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 things just 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.
Arthur and Casimir had accepted Maxence in spite of that and befriended him anyway.
But surely no one else would be so forgiving.
Especially when he was about to drag Dree to his home, which, to torture the metaphor, must be the very mouth of Hell.
A more apt description for palace politics during an election had never been uttered.
Maxence told Dree, “I’ll summon you if I require your help. I prefer to work alone now.” He dropped his head to gaze pointedly at his phone.
She didn’t move.
Max read the same text from his cousin Marie-Therese three times and still couldn’t figure out what the hell she was talking about.
Dree whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and stood.
He waited for one more word to drop from her plush lips, to see what she was going to call him—Maxence, Augustine, Father, Your Highness—or would she just leave? Would that be all that she would say to him?
Dree whispered, “—sir,” and walked away.
Flashes of those stolen moments in Paris assailed him. Her calling him sir while kneeling in front of him; his hands on the soft rounds of her ass or cupping her heavy breasts; the faintly salty taste of her on his tongue; his dick sliding between her full lips; the way her back arched like she was going to snap when she came.
Sir.
There was a queen-sized bed in the small bedroom suite in the rear of the Bombardier. Maxence could haul her back there, lock the door, and edge her until she was panting and close to coming, then make her suck him off instead.
Sir.
If she wanted to play the dominance-submission game, Prince Maxence of Monaco had mastered it long ago. He was not the light-hearted bigshot who dabbled in sexual games she’d met in Paris. He was—
Maxence’s hand cramped around his phone.
He was deadly serious in everything he did and bent everyone to his will because he had to.
Over a billion dollars were at stake.
Maxence had to make sure he didn’t end up with it.
Sir.
He didn’t have time for blithe sexual games with a pretty little ingenue who didn’t understand the danger she would be in if anyone found out Maxence cared for her.
He blinked, still staring at his phone and the wall of texts marching down the screen.
Cared for her?
Well, of course. Dree Clark was a remarkable woman. She’d worked herself to the point of collapse every night in Nepal because people needed her. He respected her. He admired her soul.
But it was nothing more.
It couldn’t be anything more.
Of course, he wanted her to be safe. He wasn’t a monster. Some members of his family would stop at nothing to gain the crown and control its associated wealth. Pierre hadn’t been the only sociopath who’d sprouted in Max’s family tree.
And, of course, she was a wonderful soul and an excellent human being.
But . . . he cared for her?
There were limits to what Maxence could and couldn’t do in his life. He’d always known that.
Dree would be in danger if Maxence cared for her.
And that would be unbearable.
His eyes slowly focused on his phone and the messages he should begin to triage.
His cousin Marie-Therese’s most recent text was, Maxence, where are you? Maxence, it’s terrible. It’s all gone wrong. Pierre is dead. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I’m trying to find Flicka because she knows something about it, but I can’t find her, either. Oh, my Maxence, where are you?
Toward the rear of the plane, Dree flopped onto a long leather couch bolted to the wall. An air hostess approached her, craning her head to the side with concern.
Maxence signaled another stewardess, who turned out to be Malini, again. She smiled a friendly, open expression of inquiry and blinked with affection. She wouldn’t ask for a blessing after he’d removed his ecclesiastical clothes because she’d seen the demarcation in his life before.
“I need a laptop,” Maxence said. He couldn’t thumb hundreds of responses on a phone screen.
“Right away, Your Highness.” She flitted to the rear of the plane.
The next series of texts was from his cousin Alexandre.
- I cannot believe the shenanigans going on in Monaco. I’ve got 2:1 odds Pierre renounces within a week. At least I’ll make some money before I have to fight for my life.
- Pierre is dead. Why the hell is Pierre dead? You’re going to need those legal links I forwarded to you.
- They’re threatening to elect you in absentia. I’ve put together a voting bloc of the cousins, but I cannot hold this together much longer, man.
- Shit is hitting the fan, Max. Where the hell are you? All the cousins are dispersing so they can’t form a quorum. I’m taking off to the US for a few days. It’s too hot here.
- Maxence? Are you okay?
- Max?
- Please answer me.
Okay, his first text needed to go to Alexandre.
Malini handed him a laptop.
Maxence booted it up and paired it with his phone.
Alexandre, I’m fine, he typed and sent so that Alex received that much immediately.
He continued, I was in the field for my charity and couldn’t get a cell phone signal for a month. I hadn’t heard anything that happened after Flicka came back to the palace. Sault found me in a Nepalese hikers’ hostel and told me Pierre was dead. I’m on the Bombardier, headed for Monaco. Are you still in the US?
