With his silvery-blue eyes, hard cheekbones and jaw, rock-hard body and elegant manners, his world-class education and unusual talents, and that extravagant, towering height of his, Arthur Finch-Hatten was a force of nature. He could produce results that others simply could not.
That night, he should be in Paris, doing whatever it was he did that no one talked about.
But if Maxence was missing and the situation was dire enough, Arthur would go. If Gen had ever needed to analyze Arthur psychologically, the personality trait at the very top of his list would have been loyalty.
Loyalty to country, loyalty to her, and loyalty to Casimir and Maxence, his best friends for practically his whole life.
It still boggled her mind, though, that anyone could have lost track of Maxence, even in a crowded room.
All three of the men—Maxence, Casimir, and her Arthur—stuck up above every crowd because all of them were right around six-feet-four.
How could those bodyguards not spot Max?
When she, Caz, and Arthur got to the casino, they could just look over the top of the crowd for a hot, smoldery guy whose head and shoulders were literally sticking out of the mass of people like a nail that wants a hammer.
Gen supposed that the diminutive Rox could stand on a chair or something so she could see, too.
Shorties were cute.
Maxence’s black hair would probably still be a little too long and curling around his ears and collar, as always. A crowd of admirers would have formed around him, vying for his attention and absolutely rapt whenever he said anything over the heads of the crowd with his lush, full lips.
Gen wondered if Max’s hands would be tanned as darkly as they usually were, his face only a few shades lighter from wearing a hat to keep the equatorial sun off of his nose. His skin normally would have been a pale shade of buff from a few Italian ancestors mixed in with the Northern European ones.
She had accidentally seen his light-skinned butt once.
Maxence had been staying with them for a week up at Spencer House, and his towel had slipped.
Gen had spun away so fast, laughing, that she had nearly fallen over, while he had looked mortified and tucked that white towel more tightly around his waist before proceeding from the sauna to his room, his head held high. God, he’d been embarrassed. The quick grab and his expression of abject horror had been so funny.
She hadn’t caught a glimpse of the last turkey in the shop, but his rounded, muscular ass was magnificent.
Besides, to find Maxence in a crowded room, you could just ask anyone where he was. Maxence had a magnetism to him that most people found compelling. When Maxence was in any room, half the people could point in his direction without even looking because they could practically feel him over there.
The other half wouldn’t be able to take their eyes off of him.
Gen didn’t think this missing person case would take long. They’d probably be back in Paris by lunchtime.
She swung her solid belly around without bending too much to climb out of the helicopter. Her tummy felt like a turtle shell strapped to her midsection.
Her bladder felt like a rock.
Above them, the helicopter blades sputtered and slowed.
Arthur was right outside her open door and holding out his hand to steady Gen, careful that she didn’t bobble, as her toes stretched toward the asphalt. He was sweet. She liked him all fussy like this. Most of the time, Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten was courtly and polite, as befits an honest-to-church English earl.
Since she’d gotten pregnant with the heir to his earldom in her belly, he was her knight in shining armor at every opportunity. His silvery eyes even gleamed like shining armor.
Once Gen was steadily on her feet and holding the hem of her black maternity dress down in the whirling wind created by the slowing helicopter blades, Arthur asked Casimir, “Should we start at the casino?”
“That’s where he was last seen,” Casimir said. “Plus, whenever Maxence has gone missing, starting at the nearest casino is a good plan. We can check the girls into the Hotel de Paris next door and cross-examine the dealers and staff who will be mopping up.”
Gen liked Casimir van Amsberg.
Caz was a fellow attorney, even though he was more of a solicitor than a pit-bull, litigating barrister like herself. Caz understood procedure, and the first thing in the procedure would be establishing a timeline and questioning witnesses.
Gen liked Casimir’s wife, Roxanne, even more. Gen and Arthur had had an impromptu Vegas wedding and a honeymoon in a courtroom in the House of Lords, but a bit after all that, Casimir had toted Roxanne across the pond and they’d all had a lovely house-party at Arthur’s enormous mansion for a few days for Gen and Rox to get to know each other. By the end of the long weekend, Gen felt like she’d known Roxanne her whole life, and Casimir and Arthur were winking at each other as if they’d known it would happen.
