The Princess Problem

by Teri Wilson

  He grew very still. Even the air between them seemed to stop moving. Aurélie had managed to get his attention. Finally.

  He stared at the box for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the embossed silver M on its top. He knew what that M stood for, and so did she. Marchand. “One of the eggs, I presume?” Clearly, Mr. Drake had done his homework.

  “Yes.” Aurélie offered him her sweetest princess smile. “And no.”

  Before he could protest, she reached for the box and removed its plush velvet lid. The entire top portion of the box detached from the base, so all that was left sitting atop the desk was a shimmering, decorated egg covered in pavé diamonds. Pale pink, blush enamel and tiny seed pearls rested on a bed of white satin.

  Aurélie had seen the egg on many occasions, but it still took her breath away every time she looked at it. It glittered beneath the overhead lights, an unbroken expanse of dazzling radiance. Her precious, priceless secret.

  She hadn’t realized how very strange this would feel to share it with someone else. How vulnerable. She felt as though she’d unlocked a treasure chest and offered this strange man her heart. How absurd.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen this egg before.”

  But there was a hint of a smile dancing on his lips, and when he trained his eyes on Aurélie, she could see the glittering egg reflected in the cool gray of his eyes, and she knew. She just knew.

  Dalton Drake would agree to everything she’d asked.

  “No one has,” she said quietly.

  She didn’t know how she managed to sound so calm, so composed, when she was this close to having the one thing she’d wanted for such a long time. Freedom. However temporary.

  He lifted a brow. “No one?”

  “No one outside the Marchand family.”

  “So there’s a thirteenth egg? I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “Believe it, Mr. Drake. My father gave this egg to my mother on their wedding day. Other than the palace jeweler, no one even knew it existed.” A familiar, bittersweet ache stirred inside Aurélie. She’d always loved the idea of her parents sharing such an intimate secret. Their wedding, their engagement and even their courtship had been watched by the entire world. But they’d managed to save something just for themselves.

  What must it be like to be loved like that? To trust someone so implicitly? She’d never know, whether her father went through with his plans or not.

  Of course, her parents’ fairy-tale romance hadn’t been as real as she’d always believed. Fairy tales never were.

  Her throat grew tight. “I inherited it when my mother died three years ago. Even I was stunned to learn of a thirteenth egg.”

  Many things had surprised her then, but none so much as the shocking details of her parents’ marriage. Her mother was gone, and Aurélie was left with nothing but the egg, a book with gilt-edged pages and a father she realized she’d never really known. And questions. So many questions.

  When had things changed between her parents? Or had the greatest royal romance of the past fifty years always been a lie?

  Her eyelashes fluttered shut and memories moved behind her eyes—her mother and father waltzing in a sweeping circle beneath glittering chandeliers, the whirring of paparazzi cameras and her mother’s elegant features setting into her trademark serene expression. A smile that never quite reached her eyes. How had Aurélie never noticed?

  She opened her eyes and found Dalton watching her intently from across the desk. “Why are you showing this egg to me, Aurélie?”

  Aurélie. Not Princess. Not Your Highness. Just her name, spoken in that deep, delicious voice of his.

  Her head spun a little. Concentrate. “Because, I’d like you to display it in your exhibition.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely.” She paused. “On one condition.”

  Dalton gave her a sideways glance. “Just one?”

  “Give me my adventure, Mr. Drake. On my terms. No bodyguards, no notifying the palace, no press. That’s all I ask.” And it was a lot to ask. She had enough dirt on the courier to guarantee he wouldn’t go running to the palace. But someone would notice she’d gone missing. She just didn’t know when.

  It would be a miracle if she got away with this, but she had to try. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she didn’t.

  She stood and extended her hand.

  Aurélie had never in her life shaken a man’s hand before. Certainly not the hand of a commoner. In Delamotte, Dalton wouldn’t be permitted to touch her. Under royal protocol, he’d be required to bow from a chaste three-foot distance. “Do we have a deal?”

  “I believe we do.”

  Then Dalton Drake rose to his feet and took Aurélie’s hand in his warm, solid grip.

  Delamotte had never felt so far away.

  Chapter Two

  “So let me get this straight.” Artem Drake, Dalton’s younger brother, pointed at the diamond-and-pearl-encrusted Marchand egg sitting in the middle of the small conference table in the corner of his office and lifted a brow. “You’re saying no one has ever seen this egg before.”

  Dalton nodded and glanced over his shoulder to double-check that he’d closed the door behind him when he’d entered. He didn’t want anyone else on the staff knowing about the egg. Its unveiling needed to be carefully planned, and he couldn’t risk the possibility of a potential leak.

  Satisfied with the privacy of their surroundings, Dalton turned to face his brother again and noted the enormous empty spot on the wall above his desk. The spot where the portrait of their father had hung for the better part of the past thirty years.

  He was a bit taken aback by the painting’s absence, since Artem hadn’t mentioned his plan to remove it. And Drake Diamonds had never been about change. It was about tradition, from the store’s coveted location on Fifth Avenue to the little blue boxes they were so famous for. Drake Diamond blue. The color was synonymous with class, style and all things Drake. It was the shade of the plush carpeting beneath Dalton’s feet, as well as the hue of the silk tie around his neck. If Dalton were to slit his wrists, he’d probably bleed Drake Diamond blue.

