Once Upon a Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  “Just ignore the meter,” he told her as they got out of the car. “They wouldn’t dare ticket a member of the royal family.”

  Her brows furrowed at that. “But why not? You’re not obeying the law.”

  “The laws don’t apply to my family.”

  She looked like she disapproved of that answer, but followed him into the nearest store.

  Inside, Griffin scanned the clothing. Dark suits, neutral-colored dresses. Modest fascinators. Nothing with flash or a pattern. “This will do nicely. Go find a salesclerk.”

  “Here?” Maylee asked, and her mouth was pulled into a frown. “This looks like funeral wear. I thought we were going to a wedding.”

  “I assure you it is not funeral wear,” Griffin said. “And even if it was, you are my employee. I reserve the right to request that you wear the appropriate clothing for the occasion, especially if I provide it.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “You’re stalling,” he warned her.

  “Mr. Griffin,” she began. “I’m mighty uncomfortable with you buying me clothes. It ain’t right.”

  “It isn’t right,” he corrected.

  “I know. I just said that.”

  Jesus Christ. He rubbed his brow. “Just get the salesclerk, please. We can’t spend all day here.”

  An hour later, Maylee was appropriately attired in a dark blue-skirted suit, matching modest heels on her feet. He’d even—against Maylee’s protests—managed to get her a somber, normal purse instead of that heinous saddle-shaped monstrosity she carried around. Bagged up for the rest of the trip were several more sedate outfits, shoes, and fascinators to go with the more dressy outfits.

  Griffin was pleased. She’d hardly fussed over any of the clothing, not fighting him over any of it. The entire purchase was charged to his personal account, which was why he was puzzled when Maylee paused as they left the shop and hurried back to the salesclerk. He watched as she murmured a few words to the woman and then pressed something into her hand. The salesclerk beamed and thanked her with a nod. Then, Maylee trotted back to his side.

  “Sorry ’bout that, Mr. Griffin.”

  He was going to be forever correcting her on his proper title, wasn’t he? But curiosity weighed heavier on him than a correction. “What was that about?” he asked as they exited the store.

  “Oh, I was just giving her a tip,” Maylee said. “It’s only polite.”

  He turned and frowned at her. “Why would you tip her?”

  “Because she helped us?”

  “Helping us should be enough of a privilege for her,” he told Maylee. Was that why the staff was so bloody friendly? Was she handing out money to all of them?

  Maylee snorted. “You sure do have a high opinion of yourself, Mr. Griffin.”

  Of course he did. He was a viscount as well and had once been ninth in line to the throne. Why shouldn’t he? “Exactly how much have you been spending on tipping these people?”

  “Well, Mr. Griffin, Mr. Hunter always gives me money so I can tip his people. It’s the polite thing to do.” And she gave him a prim look, as if he was the one at fault in his manners.

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  She sighed. “A couple hundred. I figured I’d just expense it when we got back.”

  “A couple hundred?” Out of her personal wallet? When she lived in a hovel so she could send money to her parents? And dressed like a vagrant? “Are you insane?”

  She shot him another hurt look. “Excuse me for trying to be polite.”

  “Look, if you’re going to hand out money to everyone, at least let it be my money.”

  “That’s fine.” She turned to him and put her palm out.

  He looked down at it, then at her. “I don’t have any money on me right now.”

  She arched a brow. “Like I was saying?”

  “Let’s just go.” He gestured for her to get back into the car, when he spotted a garish stand at the end of the street. It was covered in the bright yellow and blue Bellissime flag and he spotted touristy T-shirts. He paused. Sighed. Looked at Maylee’s frowning face. “Actually, let’s do one more stop before we go on.” He took her elbow and gently turned her until she faced the souvenir stand.

  Maylee’s undignified squeal of delight was rather fun to hear, he admitted to himself.

  ***

  Griffin was just escaping from a dinner party when his phone rang with a very distinct ringtone. “Excuse me,” he told the waiting Maylee and driver, and walked away a few steps to answer the call. “Jonathan,” Griffin said into the phone. “How goes the trip to Spain?”