This emergency trip to Monaco felt like a girls’ weekend for her and Rox, though Casimir and Arthur had to find their wayward friend, too.
Arthur frowned at Casimir in the dark, chilly morning. They both stooped, as did Gen, because the helicopter blades were just a bit too close above their heads for comfort.
Roxanne seemed unconcerned.
Arthur said, “I tried calling Maxence again, and it’s still going straight to voicemail. Either he’s turned his phone off, or he’s not in range of a cell phone tower.”
“Damn.” Casimir tapped his screen and held it up to his ear.
“Trying Max again?” Arthur asked, his voice as dry as a bored English lord.
“Of course, I am. Just in case he turned it back on after the five hundred other times we’ve called him.”
Arthur said, “I’ll take a look into the casino’s surveillance to see if anything pops up.”
Casimir said, “Yeah, you start there.”
Gen looked down and tried to keep from grinning. Though she was pretty sure that Casimir suspected what Arthur’s job was, it could be referred to only obliquely.
Men in black suits were holding open the doors to the heliport’s terminal for them.
The only way around the chain-link fence enclosing the helicopter landing pads to the parking lot was through the tiny terminal or box office or whatever they called the small building with the closed vendor windows that usually sold helicopter tickets, if one didn’t own a helicopter, of course. They trotted through the building with its huge posters of Monaco and France and out the front door.
As Gen was walking through the doorway, Arthur paused and asked one of the guys, an eastern-European-looking fellow with a dark hat, “Does Pierre know Maxence is missing?”
The man glanced at his partner, who shrugged, before answering, “Yes.”
“Did he order Quentin to call us?”
Another glance between them and a non-committal shrug. “Yes.”
“Wait just a minute,” Gen told Arthur while they were inside the terminal and dashed into a ladies’ room. Roxanne followed her inside because she was solid that way. Rox was, however, still recovering from helicopter-induced terror and too busy holding up the tile wall with both hands for chitchat.
By the time the two women emerged, black cars were waiting in the circular driveway outside.
Arthur steered Gen toward one, while Casimir and Roxanne walked to the other. Arthur opened the car door and helped Gen in, then walked around to the other side and folded himself inside, dropping a small, black backpack on the floor.
Gen asked Arthur, “What was that about Pierre?”
Arthur inclined his head toward the chauffeur. “Nothing, I’m sure.”
Right. It wasn’t nothing at all, but Arthur didn’t want to say anything in front of the driver, who was assuredly either Monegasque military or Pierre’s private bodyguard staff and would narc as soon as they were out of the car.
By Pierre, Gen meant Maxence’s older brother, Pierre Grimaldi. Gen had never met Pierre, but she’d heard a
lot about him. The darkly handsome man had been plastered all over the society and gossip pages his whole life.
Recently, the tabloids had become obsessed with Pierre, ever since his famous socialite wife, Flicka von Hannover, had dropped out of sight. No one could quite agree on whether Flicka was actually missing. She’d been spotted a month or so ago in Las Vegas. Conflicting reports in the press battled it out as to whether she had divorced Pierre or whether the US courts didn’t have jurisdiction, but no one had seen her since.
She whispered to Arthur, “Have they found Flicka yet?”
He shook his head, frowning. Overhead streetlights shone in the windows and touched his black hair.
“Do you know anything about that?” she asked.
A shrug.
Oh, well. She’d get him to tell her later.
The car zoomed through the streets and tunnels of Monaco toward the Monte Carlo casino, and Arthur tucked his arm around her. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
The car careened around a corner, and she flopped a bit in the seat.
“You there,” Arthur called to the driver in the front seat. “Slow down.”
The driver accelerated into a curve, throwing Gen sideways.
Arthur hauled her back under his arm and pushed her against the back of the seat while he leaned forward to have a very quiet word with the driver.
As Arthur settled back, the car slowed and drove at a more rational pace.
