Page 24 of The Princess and the P.I.

Mark’s reaction was subtle—a flicker in his eyes, a tension in his jaw. Maurice saw the broken veins spreading across his cheeks and nose. Mark was drinking too much. What was he running away from?

Maurice squinted at the amateur tattoo on Mark’s wrist. Like it was done in prison or on himself. Incongruent with his clean-boy facade. A series of numbers—a date maybe?

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me into crypto,” Maurice said.

Mark shook his head and stuck his hand out. “Mark Henderson.”

Maurice pretended to look up his background on his phone.

“Be impressed,” Fiona said.

“You’re some kind of wunderkind, huh? Ideas man at iVest? Wait, didn’t they get into some trouble?”

Mark looked pleased, then suddenly wary, like Maurice was here to bust his kneecaps.

“I’m evolving past that company at the moment” was all Mark said.

“That ain’t what your LinkedIn says.”

“You heard what happened, right? The CEO bit the dust in front of everyone and somebody tried to steal the vest. It was bananas. That place—the leadership was rotten, and the whole company just collapsed.”

“Flatter him. Bat your eyelashes,” he heard Fiona in his ear. He was starting to think she only thought he was a pretty face.

“You’re a sharp guy, Mark. Your background…You must see things other people miss. That kind of vision doesn’t just happen—it takes guts, strategy, ambition.”

Mark grabbed the champagne by the neck and took a swig. He was loosening up.

“Yeah, you have to go where you’re appreciated, though, and iVest…” He blew a raspberry. “Everything I made, everything we made was snatched from us.”

“Us?” Fiona whispered.

“Us?” Maurice asked.

“I had a partner.” Mark still gripped the neck of the bottle, his speech starting to slur.

This probably wasn’t his first drink of the night, but the bubbles Maurice ordered went to your head faster, loosening tongues with efficiency.

“He was a genius. The vest. It was all him. I financed it all—went broke. But I’d do it again.

I really thought Robert was going to do right by us.

” Mark took a long, slow chug. “You would have loved him…beautiful…had this mouth…I…” Out of nowhere his voice shook.

Maurice kept his expression neutral, though a flicker of triumph flashed behind his eyes. He was glad Mark broached the subject of Robert first.

“Sounds like you’ve carried a lot on your shoulders,” Maurice said evenly. “Must’ve been exhausting, trying to hold it all together while your boss—what? Took all the credit?”

Mark turned the bottle upside down, chugging now. “Credit? He took our souls, man.”

Maurice smiled, shaking his head no as Mark offered him some nondescript pills.

“Why stay? It sounds like a nightmare.”

“Have you ever loved someone? Like really wanted someone else’s happiness before yours?”

Maurice’s eyes flicked to Fiona in the crowd. Her back was to him, but he could hear her breathing in his ear.

“I’m not sure.”

“If you have, you would be sure.

“If something happens to them, you will stop at nothing to make it right. It was really the only way. There were opportunities, my guy, big ones we had to pass up because the old man was too old-school. Now, with Robert gone, things can…progress.”

“Must be an exciting time.”

“The most. That’s why I’ll be at iVest until they pay back what they owe me.”

“Your soul?” Maurice asked.

Mark leaned in. “Exactly. I’m going to hollow that company out until it is an empty husk.” Mark’s eyes narrowed. A flicker of recognition? He stiffened but didn’t bolt.

“What did you say your name was?” He fished for his phone frantically.

“You’re out of grace,” Fiona said.

Maurice had already pocketed Mark’s phone earlier—a trick he hadn’t used in years. The only thing he saw was an appointment for grief counseling, which seemed to be an emergency session.

Maurice held the phone up to the light.

“You dropped it,” he said smoothly.

Mark snatched the phone from his hands.

“I didn’t, but you’re good,” Mark said.

Maurice tilted his head, one former delinquent to another.

Fiona whispered tight in his ear. “Okay, get out of there.”

But Maurice wasn’t done yet. “That publicist is going to spill everything in her manuscript.” It was a reach, a test to see if he and Sara were working together, but Mark cocked his head.

“Sara is not a publicist, she’s a blackmailer. You want to know who wanted to see Robert gone more than anyone?”

“Ask him who,” Fiona implored in his earpiece, but Maurice had the good sense to let the drunk man keep talking.

“His own wife!” Mark waited for the shocked face.

Maurice’s eyes widened. It was important to give people what they wanted.

“I hope you don’t buy that mistress-wife fake rivalry sob story.

Robert was trying to leave his wife with nothing.

Do you think Amelia would let that happen?

