Prince: Royal Romantic Suspense (Billionaires in Disguise: Maxence Book 5) by Blair Babylon (best ereader for comics .TXT) 📗

about to drag Dree to his home, which, to torture the metaphor, must be the very mouth of Hell.

A more apt description for palace politics during an election had never been uttered.

Maxence told Dree, “I’ll summon you if I require your help. I prefer to work alone now.” He dropped his head to gaze pointedly at his phone.

She didn’t move.

Max read the same text from his cousin Marie-Therese three times and still couldn’t figure out what the hell she was talking about.

Dree whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and stood.

He waited for one more word to drop from her plush lips, to see what she was going to call him—Maxence, Augustine, Father, Your Highness—or would she just leave? Would that be all that she would say to him?

Dree whispered, “—sir,” and walked away.

Flashes of those stolen moments in Paris assailed him. Her calling him sir while kneeling in front of him; his hands on the soft rounds of her ass or cupping her heavy breasts; the faintly salty taste of her on his tongue; his dick sliding between her full lips; the way her back arched like she was going to snap when she came.

Sir.

There was a queen-sized bed in the small bedroom suite in the rear of the Bombardier. Maxence could haul her back there, lock the door, and edge her until she was panting and close to coming, then make her suck him off instead.

Sir.

If she wanted to play the dominance-submission game, Prince Maxence of Monaco had mastered it long ago. He was not the light-hearted bigshot who dabbled in sexual games she’d met in Paris. He was—

Maxence’s hand cramped around his phone.

He was deadly serious in everything he did and bent everyone to his will because he had to.

Over a billion dollars were at stake.

Maxence had to make sure he didn’t end up with it.

Sir.

He didn’t have time for blithe sexual games with a pretty little ingenue who didn’t understand the danger she would be in if anyone found out Maxence cared for her.

He blinked, still staring at his phone and the wall of texts marching down the screen.

Cared for her?

Well, of course. Dree Clark was a remarkable woman. She’d worked herself to the point of collapse every night in Nepal because people needed her. He respected her. He admired her soul.

But it was nothing more.

It couldn’t be anything more.

Of course, he wanted her to be safe. He wasn’t a monster. Some members of his family would stop at nothing to gain the crown and control its associated wealth. Pierre hadn’t been the only sociopath who’d sprouted in Max’s family tree.

And, of course, she was a wonderful soul and an excellent human being.

But . . . he cared for her?

There were limits to what Maxence could and couldn’t do in his life. He’d always known that.

Dree would be in danger if Maxence cared for her.

And that would be unbearable.

His eyes slowly focused on his phone and the messages he should begin to triage.

His cousin Marie-Therese’s most recent text was, Maxence, where are you? Maxence, it’s terrible. It’s all gone wrong. Pierre is dead. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I’m trying to find Flicka because she knows something about it, but I can’t find her, either. Oh, my Maxence, where are you?

Toward the rear of the plane, Dree flopped onto a long leather couch bolted to the wall. An air hostess approached her, craning her head to the side with concern.

Maxence signaled another stewardess, who turned out to be Malini, again. She smiled a friendly, open expression of inquiry and blinked with affection. She wouldn’t ask for a blessing after he’d removed his ecclesiastical clothes because she’d seen the demarcation in his life before.

“I need a laptop,” Maxence said. He couldn’t thumb hundreds of responses on a phone screen.

“Right away, Your Highness.” She flitted to the rear of the plane.

The next series of texts was from his cousin Alexandre.

- I cannot believe the shenanigans going on in Monaco. I’ve got 2:1 odds Pierre renounces within a week. At least I’ll make some money before I have to fight for my life.

- Pierre is dead. Why the hell is Pierre dead? You’re going to need those legal links I forwarded to you.

- They’re threatening to elect you in absentia. I’ve put together a voting bloc of the cousins, but I cannot hold this together much longer, man.

- Shit is hitting the fan, Max. Where the hell are you? All the cousins are dispersing so they can’t form a quorum. I’m taking off to the US for a few days. It’s too hot here.

- Maxence? Are you okay?

- Max?

- Please answer me.

Okay, his first text needed to go to Alexandre.

Malini handed him a laptop.

Maxence booted it up and paired it with his phone.

Alexandre, I’m fine, he typed and sent so that Alex received that much immediately.

He continued, I was in the field for my charity and couldn’t get a cell phone signal for a month. I hadn’t heard anything that happened after Flicka came back to the palace. Sault found me in a Nepalese hikers’ hostel and told me Pierre was dead. I’m on the Bombardier, headed for Monaco. Are you still in the US?

Maxence typed a text to Marie-Therese, assuring her he was all right but more guarded about specific information.

Just as he hit send for Marie-Therese, his phone buzzed. The caller ID read Xan Valentine.

Maxence answered it. “Hello, Alexandre.”

“Goddammit, Max, what the hell is wrong with you?” Alexandre’s voice was a throaty baritone growl, hoarse from rough use.

“Glad to hear from you, too, Alex.”

“I didn’t know if your brother had you killed before he ate a damned gun or if Jules had sent mercs to murder you after or before Pierre bit it. You can’t pull these stunts, Max. You can’t run away and be incommunicado for goddamn months!”

Maxence said, “Fill me in on what happened to Pierre.”

A deep, shaky sigh whooshed through the phone. “Jesus Hussain Christ, Max.”

“I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Okay, so you know