Arthur lifted his eyebrows at her, and Gen cuddled closer to him. Yeah, he was her knight in shining armor.
The car emerged from the tunnel into the dark before the dawn and curved around a few bends until it stopped in front of the Hotel de Paris, which was a weird name because they were in Monaco and nowhere near Paris.
The Four Seasons hotel that they’d stayed at in Paris was named after King George the Fifth, a British king, but they’d been in France. Plus, it was called the Four Seasons Hotel George V.
Europe was weird. The Four Seasons hotel in Houston was named “The Four Seasons Hotel Houston,” as God intended.
Arthur helped Gen out of the car, making sure she was steady on her feet before he released her hand. The hotel lobby, visible through the glass doors, blazed with light despite the wee hours of the morning.
Casimir and Roxanne were standing in the pool of light on the dark sidewalk, waiting for them. Caz asked Arthur, “What took you so long?”
Arthur shrugged. “Slow driver.”
Gen rolled her eyes at Roxanne as they walked inside the hotel, and Roxanne stifled a giggle. They’d talk later, because men.
Christmas decorations festooned the hotel lobby in great swags of green fir and red ribbons. Gold and white decorations and glass icicles glittered like they were inside a star. Monaco usually went over-the-top with garish gold-plated everything that would be in terribly poor taste anywhere else, and they really went all out for the holiday season.
Arthur told Casimir, “We should check the girls into the hotel and go ask some questions.”
Roxanne piped up. “We can check-in. You guys go ahead.”
Arthur looked back at Gen. “Are you all right with that?”
Gen laughed at him. “Darlin’, I have been checking myself into and out of hotels all my life. Go find him.”
Casimir stepped to stand directly in front of the desk. “Do you have a guest here by the name of Maxence Grimaldi?”
The only reason Gen didn’t gasp out loud was because Arthur would have been so disappointed if she had indulged in such an un-British display of shock.
“Oh, it’s Robert,” Gen piped up upon hearing Casimir playing fast and loose with Maxence’s name. “Our friend Maxence Robert, I mean Maxence Robert,” she said it the second time with a valiant attempt at a French accent and dropped the t at the end. In her head, it sounded more like “raw-BAY-er” than anything a French person would have said. “Our friend, Maxence Robert, the accountant, who is here in Monaco for an accounting convention, might be staying here.”
The lady at the desk demurred, citing guest confidentiality, and stated that she could neither confirm nor refute any guests’ identities.
The bellhop, who was wearing a vibrant blue and red uniform that contrasted brightly with his black skin, turned and regarded them closely. His eyes protruded above his prominent cheekbones and hollowed cheeks. He didn’t say a word.
Right. Even though Maxence wasn’t an uncommon French name, saying it in Monaco was tantamount to whispering Beyonce in, well, Houston.
Everything seemed to be about Houston today.
As it should be.
Gen had grown up near Houston. Her English mother had moved them back to London after Gen’s father had passed away. Though Gen had gone to university and taken her law course in London, she hadn’t been able to soften her Texas accent even a smidge.
Maybe someday.
Arthur nodded. “Yes, we need to find Maxence Robert.” His French accent was about a million times better than Gen’s. “Rest, my love. We’ll make inquiries.”
“Yeah, sure,” Gen said.
Arthur vacillated for a moment, his British disdain for public displays of affection warring with his inclination to say good-bye to his pregnant wife. After shifting back and forth, he could no longer keep it British, and he reached one arm around her to plant a heartfelt kiss on her temple. The warmth from his body spread over her arms. His small backpack bumped her arm with a sharp poke. She closed her eyes, leaning into the kiss, and he broke away.
When Gen opened her eyes, Roxanne was staring at Casimir, her fists braced on her hips and one eyebrow elevated.
Caz laughed and stepped over to his wife, sweeping the tiny woman up in a hug and enthusiastically pecking her on the cheek. He steadied her on her feet and jogged a few steps to catch up with Arthur, who was striding toward the front doors and the small garden between the hotel and the casino. “Off to find Maxence Robert!”
