Billionaire Boys Club 4 : Once upon a Billionaire(32)

"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 incredibly 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.