The grueling day was over, though, and even if she hadn’t had a chance to eat—or breathe—since the quiet breakfast, she’d gotten Griffin to all his appointments on time and looking respectable, and now they were back at the hotel. He’d disappeared into his room for the evening and that meant she was finally free to explore Bellissime.
Of course, she was so tired that all she wanted to do was take a shower and raid the mini-bar in her room to see what she could scarf down before breakfast tomorrow.
Maylee took a long, hot shower, luxuriating in the fancy soaps and shampoos that were complimentary with the room. She made sure to hide the bottles once she was done with them, so the staff would replace them daily and she could get new ones to bring home with her. Maybe Mr. Griffin wouldn’t mind if she snuck his extras, she mused as she wrapped one of the huge, opulent towels around her torso.
Humming to herself, Maylee tucked the top of the towel in at her breast and headed into her room. She moved to the bed and began to adjust her towel when she noticed the closet door was slightly ajar. With a frown, she crossed the room and went to go close it . . . but something about it nagged her, and she peeked inside it instead.
A man stood there, camera in hand. “Don’t scream,” he whispered, “I can offer you a very lucrative deal if you’re willing to work with me to get the inside story—”
Maylee slammed the closet door shut.
Then, she screamed.
Chapter Five
A bloodcurdling yell arose from Maylee’s room, shocking Griffin out of his book. He flung it aside, hopped out of bed, and bounded across the room to the door that adjoined their suites.
When he flung it open, a wet blonde wrapped only in a towel tumbled into his room, her hands going to his waist. “Man in my room,” she babbled. “There’s a man in my room!”
Stunned at the sight of Maylee nearly naked, dripping wet, and now wrapping her arms around his waist, Griffin remained frozen in place. Lustful fantasies bloomed in his mind, only to come skidding to a halt at her terrified sob.
A man in her room? It finally sank in. “You have a man in your room?” he repeated.
“Yes!” she sobbed, clinging to his back. “There is some weird creep in my closet!”
He patted her arm, warm, damp, and smelling like flowery soap. “Wait here,” he said. He looked around for a weapon, grabbed a lamp from a nearby table, unplugged it, jerked off the shade, and then brandished it like a bat. Then, he moved into Maylee’s room.
The closet door was shut tight. For a moment, he wondered if this was simple feminine hysterics to try and seduce him. He knew Reese had all kinds of wild stories about what girls would do to get into his bed, but Griffin had never run into such scenarios himself. Still, Maylee hadn’t seemed the type.
So he approached the closet and knocked on it. “Someone in there?”
“Please don’t kill me,” a muffled voice responded. “I’ll come out if you promise not to kill me.”
Astonished, he looked over at Maylee. She was biting her knuckles, terrified, her eyes dark and huge in her face. And she was na**d under that towel. She was completely and utterly vulnerable.
And someone had broken into her room and tried to harm her.
A protective surge shot through him, and Griffin grabbed a nearby chair and jammed it under the handle of the closet door. He tested it, but it was stuck fast. Good. He looked over at Maylee, who was trembling so hard that droplets of water were shaking off the ends of her wet curls. “Wait in my room,” he told her. “Go through my clothes and put on something of mine.”
She nodded and disappeared into his room.
Griffin scanned her bedroom. It was tidy despite the fact that she’d been interrupted out of the shower. Her knitting sat on the corner of the bed, clearly waiting for its owner to return. Nothing else seemed out of place, so he couldn’t see where someone had broken in. Furious, he went to the phone next to her bed and dialed the front desk.
“Ms. Meriweather,” the voice on the other end said smoothly. “What can I get for you tonight?”
“This is Lord Montagne Verdi,” Griffin said in his iciest, most austere tone. “Ms. Meriweather has an intruder in her room. I’ve locked him in her closet but I want security up here right away. Understand?”
“Absolutely, my lord! We’re sending someone up—”
He hung up. Across from him, he watched the closet doorknob turn, the man in there clearly testing it. The door rattled, and he heard a soft curse. Griffin moved over to the chair, straightened it, and then sat down, pinning the door shut with his weight.
And he waited for security.
Luckily, the hotel was prompt. A mere minute or two later, there was a quick knock at the door. “Security.”
Griffin got up from the chair and headed to the door, letting them in. “He’s in the closet.”
The security team extracted the man, who was clearly one of the paparazzi. The man babbled and tried to make excuses, but the camera in his hand—and the fact that he was hiding between Maylee’s ugly dresses—told the real story. They took him away and another man stayed behind to take down Griffin’s information. He told them what he knew, then glanced back at his room. His assistant hadn’t shown her face since the others had arrived. “Maylee? Can you come give this man your statement?”
A moment later, she stepped through the doorway of their adjoining rooms. Her hair was still wet, but had been finger-combed into loose, damp waves. She wore one of his button-up shirts, the hem of it grazing her tanned thighs. It was big on her, though when she moved forward, he saw the soft bob of her br**sts under the fabric.
And holy Christ, she was sexy in his shirt.
Griffin clenched his fists, willing away the inappropriate surge of lust he felt at the sight of her. Those greenish-brown eyes were still huge and troubled, and when she stuck her hand out for the security officer to shake, he noticed it was still trembling. She was terrified.
Her fear made his protective instincts arise. He put a hand on her shoulder and tugged her closer to him, ignoring the security officer’s questioning look. As Maylee gave her statement, he remained at her side, and she seemed to relax a bit, toying with the too-long sleeves of his shirt as she spoke.
“He told me he wanted me to work with him,” she said in her soft drawl. “That he wanted the inside story. I’m guessing he wanted details on the wedding, or on Mr. Griffin. He said he’d pay me lots of money.”