Once Upon a Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  “It’s me. I’m a healer. If you burn yourself, I just rub it and talk to the burn and make it go away.” And now her fingers were rubbing the exposed line of skin at his neck. God have mercy.

  “That sounds ridiculous,” he said, and cleared his throat because his voice wasn’t as convincing as it should have been. “And you should really get off my lap. This is very . . . inappropriate.” He sounded like a stuffy prig.

  “Burn talkers are real,” Maylee said in a dreamy voice. “We have great hands. Great at rubbing. I can take the heat out of anything with a touch.”

  Good God, his body reacted to that. Did she even realize what she was saying? “You really should get off my lap.”

  “You need me.”

  He groaned. Parts of his anatomy were agreeing with her, and that was making him furious not only with her, but himself.

  She stared up at him again. “Are you still going to get rid of me?”

  “I certainly am now that you are flinging yourself all over me,” Griffin began, and glanced down at her upturned face again. There was something else about her deep eyes that was bothering him. After a moment, he realized what it was. Her pupils were dilated to an enormous size. He frowned and grabbed her face, peering into her eyes. That was more than just two drinks. Concern flared through him as he recalled Cade’s horrific recent stories of Audrey’s sister overdosing in front of him. His friend was still scarred from the fact. “Did you take something else?”

  “Just a happy pill,” she told him, petting his hair and looking up at him with soft, drugged eyes. “I don’t like flying. It scares me.”

  “Damn it. Give me your pill bottle.” He needed to see if she was going to start foaming or convulsing in the next few minutes. This horrible trip was just getting worse by the minute.

  “’Kay.” Instead of getting up, Maylee twisted in his arms, mashing her breasts against his chest as she reached behind her. There was no question—she was stacked in the front despite her baggy suit, and she was pushing them against him with enthusiasm.

  Griffin closed his eyes and counted backward from a hundred to distract himself as she shifted and twisted in his arms, rubbing all over him.

  When he was at seventy-two, she twisted back to the front. “Here you go, Mr. Gryffindor.”

  He opened his eyes and flinched. This crazy woman had a purse that looked like a saddle. “This is your handbag?”

  “Isn’t it something?” She seemed proud.

  “Oh, it’s something,” he muttered. He took it from her and began to dig through the contents, and his hand wrapped around a small pill bottle a moment later. He read the side of it and then looked over at her.

  Her face was inches away from his, and she was staring at him, doing that weird, slow blink.

  “It says that you’re not supposed to mix this with alcohol,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

  “Did you know that you have a really straight nose?” She touched the bridge of his nose with the tip of her finger and then ran it all the way down to the tip. “Like one of them guys on the coins.”

  “Lovely. Can you get off my lap while I look up side effects of this on the Internet? No? Figures.” He picked up his smartphone and typed with his thumb, while she played with his hair and ran her hands all over him. He had the biggest cockstand at the moment, thanks to her careless touches and wiggling, but he suspected she wouldn’t notice a thing . . . which was good, because he was rather chagrined about it himself.

  It seemed that alcohol combined with her anxiety drugs made the effect that much stronger. Lovely. That explained her bizarre actions, at least.

  “Your hair’s funny,” she breathed into his ear, and gave a soft giggle that made his cock twitch all over again.

  He flicked his phone off and frowned at her. “Funny?”

  “It’s like it’s spackled down. That’s funny.” Her fingers played at the crisp lines of it. “I bet it’d be pretty if you didn’t put so much hair goop in it.”

  “The last thing I want is to be ‘pretty’,” he told her in a tight voice. “Now. Come on. Stand up.”

  Though she protested (and if he was honest, so did his cock), he managed to get her to stand upright. He got up and when she put her arms up around his neck again, he figured that was a good thing, and lifted her into his arms. Carrying her to the back room, he laid her down on the narrow bed he kept there for overnight flights . . . like tonight’s.

  “Ooo, is it nap time?” Maylee’s drawl seemed to get thicker with every word she spoke. “You going to come sleep with me, Mr. Gryffindor?”

  “No,” he said in a firm voice. “You are going to lay there and sleep, and when you are no longer out of your mind, we are going to discuss what we’re going to do with you. Understand?”

  “You’re not very nice,” she muttered as he laid her on the bed. She wiggled into the pillows. Her skirt hiked up, showing far too much tanned thigh, and he felt himself break out into a cold sweat.

  He was definitely going to kill Gretchen when he got back.

  He averted his gaze and pulled a throw blanket over her legs so she was modest. “Sleep. We’ll talk later.”

  “Not tired,” she said, and then ruined it by yawning hugely.

  “Stay there anyhow,” he commanded her.

  It didn’t matter, because she was already drifting off to sleep. He watched her for a minute longer, completely confounded by the entire situation. Then, rubbing his face to refocus, he left the small room, shut the door, and returned to his chair.

  And picked up his phone so he could finish his text to Hunter. Your girlfriend is dead to me.

  Sorry man. Maylee was available, though.

