet and entered through a discreet door farther down the hallway. Three men stood beside Sault, more of Max’s detail since he was out of the palace. All of them wore dark, boxy suits and seemed to have no necks.
Another man walked up to Sault, seemingly larger and more neckless than the rest. Max recognized Michael Rossi, the man who’d trailed him in Paris, conferring with Sault and gesturing toward the other end of the room.
Maxence followed Rossi’s waving arm and found his cousin, Marie-Therese, standing with her father, Jules Grimaldi. Sault must have assigned Rossi to the security detail that looked after his cousin Marie-Therese or his uncle Jules. At least they were far enough away from Max.
They both seemed to be having a splendid time. Marie-Therese laughed and bent over to give one of her father’s friends a view down her cleavage. Jules was chuckling with his hand on his tummy, holding a martini in his other hand. Maxence didn’t recognize the people standing with them. They might be either from the wealth management company or some of their better clients who had received one of the coveted invitations to hobnob with the royals.
He moved farther into the crowd at the party.
If Dree were at his side, he could only imagine what pithy adage she would use to describe the cluster of bluebloods and billionaires negotiating the business of the world in the Alice in Wonderland-style landscape.
He couldn’t expose her like that, of course.
Her anonymity was her safety.
As Max greeted his friends and people who wanted to be his friends for their own reasons, lightbulbs flashed. Professional photographers roamed the room, snapping pictures of guests having a splendid time while they discussed wealth management.
His goal for the night was to find his great-uncle Louis Grimaldi and Valentina Martini and decide who between the two of them would make the better monarch for Monaco. Perhaps seeing them in a formal social setting might help make up his mind.
Maxence caught a glimpse of his great-uncle Louis among neon palm fronds, holding a drink and talking with a few other people of his generation. Lurid fuchsia light glinted on bald pates and silver hair. The five of them were waving their drinks around as they spoke about something that must be very important, or else they were performing an interpretive dance about seaweed.
Camera flashes lit the room, throwing silver light and black shadows at the walls.
Maxence was just about to make his way over to his uncle when he caught a glimpse of Lady Valentina Martini, the other person Nico had identified as a likely candidate for the crown.
Lady Valentina huddled with a more sober group of women, and all of them seemed to be speaking in lower tones. Occasionally, one of them glanced around, either bored or just taking stock of the room, but none of them were flailing about.
Because Maxence hadn’t spoken to Valentina since he’d been back in Monaco, he threaded his way through the crowd to talk to her first.
He’d almost reached Lady Valentina Martini, and indeed Valentina had glanced up at him with one eyebrow lowered, when a light hand touched his arm. A soprano, feminine voice asked, somewhere near his shoulder, “Maxence? Imagine meeting you here.”
Max glanced down, not showing his irritation at being waylaid, and found his acquaintance from school, Kira Augusta von Prussia. Her pearl pink gown was almost as pale as her porcelain skin, and her hair was so fair, it was silvery. Alfred Hitchcock would’ve called her an icy blonde, as he had Max’s grandmother.
Maxence said, “Kira? I heard you were up in the Netherlands working as a cultural attaché.”
Her slim arms wafted into the air, and Maxence bent to kiss her on both cheeks.
Her cool lips brushed his skin. Up close, her flawless skin made him wonder if she was one of the stark white mannequins positioned around the room that had acquired a dress.
Kira said, “I was bored. I thought I would come down and see if there was anything in Monaco that was more exciting to do.”
Maxence gestured at the room. “There’s certainly something more surreal.”