  “Incredible,” Jonathan said. “You really should be here. Some of the artifacts they’re finding are downright unbelievable. They’re convinced we might have enough proof in a few years to give strength to the theory that it’s truly Atlantis and not Tarshish.”

  Griffin felt a surge of excitement, followed quickly by jealousy. “I wish I was there.”

  “Me too, buddy. How goes the wedding bullshit?”

  “As expected,” Griffin said sourly. “Lots of hand shaking, gossiping, dinner parties, and endless rigmarole. And the wedding won’t officially start until next week.”

  “Glad it’s you and not me,” Jonathan said with a laugh. “I wouldn’t trade places with the lofty viscount for anything.”

  “Of course not,” Griffin said mildly, glancing around as he paced down the sidewalk. It was getting late and the street was rather empty, which was a blessing. Maylee leaned against the sedan and listened to the driver tell a story. He was standing a little closer to her than was polite, but Maylee was laughing and smiling up at him. They looked cozy.

  Griffin didn’t like that. Did the man have to stand so close to her? And did she have to look so darn pleased with the conversation? The limo driver pointed at a nearby building and he watched Maylee shade her eyes and lean so she could see. When she leaned, her bottom thrust out in her skirt, rounded and rather . . . eye-catching.

  “Anything exciting happen?”

  Griffin shook his head and looked away, thoughts returning to his phone conversation. “Other than a pap sneaking into my assistant’s room to try and bribe her?”

  “Jesus. They’re determined, aren’t they?” Jonathan snorted. “Listen, hey, can you clear your schedule this weekend?”

  Griffin frowned. “I doubt it. Why?”

  “Because they’re breaking ground in a new area. You know, the one with all the ruins on the radar printouts? You said you wanted to be there for it.”

  His heart sank. He did want to be there. “I can’t get away from the wedding. I’m sorry. Can they put it off a week?”

  “Probably not. Weather’s supposed to be perfect this weekend. And Spain’s only a short plane ride away from where you’re at, right?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Griffin murmured. “I can’t abandon my familial duties.”

  “Sounds awful. I’ve got to go. I’m having dinner with Dr. Phineas DeWitt about future plans. I’ll send you a recap.”

  “Sure,” Griffin said dully. He wanted to be there more than anything. Damn it, it wasn’t fair. He hated being part of the Bellissime royal family. It was just a constant chore. All he wanted to do was be left alone with his books and his pet projects.

  “Oh, before I go—how’s the assistant?”

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “So you heard about that?”

  “How could I not? I had lunch with Hunter and Gretchen before I left and Gretchen wouldn’t shut up about it.”

  “That woman is a nightmare.”

  “Yeah, but she’s Hunter’s dream so I tolerate her. You have fun,” Jonathan said, and hung up.

  Griffin ended the call and stared at his phone, glum. He should have been there in Spain with Jonathan, merrily tromping through swamps on archaeological expeditions. Instead, he was stuck in stuffy suits in his home country, attending the wedding of a cousin he rarely saw.

  He felt . . . sad. And low. And incredi
bly disappointed. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and approached the sedan, masking his emotions. The driver—he couldn’t remember the man’s name—scurried away at the sight of Griffin. Maylee tilted her head, watching him.

  “Everything all right?” For some reason, he found her drawl soothing tonight.

  “Of course.”

  She gave him a knowing look, and when he gestured that she should get in the car, she shook her head. “You don’t look happy. You want to talk about it?”

  “Do I ever want to talk about it?” he bit out.

  That didn’t faze her. Maylee beamed a smile up at him, still cheery from her raid of the souvenir stand. He’d never seen a woman get so excited over ugly postcards and bumper stickers, all purchased for “Mama and them.”

  “You can talk to me. I’m a good listener.”