  She’s rotten. She’s wearing a polyester zip-up suit. It’s disgraceful. I’m supposed to mix with royalty this week with her at my side?

  There was a long pause, and then Hunter responded. Gretchen says that you’re a snob. And Maylee is very sweet and hardworking. We didn’t lie about that. She was also the only one available at the last minute, so take what you can get.

  I am not a snob. Well, he was, but he didn’t give a shit, really. And she’s going back on the first flight I can dump her on.

  Suit yourself, Hunter texted back. And a moment later, another text came through. SNOBSNOBSNOBBYSNOB.

  Griffin rolled his eyes. I hate you, Gretchen. Give the phone back to Hunter.

  He got nothing but a smiley face in return.

  ***

  Any plans of dumping Maylee at Heathrow were discarded when the woman continued to sleep all the way through the fueling stop. Griffin briefly contemplated waking her up and leaving her at the airport as soon as she woke up, but he wasn’t entirely sure how long she’d be unconscious. If it was six hours, he didn’t want to loiter on a runway.

  He could just as easily leave her at the airport in Bellissime, after all.

  So they flew on toward his home country, and Griffin napped in his chair since the bloody woman had his bed. When he awoke, he smoothed down his hair with gel and then, an hour out from the landing, he changed clothing into a dark navy jacket with his family’s crest on the pocket. He refused to sash-up and go full regalia simply because they were leaving the airport, even though he knew there would be photographers waiting to see his exit from the plane. A jacket and tie would be fine.

  Except that he couldn’t make his blasted tie work.

  Normally Kip was on hand to tie it for him, and in his daily life, he preferred to have no tie at all. But now? To show up in his home country for a royal wedding with his collar open? He would never hear the end of it. So he stared at the mirror and cussed to himself as he tried to tie his bow tie, over and over again.

  And failed each time.

  ***

  Maylee woke up, confused as to where she was. The lights were off and she was lying in a bed, but she could hear the roar of a plane engine. These things did not make sense. She sat up in the bed and felt around until she found a bedside lamp and flicked it on, st
aring at her surroundings.

  She was in a small room in what must have been the back of the plane. A picture on the wall of a family crest, complete with unicorns and dragons, stared back at her. She blinked rapidly, trying to recall how she’d gotten into this room.

  The last thing she remembered was taking her pill. Oh, dear. Had she even met Mr. Griffin? Her mouth had an awful taste in it, and she licked her lips. Why didn’t she remember anything? Her bladder made its need known, and she got up from the bed, noticing that her shoes were gone. When had she lost those? That made her panic a little, but a quick check showed she was still wearing her cotton panties and her dress was intact. That was good, at least. Maybe those drinks Megan had given her were stronger than she’d thought.

  She found a bathroom off to one side of the strange room and gasped at her reflection. Her hair was practically standing up on end, frizzy curls everywhere. Drool tracks lined her mouth in several directions, and she had bags under her puffy eyes. She looked awful. Maylee turned on the tap, scrubbed her face, and wet her hands, trying to tame the worst of her curls. Oh, God, she really hoped Mr. Griffin hadn’t seen her like this. He’d think she was a tumbleweed.

  Repairing her appearance as best she could, Maylee straightened her dress and gave it an approving nod. Polyester was a great fabric—she’d slept in the thing and nary a wrinkle. That was perfect. With one final smoothing touch to her hair, Maylee left the bathroom behind and emerged from the cabin.

  A man sat in one of the big, buttery-soft leather chairs at the far end of the plane. An upraised newspaper hid his face from her, and she squinted, trying to recall what he looked like. Young? Old? Ugly? Had to be old if he was able to afford a jet like this, she decided. Elderly people were nice people, weren’t they? She rather hoped he was nice.

  Maylee cleared her throat. “Mr. Griffin?”

  The paper folded. A man stared at her from behind it, a frown on his face.

  Well . . . he wasn’t old. His dark hair was slicked down into a neat part, and black-framed glasses hid part of his face. His features were regular and pleasant and average, she supposed. If she’d have passed him on the street, she wouldn’t have noticed him.

  He gave her a dismissive look. “Are we back to ourselves now?”

  She resisted the urge to rub her eyes like a sleepy child. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “I’m going to assume that’s a yes.” He folded the paper and set it aside, then stood. He was tall, she realized, that dark, slicked hair almost brushing the ceiling of the plane. He wore a crisp navy jacket with a symbol on one pocket, khaki-colored slacks, and a loose bow tie hung around his neck, as if he hadn’t quite finished dressing.

  “I’m sorry if I took up your room,” Maylee said, resisting the urge to twist her hands in anxiety. “Did I fall asleep or something?”

  His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “I trust you don’t remember flinging yourself at me?”

  Maylee blinked. “I flung myself at you?”

  “If I recall correctly, you asked for a hug,” he said in a sour voice. He gave her an unhappy look. Maylee straightened her clothes, but he turned to a mirror on a far wall and began to jerk at the tie around his neck, trying to tie it . . . and doing a rather lousy job.

