Page 53 of Prince

Dree answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

“See?” she asked. “Isn’t it better when you don’t try to be subtle?”

Chapter Thirteen

Boats

Maxence

Goddammit, that evening’s supper soiree was on aboat.

A few days after New Year’s Eve, Maxence stepped out of the limousine at the Monaco Yacht Club’s pier, nodded to Quentin Sault who held the car door, and greeted his cousin Marie-Therese, who was also waiting for the next tender to shuttle them out to the yacht for the party.

The sun was still well above the horizon, so at least he wasn’t going to have to sail out there in the dark.

The watercraft the party was to be held on wasn’t aboatas it was a superyacht belonging to an American film producer.

Maxence reminded himself there was a cocktail hour to attend and then supper. His goal was merely to promote Monaco as an excellent location for shooting movies and TV series. While the movie production itself would only bring a few million into Monaco’s coffers, the publicity for Monaco as an elegant destination was priceless. James Bond didn’t stop by the Monte Carlo casino by accident.

Not to mention that a movie shot in Monaco was how Maxence’s grandparents had met. While Max wasn’t in the market for an American starlet wife, keeping Monaco in the forefront as a romantic destination was beneficial.

And so, for all these very pragmatic reasons, Maxence would brave aboat.

His cousin Marie-Therese chattered about events and other cousins. Max nodded along, all the while watching the yacht moored beyond the harbor’s breakwater.

A small red speedboat arrived at the dock, and the pilot asked their names to check against the guest list. A chain strung between the rails barred access to his craft.

The tender’s red hull glittered in the sunlight.

Maxence told him their names in a low voice, making sure his words didn’t carry to the tourists standing in front of the yacht club.

The pilot checked his list. His eyes widened, and he scrambled to un-click the chain.

Max handed Marie-Therese onto the craft. Quentin Sault stepped in behind him and settled on the other side, watching the pilot from behind mirrored sunglasses.

Once they were underway, the pilot motored slowly so he wouldn’t hop the small boat over the wavelets.

Marie-Therese turned to Max and laughed. “Did you see his eyes when he figured out who we are?”

Maxence shrugged. “I don’t expect people to recognize me. Indeed, I’d be much happier if they didn’t.”

“That is why you don’t have any followers on Instagram.”

Maxence leaned back on the bench seat, resting his arms on the back of the bench, and turned his face to the sun. “Someone reserved those accounts for me years ago. I don’t use them.”

They left the harbor’s enclosed area and sped out into the Mediterranean Sea, heading for a boat the size of a small cruise ship anchored offshore. The sun neared the seam where the water met the sky, a bright line of fire as the day approached sunset.

Marie-Therese rolled her eyes at him. “You might as well be eighty years old. I’m surprised you even respond in the text group.”

The sea breeze rifled through his hair, and he mock-frowned. “I chat in the text group.”

“You type maybe ten percent of what anybody else does. I’m surprised you know any of the gossip.”

Perhaps Max should go back through that text group and read the gossip. If he was going to anoint someone as the next Prince of Monaco, he should probably know the inside information about them. It might save him headaches later.

As they neared the superyacht, the ship loomed and swallowed the horizon.