Maylee hadn’t. He’d released her and she’d been gone.

Perhaps he was being too harsh with her. She was a soft, fluffy thing and smiled so much that he was sure she had tender feelings. He’d probably made her cry with his cold mannerisms, and that made him feel guilty.

It hadn’t helped that that night, he’d had filthy dreams about her, those white-blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders as he’d slid her into his lap and fucked her, breasts pressing against his chest, her mouth hot on his skin. She’d panted and moaned like a wild woman in his dream—no polite reserve there—and his mind had been filled with that soft drawl crying out for more as he pounded into her.

Griffin had woken up in a sweat, his cock aching.

Downright embarrassing. A cold shower had rid him of his erection, but not of the unsettling memories of her mouth on him. Those had lingered, even as he’d dressed himself in the day’s jacket and slacks. His tie hung around his neck, waiting for her to fix it.

And Griffin tried not to picture her standing in front of him, then grabbing the tie and dragging him down for a kiss. Because he wasn’t attracted to her. He wasn’t.

So he tried to tie it himself.

And naturally, he couldn’t. Griffin gave it three tries before he sighed, crossed his hotel room, and went and knocked on Maylee’s door.

“Be there in a jif,” she called out.

He pictured her sliding a bra strap over her shoulder, those frizzy curls brushing her bare skin, and he shifted, uncomfortably aware of his cock hardening. He grabbed his book—a non-fiction brick of a book about the Royal Expedition Society —and held it in front of him.

A moment later, the door opened. Maylee looked . . . different today. Gone was the wretched polyester suit. In its place was a black knit skirt that showed slim, pale legs, those same ugly loafers, and an equally ugly orange brocade jacket with an enormous pin on one side. Her corkscrew blonde hair was pulled into a bun, strands of kinky hair escaping and sticking up at wild angles and making it look even messier than usual. Her eyes seemed dark and her lips were glistening and pink with gloss. Maylee smiled at him. “Yes, sir?”

He gestured at his tie. “Can you fix this for me?”

“Of course,” she murmured, and stepped closer, grabbing the ends.

That had been so very close to his visual from a few moments ago that he nearly groaned aloud, lust flaring through him. He counted backward from a hundred again, trying not to notice that the tip of her tongue poked out between her lips as she concentrated.

“All done,” she said a moment later, and gave his chest a friendly little pat. “See for yourself.”

The front of his shirt still felt warm from her touch, but he went to the mirror and checked. Sure enough, his bow tie looked immaculate. Better, he had to admit, than when Kip tied it. “Very good. Shall we go down to breakfast?”

“Sounds great,” Maylee said. “I’ll just get my bag.” She disappeared into her room and he grabbed his spare laptop. When she returned, she had that ugly saddle purse with her again. He bit back a “Really?” and said nothing. Today, he was going to try and be nice to Maylee. He really was. It wasn’t her fault he was stuck here.

She beamed at him. “Y’all ready?”

He flinched at her twang.

This . . . could be harder than he thought.

As they emerged from the elevator down to the main floor of the hotel, Griffin half-expected to be bombarded with more paparazzi or at the very least, fawning staff.

To his surprise, they made it to the restaurant without a peep, and as soon as they got to the dining room, the maître d’ greeted them with a smile. “Your table is this way, Lord Montagne Verdi.”

Maylee beamed at the man and then gave Griffin an expectant look.

Griffin nodded at him and was surprised to see that a private dining room had been opened at the back. Normally when he visited, he was in the common dining room with the others. Why had he never been separated before?

They sat down and the host poured them two glasses of water and laid menus in front of them. “Your waiter will be by shortly to take your orders. Please let me know if I can get anything for you.” And then he disappeared.

There was no gushing over his title. No “Can I have my picture taken with you?” No diners staring at him as he drank and ate. It was silent, and they were alone.

It was . . . nice.

He looked over at Maylee as she spread her napkin in her lap. She seemed unaware that anything was unusual, but it was clear she was trying hard to please him today. Her ugly brocade jacket wasn’t polyester, for one, and she’d tried to tame her hair. She’d even worn makeup. He stared at her slick pink mouth and that full lower lip that she nibbled on as she set his laptop off to one side and began to boot it.

