Love? A furious retort lodged in Griffin’s throat, then died as the two of them turned around and faced him. Maylee’s eyes were red, and she’d clearly been weeping. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, her scarf tying it into a semblance of neatness.

But she gave him a game, polite smile, clearly pretending all was well. “Ready to leave, Lord Montagne Verdi?”

He nodded, noting the flat delivery of his formal title. The chauffeur leapt into action and opened the back door of the sedan. Griffin gestured that Maylee should get in.

She shook her head. “I’ll ride up front with Robbie. It’s only proper.”

And when she wouldn’t meet his gaze, he didn’t argue the point.

When they got back to the hotel, he offered to check her room for her.

She declined.

Nor did she come knock on his door later. He even left the adjoining door unlocked, just in case she got scared and needed to come sleep next to him.

To come cuddle, you mean, he told himself.

He felt like a prat. He was no better than his brother, was he? Lusting after his staff and then slapping them down when they got too familiar.

* * *

The next morning, Maylee was all business. Her crazy hair was smoothed back into a bun that looked as if it was ready to fly apart at any moment. Her suit was sedate, and she didn’t speak unless he spoke to her.

In short, it was like an entirely different person had showed up to be his assistant that morning.

And Griffin wasn’t sure he liked it.

He tried to make conversation. “Maylee? Which tie do you think I should wear this morning?”

She’d picked one out without saying a word.

At breakfast, she’d ordered toast and coffee, and when she ate, she only nibbled at bites and looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but beside him. She kept her gaze downcast and worked on his laptop while he tried to read his book.

He tried, but failed.

Maylee’s silence was driving him insane. After a few more minutes of quiet, he closed his book and looked over at her.

She gave him a cool look. “What can I help you with, Lord Montagne Verdi?”

“You can start by letting me know if you plan on sulking all day?”

A bit of her old spark flared, then died again. Her mouth flattened. “I’m not sulking.”

“Aren’t you? You’ve not spoken two words since we sat down.”

“Forgive me,” she said in that icy voice. “I thought that was what you wanted in an assistant.”

He got irritated at that. “You know, if you’re going to be like this, I can just send you home.”

She gave him a blank look. “I don’t think you can, Mr. Gr—, er, Lord Montagne Verdi.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“No, sir.” She gave him a challenging look.

“And why do you think that you are so very crucial?” God, she was infuriating.

“Because you have a full schedule today, Lord Montagne Verdi,” she said. “Kip double-booked two of your appointments again so I have to see which one I can move to ensure that everyone is happy.” She closed the laptop and gave him a tight smile. “But I suppose since you’re so in control, you already know that, correct?”

He said nothing.

“Mr. Verdi, if I may be so blunt,” she said, and that soft drawl was nearly gone from her voice. “You say that you wish to be independent and don’t want hovering, but I find that you are not very independent at all.”

Griffin tugged off his glasses so he could give her an appropriately scathing stare. “I beg your pardon?”

“You should,” she said mildly. “But in the meantime, I’d like for you to quit threatening my job, because I don’t think it’s in danger.”

“You’re fired.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, but you may not like having a country bumpkin like me here, but you still need me.”

“And why is that?”

She tilted her head, and he watched as one curl sprang free from its jail. “What time is your first appointment today and where is it to?”

He licked his lips and thought. Was this a trick question? “I’m meeting with . . . a board of trustees . . .” He tried to think.

Her eyebrows went up. “Go on.”

“Over a . . . donation of some kind.” He waved a hand. “That’s what they’re always about.”

“Wrong. You’re having a late breakfast with your mother at ten in the morning. Then, you’re going to a polo match with your brother, George. And then you have a family dinner at your mother’s later tonight.” She gave him a prim look. “Which you would know if you knew anything about your own schedule. I, meanwhile, have packed your suit for dinner this evening, selected a different tie and shirt for you to wear to the polo match so it doesn’t look like you’re recycling your clothes, and have arranged for you to have a breather in between in case you need to get away from your family because they’re hovering.” Her voice was utterly cool. “So I’ve tried to accommodate that. And I certainly won’t be hovering in the future—”

“Maylee—”

“Further, you don’t carry money. You can’t tie your own tie, can’t pick out your own clothes without assistance, and you don’t drive yourself anywhere. Let’s face it, Mr. Verdi, you’d be lost without someone here to hold your hand.”

