Prince: Royal Romantic Suspense (Billionaires in Disguise: Maxence Book 5) by Blair Babylon (best books to read fiction txt) 📕

that afternoon. The election would be held at five o’clock tomorrow evening, which was the first available opportunity for all the members of his voting bloc to attend.

Father Moses’s words spun in his mind. On the day after tomorrow, Maxence might be lying face down on the floor of St. Peter’s Basilica, receiving Holy Orders, a priest laying his hands on him as men had laid their hands on other priests all the way back to Jesus laying his hands on Peter, who would be the rock upon which he built his Church.

Camera flashes multiplied like heat lightning.

But Max had to get through tonight, first.

Marie-Therese stepped out of the glare and slipped her arm through his elbow, laughing for the cameras. “You didn’t tell me you were here, you naughty boy.”

Maxence didn’t move his lips when he said, “Keep your hands to yourself, cousin.”

“Oh, Maxsy. You’re such a prude sometimes,” she said, still grinning and hamming it up for the paparazzi.

He continued the stern debonair look as the camera shutters clicked like a deck of cards riffling.

Marie-Therese was bobbing all over the place, looking at the cameras over one shoulder and then the other, his cousin alternately flirting with the cameras and opening her mouth like something Max was not going to think about lest he need therapy.

Her hair-flip flung her long black tresses into Max’s face.

Her curls hung over his nose and eyelashes as he stepped back and brushed off her hair like he was batting away a bee.

A solid wave of white light washed over them as the cameras went wild for the mishap.

Marie-Therese laughed it off, apologizing, and Maxence smiled fondly at his cousin, whom he couldn’t wait to get away from.

But he was stuck with her for most of the evening because they were co-hosting this debacle.

He and Marie-Therese had never had a problem until she’d sneaked into his bed. Indeed, she’d been a very quiet ally against her father during the years that Jules had been the head of the ministry, slipping bank statements and emails from Jules and certain Russian oligarchs to Prince Rainier IV so they could sack Jules without a messy public investigation.

Max should talk to her about what had happened. Maybe there was a reason she’d sneaked into his bed in the middle of the night, wearing red lingerie.

He needed to not think about that anymore.

Marie-Therese clung to his arm as they walked inside the Sea Change Gala.

It was just as well that she was sticking close to him, but not too close. They were co-hosting the event, which meant they would open the dancing after supper. If Marie-Therese were hanging on his arm, he wouldn’t have to send Quentin to find her.

Maxence and Marie-Therese walked into the enormous convention center, which was packed to the rafters with the rich and famous of the world, especially the rich because their donations were larger. Some of the famous thought their presence should be their gift to the charity, and they were wrong. The chatter of human voices and laughter rang above the jazz band playing at the other end of the ground floor and through the speakers.

The crowd packed into the Grimaldi Forum was mostly decked in black. The men wore tuxedos, the vast majority of which were severe black. For the ladies, black gowns also seem to be the norm, either thin silk sheaths that skimmed their figures or satin constructions that might have been architectural marvels under the fabric. A few people wore daring shades of midnight blue or darkest burgundy. With perhaps a thousand people milling about the convention center, Maxence got the impression of a crowded chessboard where all the pieces were black.

His security team spread out, moving through the crowd but still arranged in a circle around him. Quentin Sault caught Max’s eye for a moment while they were walking into the main foyer, and then he resumed scanning the room for abnormal movements.

Unlike previous events, the Sea Change Gala occupied the entire building of the Grimaldi Forum, from the expansive ground-floor lobby, to the upper decks for the bars and meal, to the ballrooms at the top for dancing. A few helicopters had landed on the rooftop helipad with the more important guests who didn’t want to be driven on the streets of Monaco with the riffraff or with those who had flown from their superyachts anchored offshore directly to the convention center.

Max could have taken a helicopter from the palace, but he liked to see Monaco from the ground.

That night, Max wore a Kiton tuxedo, hurriedly commissioned because his favorite Tom Ford tux had seen rough use a few months ago. The tuxedo was sewn with platinum thread and had cost about the same as a mid-range Lexus. He’d tucked a red silk scarf under his black jacket, setting off the white shirt, and a matching red square in the pocket. When he was at these events, Monaco’s national colors of red and white were always woven into his outfit.

A few years before, the overt connection of the royal family to his country had been important.

As Maxence was a ranking member of the royal family, he’d been granted royal honors to wear when he’d turned eighteen, a decade and more before. Because their uncle had meant to have several ceremonies to present Maxence and his brother Pierre with ever-increasing honors, he had only granted Max the rank of Commander in the Order of the Crown, a mid-level rank in an order that wasn’t even the highest. Therefore, Maxence wore a necklet of dark olive-green ribbon with a narrow red stripe to hold the badge, a silver and gold cross with filagree and the prince’s crown in the middle. If one looked carefully at the gold curls, one could discern the initials of Max’s grandfather, Prince Rainier III.

Max should probably award himself a higher rank as the acting Prince of Monaco before he left, but everything seemed pointless.

Marie-Therese was wearing the same badge but pinned on