  He glanced over at the driver, then noted the street they were on. It was quiet, nearly empty. He doubted he’d get recognized at this late hour, but you never knew. For some reason, getting back into the car felt like admitting defeat. Like admitting that he was trapped into being their creature instead of the independent man he wanted to be.

  “We’re not far from the hotel,” Griffin said, then hesitated. “Do you think we’ll get noticed if we walk back? I don’t want to have to deal with anything tonight.”

  She put a finger to her lips and studied him. “Can I try something?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Maylee reached up and undid his bow tie. She yanked it off and tossed it into the back seat of the car, and then reached forward and loosened the top buttons of his collar, rumpling it a little. She crooked a finger at him. “Bend down.”

  That crooked finger was doing insane things to his imagination. Griffin forced himself to concentrate on the moment and not on his dirty thoughts, so he obediently leaned forward.

  Maylee’s fingers dragged through his gel-stiffened hair and she roughed it up, tousling it into a mess. She patted and smoothed it down again. Stepping back, she surveyed her handiwork. Then, she shook her head and held out her hand. “Jacket?”

  He slid it off and held it out to her . . . and tried not to wince when she tossed it in the back of the car, too. But then she grabbed his hand and undid his cufflink, rolling up his sleeve. His hand was close enough to her body that he immediately thought of that breast pressing into his palm.

  He couldn’t have pulled away if he’d tried.

  Once Maylee had finished rolling up one sleeve, she moved to the other. “Much, much better.” She shut the car door and gestured for him to glance into the tinted window at his reflection.

  The man staring back had fashionably tousled hair, a rumpled shirt, and looked nothing like his normal stuffy self except for the glasses. After a moment’s hesitation, he took those off and handed them to her.

  “No one will recognize you at all,” she said, pleased. “We can take as long as we want on the walk back.” And she moved to his side and slid her arm into the crook of his.

  Like they were dating.

  It was too presumptuous. She took way too many liberties—something that his mother or anyone in the royal family would scold both him and her at the sight of. But there was no one around, and it was just a quiet evening street, and she was smiling up at him like he was special and she wanted to hear what he had to say.

  And so he placed his hand over hers and led her down the street.

  They walked a few blocks in silence, enjoying the night air. After a few minutes, Maylee squeezed his arm. “Give me a second. These shoes are killing my feet.” She leaned on him as she lifted one foot and removed one shoe, than the other.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d decided to go barefoot through the streets, he told himself. Maybe she never wore shoes at home. For some reason, the thought of a barefoot Maylee padding around New York City made him smile to himself.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she said with a relieved sigh, tucking her shoes into her free hand. She beamed up at him. “You look like you’re relaxing a little, too. Feeling better?”

  “A bit,” he admitted.

  “Sometimes I like to get away,” she told him, lifting her face to look at the claustrophobic huddle of buildings around them. The snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance, and Maylee’s breath was puffing into the air next to him, but Griffin wasn’t cold. Her hand on his arm felt as warm as a brand. “You know. The whole city thing gets to be too much, and even my apartment doesn’t feel like home, so I take a day and just walk around the city.”

  He could imagine that her apartment didn’t feel like home. It probably felt like a cave . . . an unsafe one at that. “Where do you like to go in the city?”

  “Central Park is pretty,” she began.

  He grimaced. Everyone always said the park.

  “But I like the museums better,” she continued. “They’re so full of life. Not just the people there, but the things. Everything there represents so much knowledge and talent and creativity. I go there and I feel like I’m surrounded by the pinnacle of what people can attain. You know? And it refreshes me and makes me think I can keep going.”

  Griffin was surprised to hear her say that . . . surprised and a bit pleased. That seemed far more astute an observation than a country girl would have. “I am a big advocate of museums.”

  “Of course you are,” she said with a brilliant smile. “It’s clear you’re smart as a whip.”

  “Are you flattering me, Miss Meriweather?” Because he was. Flattered, that is.

  “Just callin’ it like I see it,” she said. “You’re always reading and trying to learn. I admire that.”