She was young and innocent, and she was trying really, really hard. It wasn’t her fault she was completely out of her depth. She’d received a phone call from her employer asking her to take a last-minute job halfway around the world, and she’d been stuck with his surly ass. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t want to be here, experiencing a host of social events he didn’t want to attend for a wedding.

But, still. An employer did not apologize to his employee. A viscount certainly did not.

Her gaze flicked over to him and the smile she gave him was tentative, uncertain. Very different from her smiles in the past.

And for some reason, that made him feel like more of an ass.

The waiter came by a moment later and they both ordered, Griffin first. He couldn’t help but notice that Maylee had ordered the same thing he had. Was she unfamiliar with the food on the menu? He watched her for a moment longer, and she sipped her water with an anxious slurp, her gaze darting about the room.

Definitely nervous around him.

Hell. Griffin leaned back in his chair and regarded her. “I . . . apologize.” There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? He was rather proud of himself for doing so.

Her pale brows drew together and she looked confused. She glanced over her shoulder.

“I’m talking to you,” he said, irritated anew but fighting it back. He wasn’t that much of a beast, was he? “I realize I haven’t been the most pleasant of employers, and I apologize for that. I’m unhappy to be here and I’m taking it out on you, and that isn’t fair.”

Her eyebrows rose again, as if she couldn’t quite believe this admission. Then, it happened. That slow smile unfurled on her face, lighting it up. Her green-brown eyes danced with happiness and her entire face seemed to glow. She was rather pretty when she smiled, he noticed.

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin.” She beamed at him. “That’s right sweet of you.”

He didn’t even correct her English, or her bizarre misuse of “mister.” That was him being nice. Again. He grunted and glanced away, not wanting to stare at her. But he felt . . . better. He liked that smile of hers. It was completely and utterly sincere, and her eyes shone when she smiled.

Not many people were sincere around him, and he appreciated the ones who were. He began to pick up his book so he could get a few pages in, then put it back down, because she was still smiling at him. Like she expected . . . conversation. Since he was in a charitable mood, he obliged. “I trust your sleep was pleasant?”

“It was wonderful,” she gushed. “The pillows were as fluffy as baby lambs. I can hardly believe that they give those kinds of pillows to hotel guests. Aren’t they afraid people will steal them?”

He nearly choked on the water he was sipping. “Steal?” From L’hotel de Bellissime? Did she realize that the people who stayed in his suite were usually visiting royalty or celebrities? Did she think everyone had the same accommodations? But she seemed so thrilled about everything that he didn’t correct her.

He didn’t even point out that it was pronounced “pillow” and not “piller.” He was heading straight for sainthood if this kept up.

“Yup. Every time I went on a trip with my aunties and uncles down to Georgia or Florida or someplace, they’d strip the motel room of everything they could carry off. Said it was expected.” She shook her head. “I’m guessin’ most folks don’t do that, then.”

“I can assure you, I’ve never stripped a hotel room of anything.”

“You’d want to if you had my pillow,” she said with a cheery nod. “Best pillow I ever snuggled.”

For some reason, the mental image of a sleepy Maylee, curls tossed on her pillowcase, clasping a pillow to her breast . . . did unspeakable things to his groin. Griffin cleared his throat. “I shall take your word for it.”

The waiter delivered their breakfasts, and Maylee was effusive in her thanks. She chatted with him about the weather, the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, and how pretty his home country was. The man’s attention was completely removed from Griffin, and he conversed with her for a few minutes as if they were old friends, and then disappeared.

Griffin frowned as he picked up his silverware. “The staff is acting odd this morning.”

“Oh?” She looked innocently curious. “I thought he was lovely.”

Of course she did. The waiter was clearly flirting with her. Perhaps Maylee’s uneducated drawl was some sort of aphrodisiac to men who only heard fluid French and British English. Who knew.

He decided to let it go and took a bite of his toast, then opened up his book and began to read, enjoying the peace and quiet of breakfast without scrutiny. Maylee was quiet as she ate, too, though that happy smile remained on her face.