“That is ridiculous—”

“Yes, it is,” Maylee said quietly. “Which is why you shouldn’t treat me like I’m garbage just because I work for you.”

“I do not!”

“You constantly act like I’m not good enough to breathe your air, Mr. Verdi. I may not be the assistant you wanted . . .” Her voice broke a little and she paused. “But I’m the one you got, so you just need to suck it up and deal.”

He scowled at her. “I can drive myself.”

She crossed her arms. “So drive yourself. Do you want me to untie your tie so you can do it yourself as well?”

Griffin put a hand protectively over his tie. “No.”

She waited.

He threw his napkin down on the table. “For the record, I am completely capable of handling such things on my own. You tie my tie because it pleases me to have it done. I have a driver because I am rich enough to pay someone else to drive. Are you going to chide me for not cooking my own meal and having someone else deliver it to the table?” He gestured at the breakfast laid out before them.

She said nothing.

Furious, Griffin snatched his book off the table. “I am going to drive myself to Her Royal Highness’s palace for breakfast this morning. You,” he said, pointing at Maylee, “can stay here and pack your bag. I don’t need servants. I’m not helpless.”

“Of course not, Lord Montagne Verdi,” she murmured in that toneless voice.

Griffin stalked away from the table. She wanted him to prove that he was capable and independent? Fine then. “I will see you tonight.”

“Until then,” Maylee said, and sipped her coffee.

He was helpless?

He’d show her.

* * *

An hour later, Griffin had to admit to himself that he was hopelessly lost in the maze-like streets of Bellissime. He parked the sedan on the side of the street and jerked open the glove compartment, searching for a map. Nothing. Goddamn it. He slammed it shut and got out of the car, then began to pace.

So driving himself was harder than he’d suspected. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to drive; he did. It was that he had no clue of where he was going. He could recognize his mother’s palace from the outside, knew the street it was located on. He just had no idea how to get to that street. Nor could he ask for directions without looking like a fool. Frustrated, he tugged at the tight collar of his shirt . . . and then swore again when he felt the knot of his tie loosen.

Blast.

Jerking at his tie, he turned to the car window and used the reflection to loosen his tie. Maylee thought he was helpless? He’d tie his own fucking tie and she’d be forced to eat her words. Then he’d send her home in disgrace, and everyone would know just how terrible of an assistant she was.

So he undid his tie and tried again.

And again.

And again.

Someone passed him on the street and frowned, as if trying to figure out what he was doing. Irritated, Griffin ripped his tie off and shoved it into a pocket. He’d just go with a loose collar. Fuck it. He got back into the car and pulled into the street. He’d just use his fucking phone app. He pulled out his phone, and a red battery symbol flashed at him, and then the screen went dark.

Fuck.

He tore onto the street, determined to find it on his own . . . and was lost again for another half hour.

By that time, he was beyond patience. When he saw a man walking down the street, he swerved over to the side of the road and hopped out. “Excuse me.”

The man stopped and looked at him, startled. “Um, hello, your grace—”

Griffin waved a hand, dismissing the man’s mangling of his title. He wasn’t a grace. “I will pay you one hundred Bellissime notes if you can drive me to Her Royal Highness’s summer palace.”

“Uh, okay,” the man said.

“Splendid.” Griffin pulled out his wallet. It was empty. He didn’t carry cash. Blast it. He raised a hand. “Wait here. I’m going to find an ATM.”

He left the bewildered man behind and stormed down the street, looking for a bank. He found one two blocks away and rushed over.

Griffin couldn’t remember his pin number. He stared at the screen and snarled. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Three tries later, and he was locked out. He jerked his card out of the machine and stormed back to his car. The man on the sidewalk looked at him curiously, but Griffin ignored him. He’d just find the fucking place himself.