Maxence typed a text to Marie-Therese, assuring her he was all right but more guarded about specific information.
Just as he hit send for Marie-Therese, his phone buzzed. The caller ID read Xan Valentine.
Maxence answered it. “Hello, Alexandre.”
“Goddammit, Max, what the hell is wrong with you?” Alexandre’s voice was a throaty baritone growl, hoarse from rough use.
“Glad to hear from you, too, Alex.”
“I didn’t know if your brother had you killed before he ate a damned gun or if Jules had sent mercs to murder you after or before Pierre bit it. You can’t pull these stunts, Max. You can’t run away and be incommunicado for goddamn months!”
Maxence said, “Fill me in on what happened to Pierre.”
A deep, shaky sigh whooshed through the phone. “Jesus Hussain Christ, Max.”
“I’m sorry I worried you.”
“Okay, so you know Flicka returned to the palace under dubious circumstances, right?”
Quentin Sault loitered in the galley near the back of the plane, leaning against the wall, and Maxence watched him as the man stared out a porthole, not even blinking. “Yes, I heard that as I was leaving, just before I turned off my phone. Sault told me a story about the rest, but I want corroboration.”
“Yeah,” Alexandre said, a cynical laugh filling that syllable. “Sault might still be doing Pierre’s dirty work. You never know with him.”
“Tell me what happened.”
He sighed. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Just tell me what happened to Pierre.”
Alexandre said, “After Flicka came back to the palace, there were rumors of tension between her and Pierre, despite all social media they dropped of them being all lovey-dovey. Pierre wouldn’t leave her alone with anyone or even allow her to talk privately on her phone. Then, in the middle of the Winter Ball in Monaco, there was some kind of fracas, and she was gone. I mean, like the floor swallowed her up.”
Maxence chuckled and shook his head. “Flicka always did have a flair for the theatrical.”
“Pierre chased her across Europe and found her at her father’s castle in Germany. They had a fight, I heard, an ass-kicking for the ages. It ended with Flicka telling Pierre she would never go back with him, that she had divorced him, and it was legal and binding.”
Max rubbed the side of his face. If Pierre was divorced, he wouldn’t be eligible to be elected as the Prince of Monaco. Protestant countries could get away with divorced monarchs, but Monaco was Catholic.
Pierre’s whole life would have been crumbling around him.
Alexandre said, “He grabbed a gun and shot himself. No one was close enough to stop him. Flicka and her bodyguard both said that’s what happened, and there were police present and CCTV cams. There’s video, though it’s hard to get a hold of. My wife is friends with Wulfram’s wife, and he had access to the CCTV cams on his computer because, well, Wulf. No matter what anyone suspects, neither Jules nor anyone else assassinated him. Pierre did it. Sault has been a shell of himself ever since.”
“That’s essentially what he told me,” Maxence said. “I didn’t know about the Winter Ball, though. Is Flicka okay?”
“As well as can be expected and then some. Great, actually. That’s why I went to the US. She—”
Max’s phone chimed with an incoming call. He checked the screen and said, “Xan, Marie-Therese is calling me. Are you on your way back to Monaco?”
“Yeah, We’re somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. I don’t know where. It looks deep.”
“Excellent, I’ll see you on The Rock. Call as soon as you get in.” Maxence clicked over to his other cousin’s call. “Marie-Therese, how are you?”
“Maxence! Max, you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you?” Her low and feminine voice was at its highest, hysterical pitches for her. She sang low alto.
Max reassured Marie-Therese that he was, indeed, not dead in the slightest. He asked lightly, “What’s going on in the palace?”
“Oh, my goodness. Monaco is in an uproar.”
“Really? The tourists are rioting?”
She laughed, her tone light with relief. “No, thank God. But everyone on the Crown Council or with any stake in the outcome of the election is mincing around like they’re walking on hot beach sand. It’s insane. No one knows what government policies and contracts will be in force a week or a month from now. Pierre would have just continued Uncle Rainier’s plans because they’ve been working together for years, but now everything might change. Any business with a government contract is in chaos. Businesses are preemptively laying off their entire staff to hold onto capital, just in case.”
Monaco’s unemployment must be climbing fast. Max didn’t like that. The election should be sooner rather than later to take care of Monaco’s citizens.
Unlike Alexandre, Marie-Therese watched palace politics, so Max asked her, “Who thinks they’ve got a shot at an upset?”
She said, “Everyone assumes you’re coming back to be crowned.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her sigh was a blast of static over his phone. “I don’t know. Alexandre gathered up a bunch of cousins and flounced so we can’t form a quorum. No one wants to admit they want it because there are rumors of threats going around. Christine is just gone. It’s like the Grimaldi have gone full-blown Borgia.”
