He got into the car, slammed the door, and then punched the steering wheel so hard he saw stars.

* * *

When he eventually made it back to the hotel, Griffin was in a foul mood. Ignoring the curious looks of the staff, he went up to his room, his now-swollen hand cradled against his chest. But instead of going into his room, he knocked on Maylee’s door.

She opened it, and surprise flared in her eyes, then wariness. “Can I help you, Mr. Verdi?”

He pushed into her room. “You win.”

“Excuse me?”

Griffin searched her room for an open suitcase. There was none. Nor was there one by the door. She hadn’t packed because she knew she wasn’t going home. That was as relieving as it was infuriating. He turned to her. “I said you win. You were right. I’m fucking helpless. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Why are you sorry?” he snapped. “You’re the one who won.”

“No,” she said, and those big green-brown eyes smiled up at him for the first time in a day. “That’s what I wanted to hear. ‘I’m sorry.’”

Oh. He licked his lips, considering. He wasn’t fucking sorry. He was pissed as hell. He didn’t like the realization that he congratulated himself on how independent and how different he was from all the others in the royal family. How very liberated he was. What a fucking joke. He was just as helpless as the rest of them. Without an assistant, he was useless.

It wasn’t a realization he was happy to make.

And his hand fucking hurt. He shook it, trying to jiggle away the pain. “I’m a Verdi. We don’t know how to apologize.”

Maylee’s mouth quirked, as if she was hiding a laugh. “I noticed you’re not very good with humility. Do you need help?”

“No,” he said, but it sounded sulky even to his own ears. “I’m tired of needing everyone’s help. I drove around for two goddamn hours this morning and couldn’t find my own arse if it bit me. I messed up my tie, my hand, and I think I locked myself out of my bank account.”

A small giggle escaped her.

He turned to glare at her. She should have been cautious of his feelings, damn it. He was having an uncomfortable moment.

But she was smiling, that round, pretty face lit up with humor, and her fascinating eyes were sparkling.

Griffin relaxed a little. He supposed it was a little funny. Here he was, a member of the royal family of Bellissime, a billionaire, and an important man . . . and he was completely useless.

“May I see your hand?” She stepped toward him, her own outstretched.

He extended it toward her, annoyed with himself. “I tried to beat a steering wheel into submission,” he said grumpily. “The steering wheel won.”

She giggled again, and Griffin’s mouth twitched as if it wanted to smile at her in return.

Her hands touched his aching one, and cool fingers brushed over his skin. “Tell me about where it hurts,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on his swollen knuckles.

“It hurts bloody everywhere,” he muttered. But her fingers felt surprisingly good on his hand. Soft, strong, and soothing.

“Of course it does,” she told him. Her face was one of concentration, and he watched as she gently rubbed the skin between his knuckles and felt the bones of his hand with her fingers. “Hands aren’t meant to be punching cars.”

“Not the entire car,” he admitted. “Just the steering wheel.”

“Of course. Did you teach it a lesson?”

“More like it taught me.”

She chuckled again. “I don’t think there’s anything broken here.” Her rubbing fingers were relaxing him. When her hand smoothed over the back of his, he felt an uncomfortable awareness in his groin.

Now is not the time, he sternly reminded his cock. I’m busy apologizing to my assistant.

“I can see that it hurts,” Maylee told him. “Did you want to give me the pain?”

“What?” He tried to jerk his hand out of hers, but her grip was astonishingly tight.

“You’re supposed to say yes, Mr. Griffin. That’s how this works.” Her hands kept rubbing his, working over his knuckles. She moved a little closer, and his hand was practically pressed against her breasts. He wondered if she even realized what she was doing. She seemed to be utterly focused on his hand.

“Are you trying to do that folk-healing business on me?”

Her hands rubbed on his again, and damn it all if his cock didn’t respond once more.

“Tell me you want to give me the pain,” she told him, but her voice was so husky it made him think about giving her . . . other things.

“I’d give it to you,” he told her, fascinated. And because that sounded sick and dirty, his cock got even harder. He’d give it to her, all right. His mind was full of images of him giving it to her. On the bed, on the floor, with her pressed onto a table—

“Thank you,” she said, and gave his knuckles one last rub, then released his hand. “Should be right as rain tomorrow.”

