By the time the two women emerged, black cars were waiting in the circular driveway outside.
Arthur steered Gen toward one, while Casimir and Roxanne walked to the other. Arthur opened the car door and helped Gen in, then walked around to the other side and folded himself inside, dropping a small, black backpack on the floor.
Gen asked Arthur, “What was that about Pierre?”
Arthur inclined his head toward the chauffeur. “Nothing, I’m sure.”
Right. It wasn’t nothing at all, but Arthur didn’t want to say anything in front of the driver, who was assuredly either Monegasque military or Pierre’s private bodyguard staff and would narc as soon as they were out of the car.
By Pierre, Gen meant Maxence’s older brother, Pierre Grimaldi. Gen had never met Pierre, but she’d heard a lot about him. The darkly handsome man had been plastered all over the society and gossip pages his whole life.
Recently, the tabloids had become obsessed with Pierre, ever since his famous socialite wife, Flicka von Hannover, had dropped out of sight. No one could quite agree on whether Flicka was actually missing. She’d been spotted a month or so ago in Las Vegas. Conflicting reports in the press battled it out as to whether she had divorced Pierre or whether the US courts didn’t have jurisdiction, but no one had seen her since.
She whispered to Arthur, “Have they found Flicka yet?”
He shook his head, frowning. Overhead streetlights shone in the windows and touched his black hair.
“Do you know anything about that?” she asked.
A shrug.
Oh, well. She’d get him to tell her later.
The car zoomed through the streets and tunnels of Monaco toward the Monte Carlo casino, and Arthur tucked his arm around her. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
The car careened around a corner, and she flopped a bit in the seat.
“You there,” Arthur called to the driver in the front seat. “Slow down.”
The driver accelerated into a curve, throwing Gen sideways.
Arthur hauled her back under his arm and pushed her against the back of the seat while he leaned forward to have a very quiet word with the driver.
As Arthur settled back, the car slowed and drove at a more rational pace.
Arthur lifted his eyebrows at her, and Gen cuddled closer to him. Yeah, he was her knight in shining armor.
The car emerged from the tunnel into the dark before the dawn and curved around a few bends until it stopped in front of the Hotel de Paris, which was a weird name because they were in Monaco and nowhere near Paris.
The Four Seasons hotel that they’d stayed at in Paris was named after King George the Fifth, a British king, but they’d been in France. Plus, it was called the Four Seasons Hotel George V.
Europe was weird. The Four Seasons hotel in Houston was named “The Four Seasons Hotel Houston,” as God intended.
Arthur helped Gen out of the car, making sure she was steady on her feet before he released her hand. The hotel lobby, visible through the glass doors, blazed with light despite the wee hours of the morning.
Casimir and Roxanne were standing in the pool of light on the dark sidewalk, waiting for them. Caz asked Arthur, “What took you so long?”
Arthur shrugged. “Slow driver.”
Gen rolled her eyes at Roxanne as they walked inside the hotel, and Roxanne stifled a giggle. They’d talk later, because men.
Christmas decorations festooned the hotel lobby in great swags of green fir and red ribbons. Gold and white decorations and glass icicles glittered like they were inside a star. Monaco usually went over-the-top with garish gold-plated everything that would be in terribly poor taste anywhere else, and they really went all out for the holiday season.
Arthur told Casimir, “We should check the girls into the hotel and go ask some questions.”
Roxanne piped up. “We can check-in. You guys go ahead.”
Arthur looked back at Gen. “Are you all right with that?”
Gen laughed at him. “Darlin’, I have been checking myself into and out of hotels all my life. Go find him.”
Casimir stepped to stand directly in front of the desk. “Do you have a guest here by the name of Maxence Grimaldi?”
The only reason Gen didn’t gasp out loud was because Arthur would have been so disappointed if she had indulged in such an un-British display of shock.
“Oh, it’s Robert,” Gen piped up upon hearing Casimir playing fast and loose with Maxence’s name. “Our friend Maxence Robert, I mean Maxence Robert,” she said it the second time with a valiant attempt at a French accent and dropped the t at the end. In her head, it sounded more like “raw-BAY-er” than anything a French person would have said. “Our friend, Maxence Robert, the accountant, who is here in Monaco for an accounting convention, might be staying here.”
The lady at the desk demurred, citing guest confidentiality, and stated that she could neither confirm nor refute any guests’ identities.
The bellhop, who was wearing a vibrant blue and red uniform that contrasted brightly with his black skin, turned and regarded them closely. His eyes protruded above his prominent cheekbones and hollowed cheeks. He didn’t say a word.
Right. Even though Maxence wasn’t an uncommon French name, saying it in Monaco was tantamount to whispering Beyonce in, well, Houston.
Everything seemed to be about Houston today.
As it should be.
Gen had grown up near Houston. Her English mother had moved them back to London after Gen’s father had passed away. Though Gen had gone to university and taken her law course in London, she hadn’t been able to soften her Texas accent even a smidge.
Maybe someday.
Arthur nodded. “Yes, we need to find Maxence Robert.” His French accent was about a million times better than Gen’s. “Rest, my love. We’ll make inquiries.”
“Yeah, sure,” Gen said.
Arthur vacillated for a moment, his British disdain for public displays of affection warring with his inclination to say good-bye to his pregnant wife. After shifting back and forth, he could no longer keep it British, and he reached one arm around her to plant a heartfelt kiss on her temple. The warmth from his body spread over her arms. His small backpack bumped her arm with a sharp poke. She closed her eyes, leaning into the kiss, and he broke away.
When Gen opened her eyes, Roxanne was staring at Casimir, her fists braced on her hips and one eyebrow elevated.
Caz laughed and stepped over to his wife, sweeping the tiny woman up in a hug and enthusiastically pecking her on the cheek. He steadied her on her feet and jogged a few steps to catch up with Arthur, who was striding toward the front doors and the small garden between the hotel and the casino. “Off to find Maxence Robert!”
The bellhop’s gaze fuzzed over in professional disinterest, and he said, “Please follow me to your rooms.”
“Thank you,” Roxanne said.
He led them toward a double, curving staircase.
A few other men were loitering in the lobby, Gen noticed. They wore dark suits and pretended to read their phones or magazines, but they were obviously someone’s security and staking out the lobby. Gen had been learning a lot about security and intelligence agency operations lately, and it was unusual to leave security staff in the lobby all night. Maybe the President of the United States or Prime Minister of the UK was staying in the hotel, though those guys didn’t look like a nation’s secret service.