Maxence leaned back in his chair and signaled to the stewardess. “Coffee,” he called to her, and she spun on her heel to march back to the galley. A buzz might make palace politics less stressful, but he needed his wits about him. “What about your father?”
“What about him?”
Her father was Prince Jules Grimaldi, often discussed in hushed, fearful tones. His few dabbles into Monaco’s government had ended in scandal and, nearly, criminal charges. “Does he think he has a shot?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“You haven’t talked to him?”
“Not about this.”
Interesting. “If your father were thinking about rolling the dice, wouldn’t he ask you for your vote?”
She paused. “He’s my father. He would assume he has it.”
“Does he?”
Her sigh this time had a hiss to it, like exasperation. “If I want not to be disinherited, I suppose he could assume that. But if there were someone with a better claim, someone who’d made sure he had the votes before the meeting, the new prince could make sure my father can’t cut me out of the royal income.”
He nodded. “Absolute monarchy has its privileges.”
“I like my lifestyle, Max.”
“Understood.”
“You know, there are a lot of whispers about this.”
“That’s not shocking.”
She said, “So, a lot of people are in hushed meetings with other nobles who have a vote, not just Alex.”
Ah, here came the good stuff. “Oh?”
“There are whispers, especially if you outright refuse to be nominated, that it could become a free-for-all, and the order of precedence will mean nothing. That’s crazy, Max. What if someone who’s number eight or eighteen steps forward for election, and they get it? Monaco could end up with crazy-communism tax brackets or the freaking Inquisition. You know Pope Celestine the Sixth had weird ideas about a new Holy Roman Empire.”
“He’s the pope emeritus now, for that and other reasons.”
“Yeah, but a fanatic from either end of the spectrum on the throne could be the end of Monaco.”
Maxence nodded. “And if it’s a battle royale for the throne, we could end up with an extreme candidate, just because moderates may fragment the vote.”
“I’m not saying you have to be the prince, Max, but if it’s going to be a free-for-all, it has to be our free-for-all. We need to make sure that the right person ends up on the throne.”
“Is your father meeting with people to drum up votes?”
“Max, he’s been negotiating votes since Uncle Rainier had his stroke.”
Shock smacked him like a glass shattering in his hand. “He was going to fight Pierre for it?”
“Pierre was an asshole to a lot of people, and the scandals with Flicka were gaining traction. It wouldn’t have been hard.”
“And then?”
“And then you ran away a decade ago to be a frickin’ priest, Max, and Alexandre is a
psycho serial killer. Everyone knew Christine wouldn’t want it, and she’s a girl, so, that. My dad would have been next.”
Max’s cousin Alexandre wasn’t a serial killer nor psycho, but rumors can be impossible to fight. “We’ll have to consider that. Thank you for the information, Marie-Therese.”
They hung up.
If the meetings of the Council of Nobles turned into a rugby scrum, anything could happen. Jules had positioned himself as the conservative alternative months ago. He was leagues ahead in the race for the crown.
Max glanced down the aisle of the plane.
Toward the rear, near the galley, Dree was curled up in one of the oversized seats and covered by a plush blanket that matched the caramel leather upholstery. A mug stood on the small table beside her, and she stared out the porthole window.
Sunlight shone on her creamy skin and sparkled on her gold hair. Her expression was the smooth blankness of repressed heartache.
Yeah, Maxence was an asshole, but Dree Clark was going to stay alive and not be used as leverage against him.
When the election turned ugly, anyone would be fair game for use in bribery or threats.
He stared at the texts that were scrolling down his phone with a new and furious velocity.
People are saying Alexandre and Marie-Therese have heard from you. Are you all right?
Alex posted on the private loop that you’re alive.
Cousin, I extend my sincerest condolences and most heartfelt congratulations.
Your Serene Highness, may I introduce myself. I am the Monegasque Under-Secretary for—
MAX MAX WHERE ARE YOU ARE YOU OKAY?!?!?!?
If ever there were an inconvenient time to make your acquaintance—
Dude. S’up.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Maxence, you need to get back to Le Rocher. Monaco is falling apart.
That last text was from Max’s second cousin Nicostrato Grimaldi, a minor nobleman whose father held a landed title, but he did have a voting seat on the Council of Nobles, or Crown Council, or whatever people were calling it this week. The name of the sovereign’s advisory committee had gone back and forth so many times that they had become synonymous.
Nico was astute when it came to people and politics.
Maybe he would have information.
Prince: Royal Romantic Suspense (Billionaires in Disguise: Maxence Book 5) Page 2