  “What was your major in college?” he couldn’t help but ask.

  “Filing.”

  “I . . . beg your pardon?”

  “I went to an advanced secretarial school,” she told him proudly. “Best one in Arkansas. We learned all kinds of good stuff like how to answer the phone, do spreadsheets, and take messages, but I was real good at filing.”

  “They have classes on . . . filing?”

  “You bet.”

  “And you paid for these classes?”

  That full lower lip stuck out. “Are you making fun of me?”

  He immediately felt like an ass. “Not at all. I was merely curious.”

  The hand on his arm tightened a little, as if she wasn’t sure if he was making fun of her or not, and she was bracing herself for a cut-down. “My mama heard about the classes and she told me that if anyone in our family stood a chance of making a real living, then I needed to go there. So she saved her money for months and I took a second shift at the Burger Shack to make ends meet.”

  “Burger Shack? People really eat at a place with “shack” in the name?”

  “Hush, you’re distractin’ me from my story. So, Mama saved her money, and I saved my money, and I went to the school on the nights I wasn’t working. And once I graduated, Mama gave me a nest egg she’d been saving and told me that if I was going to make something of myself, I needed to go to the big city. Not just any big city, but the big city. My success would help my sisters, she told me. So up I came to New York.” She looked up at him, her big eyes wary. “It probably sounds silly to you.”

  “Not at all,” he told her honestly. “You’re making sacrifices for your family. It’s very noble. And your mother’s right. I doubt there’s much of a career in a burger shack.” He couldn’t even imagine.

  “Our town is very small,” she said. “And you can’t get far on burn talking. So Mama thought I should get a fresh start. You know, let hard work speak for itself. I guess she was right, because without her, I’d have never worked for Mr. Hunter in his fancy office, or come to this pretty place.” She gestured at the narrow streets of Bellissime.

  He tried to see what she was seeing, but all he saw was a city that looked more like a Swiss tourist trap than its own country. He saw buildings that were crowded close together and outdated for all their quaintness. He saw co
bblestone streets that made a godawful racket when one was in the car. He saw a place that felt stifling and choking when he was here.

  Griffin glanced down at Maylee, who saw none of these things, and was regarding their surroundings with a satisfied look.

  He liked her purity of spirit. He liked that she was pleased with the smallest gestures and didn’t seem to care about the bigger ones. She had a good heart, he decided.

  “So how did you get to New York, Mr. Griffin?” she asked, daintily sidestepping a puddle as they walked. “You obviously grew up here.”

  “I did. When I was eighteen, I decided I wanted to go to college in the States. Dartmouth. I wanted to major in art history and archaeology, but my brother was the duke and my family was in rather dire financial straits at the time, so George said the only reason he’d let me go to the States was if I majored in finance. So I did.”

  That sympathetic little hand squeezed his arm again. “So we both sacrificed for our family.”

  He wasn’t sure that his was much of a sacrifice. An Ivy League college versus a school where they taught you how to work a filing cabinet? There was no comparison. “After I graduated, I was doing well fiscally with some small investments, so I decided to stay in the States. I chose New York City because it seemed like a central place.” That, and his friends in their secret society were all located in or around the city itself. “I’ve been there ever since.”

  “You must love it.”

  He actually hadn’t given much thought to it. He still lived in the same book-scattered townhouse that he’d purchased when he’d first moved to New York. The others had acquired penthouses or entire buildings. That didn’t interest Griffin. It was simply a place to sleep in between trips around the world, usually with Jonathan on another one of his expeditions.

  He sighed. And Jonathan was currently in Spain, digging up the site of what could possibly be the ruins of Atlantis.

  “Oh, no,” Maylee said. “Don’t sigh, Mr. Griffin. I thought we were distracting you from whatever made you so sad. I can tell you more about my move to New York City, if you like. Did you know I cried the first time I rode the subway? I was so scared I thought I’d be mugged every time I turned around. People always tell such stories about the subway, but it’s really just like a big ol’ bus.”