Oddly enough, the ache in his hand was nearly gone. Strange. He shook it out once more, frowning. “How did you do that?”

She shrugged. “I’m a burn talker. You rub the pain out. It’s not a burn, but the concept is the same.”

“Thank—”

She put her hand to his lips, stopping him before he could get the words out. “If you thank me, Mr. Griffin, you’ll ruin it and the pain will come back.”

He nodded, spellbound by those small fingers on his lips. He wanted to kiss them . . . kiss her. She was all soft yet authoritative today, and he found it an arousing combination. Competence and confidence. He liked that in her.

She pulled away and gave him a smile. “You still haven’t apologized.”

“I told you I’m quite bad at it,” he said, fascinated by her. By that springy, white-blonde hair that was even now escaping her bun. By those dark green-brown eyes that watched him. That light sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks.

“It’s easy enough. Just repeat after me. ‘I am.’”

“I am.”

“Sorry.”

“Very sorry,” he whispered. “I’m a prat.”

“Whatever that is, yes, you are.” Maylee smiled again, and it was like the sun bursting from the clouds. “My mama would say you’re a nasty varmint when you’re cornered.”

“Whatever that is,” he told her, “I’m sure I am.”

She reached forward and straightened his collar, smoothing it. “Tie?”

He pulled it out of his pocket and offered it to her.

Maylee began to fix his appearance, and he watched as she licked her lips as she concentrated. “I’m not a quitter, you know.”

“Hmm?” He was captivated by those lips. Her upper one was a small half bow, but her lower one was full and lush. It made her look like she was constantly pouting, like she was begging to be kissed. He found those lips utterly entrancing, especially when they gleamed after she licked them.

“I said, I’m not a quitter,” she repeated as she expertly looped his tie into a knot. “You can pile as much shit onto me as you like, but I’m staying. I’m a Meriweather. We don’t run and hide from our troubles. You can be as mean to me as you want, Mr. Griffin, but I’m going to do my job to the best of my ability, no matter how nasty you are.”

She thought he was nasty to her? He got frustrated, but . . . he liked her. Hell, parts of his body liked her entirely too much. “I’m sorry,” he told her, and meant it. “I wasn’t trying to be nasty. I’m not good with . . . people.”

“I know,” she said, and gave his tie a pat. “But I like you anyhow.”

That smile did in all his self-control. Griffin’s hands went to her shoulders and he dragged her forward a few steps, pressing his mouth to hers in a tight, awkward kiss. She was stiff in his arms—hopefully in surprise—so he relaxed his mouth and swept his tongue against the seam of hers, encouraging her to let him in.

He felt her give a gasp, and then her hands grabbed his lapels, and she was kissing him back, her mouth opening to accept his tongue.

And oh, fuck, it was glorious.

Maylee’s tongue swept against his, their lips melding, and he realized she kissed with all the intensity and enthusiasm that she approached life with. She kissed like there was no tomorrow. She kissed like it was her greatest joy on earth. She kissed and tongued and licked and made these low noises in her throat that told him how much she was enjoying the kiss.

And his cock was as bloody hard as a rock.

He groaned when her tongue rubbed against his. He wanted to push her down on the bed and strip that dowdy, prim suit off her and see what she was wearing underneath. Camo underwear? He didn’t fucking care. On her, it’d be amazing.

She broke the kiss, mewing little pants escaping from her throat. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

He blinked at her, dazed. “What?” He needed to kiss her mouth again. To feel it part under his tongue, to thrust into her mouth and feel her receive him . . . and imagine that it was his cock.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

That was a blast of cold water on his ego. He stepped away from her. Oh, fuck. He was sexually harassing an employee, wasn’t he? Dear God, he was a repulsive, repulsive man.

Her fingers patted his jacket, smoothing where she’d clutched it. “You’re going to be late to your lunch appointment.”

Fuck his lunch appointment. He scrubbed his good hand down his face. “Maylee, I sincerely apologize for touching you.”

“Why? It was a mighty good kiss.”

He didn’t know what to say. “I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”

“Oh.” She flinched. “I see.”

“Because of who you are,” he said quickly.

Her look grew even more hurt.