The bellhop’s gaze fuzzed over in professional disinterest, and he said, “Please follow me to your rooms.”
“Thank you,” Roxanne said.
He led them toward a double, curving staircase.
A few other men were loitering in the lobby, Gen noticed. They wore dark suits and pretended to read their phones or magazines, but they were obviously someone’s security and staking out the lobby. Gen had been learning a lot about security and intelligence agency operations lately, and it was unusual to leave security staff in the lobby all night. Maybe the President of the United States or Prime Minister of the UK was staying in the hotel, though those guys didn’t look like a nation’s secret service.
Weird.
As the hotel bellhop led her and Roxanne toward the stairs, Gen looked up, way up, to the landing that was probably labeled the second floor but was more like the third if the elevation was taken into account.
Oh, she hoped this guy didn’t want her to haul her burgeoning baby-belly up that many stairs.
The guy asked Gen, “Do you have any luggage, ma’am?”
“Um, no,” she said. “Not with us. It’ll be brought later.”
“Oh, yes,” Roxanne agreed with her. “Later.”
“Very good,” the bellhop said, his neutrality suggesting that arriving in the middle of the night without luggage was a perfectly normal occurrence at the Hotel de Paris.
Gen wondered just how many people had checked into this five-star hotel in Monaco, right next to the highest-rolling casino in Europe, with no luggage.
Maybe people did and sent their servants to buy underwear and toothbrushes.
She said, “Thank you. Is the restaurant still open by any chance, um, sir?”
Belatedly, Gen saw his nametag read Issouf. She should have used his name. Dangit.
Issouf said, “We can open it for you if you would like.”
Gen was starving. They were not kidding when they talked about eating for two, especially when one of them was going to grow up to be a giant Bri
tish earl like his daddy. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to cause a fuss. Is room service still going on?”
“I’m afraid not,” Issouf said. “We can make a small exception and open the restaurant for you. It is no trouble at all. Of course, the Hotel de Paris is pleased to offer you anything you want to eat, especially if you are in a—” his gaze strayed down to her baby-earl bump and then away, “—delicate condition.”
“I admit that I am starving. Maybe toast? And some fruit? Just anything. I can eat it here in the lobby instead of in the restaurant. I’m sorry to put you out, but I am a bit desperate.”
Issouf said, “We shall open the restaurant. Come.”
Gen turned to Roxanne. “You can go up to your room and crash if you want.”
Rox rolled her eyes. “Geez, I’m not going to let a preggo woman eat alone in a hotel in the middle of the night.”
Issouf unlocked the restaurant and served them with a kind smile the whole time. If he was cursing her under his breath for making him open the restaurant in the dead of night, he did an excellent job of covering it up.
Roxanne sipped a cup of herbal tea, while Gen did ask for dry wheat toast, fruit, and ginger ale.
Every now and then, she still got a little nauseated. During the first trimester, she’d had all-the-damn-day sickness for three months and was still queasy a lot of the time, and she was careful to keep a little food in her stomach to keep that crap from coming back.
They chatted and caught up in the empty restaurant in the night-quiet hotel, enjoying just being together. Roxanne was a firecracker with a sharp sense of humor and a deep streak of honor, too. Gen’s Texas soul appreciated Rox’s down-to-earth conversation.
When Issouf was back in the kitchen somewhere, Roxanne leaned over the table and whispered, “Do you think he bought that Maxence Robert thing?”
“Not in the slightest.” Gen nibbled the brown, crunchy toast. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to find that runaway dog. No one’s even around to question at this time of the morning. Even the most delinquent gamblers have passed out by now.”
“At least we got a trip to Monaco out of it,” Roxanne said.
“Yep, there’s that.”
Issouf speed-walked out of the kitchen, bearing a tray with two cups on it. He placed one in front of Rox. “Another lemon and rose tea for the lady.” He positioned a steaming cup of pale amber tea in front of Gen, “And a special tea for you. It is ginger, turmeric, and mint. It is good for ladies with stomach problems during delicate times.”
One Night in Monaco Page 2