  “A hug?” Maylee choked on a laugh. That sounded so funny. “Really?”

  The look he shot her wasn’t amused. He untied the tie and then tried to tie it again. “Yes, and then you crawled all over me and wept. It was not how I anticipated spending my flight, Ms. Meriweather.”

  She bit her lip, a flush of embarrassment heating her cheeks. He sounded so utterly disgusted with her. So much for a great first impression. “Sorry about that. I must not have been myself.”

  “You were not. You combined alcohol with your pills and it affected your brain.” He gave her another displeased look. “At least, I assume that’s not how you normally are.”

  The smile that curved Maylee’s mouth was tight. She’d be nice and super polite to this man despite his mean words. “I can assure you I normally don’t go around asking my employer for a hug, Mr. Griffin.”

  “Mr. Verdi,” he corrected. “My last name isn’t Griffin, it’s my first name.”

  She knew that. It was a polite sort of thing to add a “mister” in front of a first name, but she supposed he didn’t grasp that. Well, it wasn’t her place as his employee to correct him. Instead, she watched as he knotted the tie, scowled at his reflection, and then undid it again. At this rate, he was going to destroy the poor thing. It already looked rather mangled.

  “As soon as we get to Bellissime, I’ll book you a flight back home,” he said.

  Maylee frowned. But . . . they were almost at the airport. The worst part of the trip—the flying—was nearly over. She wanted to see Bellissime and she wanted to get that double-time money. “I’m real sorry about my behavior last night, but I’m not normally that kind of girl. It won’t happen again.”

  “I know that. I took your pills.” Before she could protest, he attempted to knot the tie again and continued speaking. “Are you aware that you have an exceedingly pronounced drawl, Ms. Meriweather?”

  “Call me Maylee, and yes, I’m aware. I’d have to be dead not to notice,” she told him, smiling. “It’s a Southern thing.”

  “And are you aware that you’re wearing a polyester one-piece that pretends to be a two-piece suit?”

  She gave the too-large dress a little shake. “No wrinkles. I’d say that’s pretty spiffy considering I slept in it.”

  The look he shot her was scathing, which surprised Maylee. “Ms. Meriweather,” he began again, dragging the tie from his neck and starting over once more. “I am the Viscount Montagne Verdi. You may call me Lord Montagne Verdi, or Mr. Verdi, but not Lord Verdi. Not Mr. Griffin.”

  “That sounds like a mouthful,” she teased. “Bellissime titles are named after places, right? I read that on Wikipedia.”

  He gave her a withering look for interrupting him. “Are you quite finished?”

  Maylee swallowed. “I guess so.”

  “As I was saying. My cousin is Her Royal Highness Alexandra Olivia the Third, Crown Princess to Bellissime. She is getting married next week. This means there will be social functions that require knowledge of the rules of etiquette, someone who is willing to work night and day to wrangle my increasingly difficult schedule and, above all, I need someone who is capable at my side. I do not need a ‘burn talker.’”

  She flushed a little. Had she mentioned that to him? “You might if you burn your hand,” she said cheerily. This man was grumpy, all right. But it was probably because he had to sleep in one of these chairs. It looked like he was destroying his poor tie, too. She had to do something about that. If it was anything like Mr. Hunter’s ties, it probably cost more than her rent did every month.

  Maylee stepped forward and before Griffin could protest, she swatted his hands away from his tie. Expertly, she flipped up his collar, smoothed the silk fabric along his neck, and then began to fix his bow tie, taking great care to make sure the knot was perfect. “Mr. Griffin, I understand that you don’t want an assistant like me on this trip. I realize I’m not fancy like you expected.” She kept her voice soft and apologetic, and he’d gone silent. “But I am real good at keeping out of the way. And I’m real good at managing a schedule.” She tweaked the now perfect bow tie and then smiled at him. “And I can tie a mean tie.”

  Griffin frowned at his reflection, touching the tie as if he didn’t quite believe she’d fixed it so quickly—or so effortlessly. “I can manage a schedule well,” he said.

  “You too? Then why do you need me?”

  “I was correcting your English. The proper phrase is ‘I can manage a schedule well. Not ‘I’m real good with a schedule.’”

  “But I am,” she told him, and then ran a hand down the front of his jacket. He’d buttoned it wrong, too. She quickly undid his button and then redid it. Did the man not know how to dress himself? Lordy. He needed
her more than he realized. “I’m real good with schedules. And men’s clothes.”

  And when she looked up from fixing his jacket, she winked at him.

  She could have sworn he blushed just a little.

  ***

  This was a predicament. Griffin touched his tie again as he waited at the front of the plane for the stair car to arrive. Behind him, the flight attendant chatted with Maylee, and both women were laughing and talking as if they were the best of friends.

  Maylee was totally wrong for this job. She was a train wreck. She wore polyester. She drawled like a hillbilly.

  She’d cuddled against him last night in his lap.

  She tied a mean tie.

  And she was already here.

  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?