She walked Sara right up to Robert knowing he would take the bait.

Sara was slipping that old man mickeys so she didn’t have to play with his peewee!

” Mark laughed. “It’s just too obvious. I could have been a cop.

If anything, Robert croaked because of all the drugs Sara’s been shoving down his gullet. But sure, question the queer.”

Maurice searched for Fiona, and he saw someone behind her—a figure looming too close, his hand sliding possessively over Fiona’s hips. Mark followed the direction of his gaze and looked like he was about to come out of his skin with rage.

“You brought her here? Did you bring her here to mess with me?” Mark’s face twisted in pain. “This close to his anniversary? You sick—”

Lord, why had he looked over at Fiona?

Mark’s punch was swift and unexpected, a quick jab that sent him reeling. The room tilted. Maurice staggered, hand braced against a table for support.

Warm, thick blood poured from Maurice’s nose. He straightened himself and cracked his neck.

“That was your one. If you come in my direction again, Blicky’s going to do the talking.” Maurice flashed the hilt of his gun, and for a second, the club went silent.

Then chaos erupted.

“Start the car. We’ve worn out our welcome,” Maurice said into his mic.

Maurice swayed, ducked under a swinging arm, and then twisted out of a chokehold.

He elbowed one of the club’s bouncers in the ribs and spun, weaving through the mass of bodies.

He found Fiona by the exit, her chest heaving as she shoved the door open.

He swept her into his arms, so choreographed it looked like a dance move.

They burst into the night, the cool air slapping Maurice’s blood-slicked face.

Out of his arms now, Fiona ran ahead, her church kitten heels clicking against the pavement as she darted toward the car.

Maurice followed, his heart pounding, wind roaring in his ears.

In the darkness he barked out a wild laugh, blood drying on his shirt.

Fiona reached the Mercedes first, flinging open the door. She looked like a goddamned angel—no, a Valkyrie. Maurice slid into the driver’s seat, his curls damp with sweat, his skin buzzing.

“Short night,” he said. “But not fruitless.”

Fiona rummaged for something, a cloth maybe. “You’re bleeding.”

Maurice grinned, a wild, bloody thing. “Occupational hazard.”

“I just need a minute.” He sat with the cloth she handed him on his nose for a few minutes, sneaking glances over to Fiona.

The evening’s adrenaline was ebbing away, leaving behind a vulnerable rawness, like the exposed pulpy inside of a tooth.

He was surprised at the fluttery nervousness in his low belly.

“Debrief me,” he said.

Start the car, Maurice , he thought to himself.

But he didn’t. He just sat there breathing with increasing speed into a cloth.

He wanted to pull down the strap of her flimsy dress. But he kept talking. “I’ll start. Mark has an interesting theory about Amelia and Sara.”

“Anything to get the target off his back,” Fiona said, looking down at her hands. “What’s up with the pearls?”

Start the car. But he wanted her to leave red lipstick prints on his white collared shirt, on his stomach, around his—

Uh. “Um, Robert was getting threats to sell, they were sending him gross boxes of pearls.”

“And Mark just admitted to having a box full of them,” Fiona interrupted him. “He’s so dead.”

“Don’t rush it, Fi,” he said. Finally, he pushed the ignition button and started the car. He was afraid he was going to eat this poor girl. Like the first little pig whose house was made of straw.

She took a deep breath and placed her hand over her chest.

Is your heart racing too?

In the car, the seconds seemed elastic, and impossibly slow.

He kept trying to peel his eyes away from the simple gloss on her lips.

He wanted to smear it. The sheer white slip.

He wanted to rip it. To see her face the moment he pushed inside her, twisted in surprise, pleasure, and a little bit of pain.

He didn’t understand this darkness in him that wanted to destroy her perfection.

Just that some spices became more potent, more fragrant in the crushing.

“Maurice, you look exhausted,” she said softly.

He turned his head to her quickly. He thought he had been masking his fatigue well. “Damn, I thought I looked good tonight.”

“No, you do. I think you’re…” She stopped herself. “I have an offer.”

“Oh god,” Maurice groaned. She had no money, nothing of worth. This was bound to be ridiculous. And Fiona wasn’t selling what Maurice was in the market for tonight.

“Now, this is just to make sure you are thinking in your right mind for the next few weeks…” she said.

He exited off the highway. Something in her tone had shifted. His stomach tightened.

“You don’t sleep well,” she continued.

Maurice turned to look at her at the stop light, her face cast in a shadowy red glow. “Anytime you want to actually tell—”

“I was wondering if you want to go to bed with me,” she said. The light turned green, but Maurice didn’t move.