  But time changed things, even in places where tradition reigned. Their father was dead. This was no longer Geoffrey Drake’s office. It was Artem’s, despite the fact that there’d never been any love lost between Dalton’s younger brother and their father. Despite the fact that Dalton himself had been groomed for this office since the day he’d graduated from Harvard Business School.

  He was relieved the portrait was gone. Now he’d no longer be forced to stop himself from hurling his glass of scotch at it on nights when he found himself alone in the store after hours. Which was often. More often than not, to be precise.

  Dalton averted his gaze from the empty wall and refocused his attention on Artem. There was no point in dwelling on the wrongness of the terms of their father’s Last Will and Testament. He probably should have expected it. Geoffrey Drake hadn’t been known for his sense of fairness. He certainly hadn’t had a reputation as a loving family man. He’d been shrewd. Calculating. Brusque. As had all the Drake men, Dalton included, for as long as grooms had been slipping revered Drake Diamonds on their brides’ fingers. Empires weren’t built on kindness.

  He leveled his gaze at Artem. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. No one outside the Marchand family is aware of this egg’s existence. Until now, of course.”

  Artem reached for the egg.

  “Seriously?” Dalton sighed, pulled a pair of white cotton jeweler’s gloves from his suit pocket and threw them at his brother. “Put these on if you insist on touching it.”

  Artem caught the gloves midair and shook his head. “Relax, would you? A secret Marchand imperial egg just fell into our laps. You sh
ould be doing backflips between the cases of engagement rings downstairs.”

  “We’re on the tenth floor. Engagements is just down the hall, not downstairs,” Dalton said dryly.

  It was a cheap shot. Artem actually showed up to work on a regular basis now that they’d talked things through and agreed to share the position of Chief Executive Officer. The fact that Artem was now married and expecting a baby with their top jewelry designer, Ophelia Rose Drake, didn’t hurt either.

  Artem was a husband now, and soon he’d be a father. Dalton couldn’t fathom it. Then again, he’d never actually witnessed a healthy marriage. To be honest, he wasn’t sure such a thing existed.

  Artem’s features settled into the lazy playboy expression he’d been so famous for before he’d surprised everyone by settling down. “I know that, brother. You’re missing the point. This is good. Hell, this is fantastic. You should be smiling for a change.”

  Dalton’s frown hardened into place. “I’ll smile when the unveiling of the collection goes off without a hitch. And when I’m certain I won’t be facing jail time in Delamotte for kidnapping the princess.”

  “She came here of her own free will.” With the hint of a rueful smile, Artem shrugged. “Besides, the way I see it, you have a much bigger problem to worry about.”

  More problems. Marvelous. “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that you’ve been charged with showing a runaway princess a good time.” Artem let out a chuckle. “Sorry, but surely even you can see the irony of the situation.”

  Dalton was all too aware he wasn’t known as the fun brother. Artem typically had enough fun for both of them. In reality, his younger brother had probably had enough fun for the greater population of Manhattan. But that was before Ophelia. Artem’s face might no longer be a permanent fixture on Page Six, but against all odds, Dalton had never seen him happier.

  “Fun is overrated,” Dalton deadpanned.

  Fun didn’t pay the mortgage on his Lenox Hill penthouse. It hadn’t landed him on Fortune’s “40 Under 40” list for five consecutive years. And it sure as hell didn’t keep hordes of shoppers flocking to Drake Diamonds every day, just to take something, anything, home in a little blue box.

  Artem’s smirk went into overdrive. “From what you’ve told me, the princess doesn’t seem to share your opinion on the matter. It sounds as though Her Royal Highness is rather fond of fun.”

  Her Royal Highness.

  There was a princess sitting in Dalton’s office. And for some nonsensical reason, she was waiting for him to take her on a grand adventure involving hot dogs and public transportation. How such things fit into anyone’s definition of a good time was beyond him.

  A sharp pain took up residence in Dalton’s temples. “Aurélie,” he muttered.

  Artem’s eyebrow arched, and he stared at Dalton for a moment that stretched far too long. “Pardon?”

  Dalton cleared his throat. “She’s asked me to call her Aurélie.”

  “Really?” Artem’s trademark amused expression made yet another appearance. To say it was beginning to grate on Dalton’s nerves would have been a massive understatement. “This princess sounds rather interesting.”

  “That’s one way of putting it, although I’d probably use another word.”

  “Like?”

  Unexpected. “Impulsive.” Whimsical. “Volatile.” Breathtaking. “Dangerous.”

  “That’s three words,” Artem corrected. “Interesting. The princess—excuse me, Aurélie—must have made quite an impression in the twenty minutes you spent with her.”

  Twenty minutes? Impossible. It had been precisely 10 a.m. when he’d first set eyes on those golden South Sea pearls. On that straight, regal back and exquisitely elegant neck. If the severity of the tension between his shoulder blades was any indication, he’d been dealing with the stress of harboring a royal runaway for at least two hours. Possibly three.

  Dalton glanced at his Cartier. It read 10:21. He’d need to add a massage therapist to the payroll at this rate. If he managed to keep an aneurysm at bay for the next few weeks.

  “I dare say you appear rather intrigued by her.” Artem’s gaze narrowed. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d go so far as to say you seem smitten. But of course the Dalton I know would never mix business and pleasure.”

  Damn straight. Dalton preferred pleasure of the no-strings variety, and he seldom had trouble finding it. Sex belonged in the bedroom, not the boardroom. He wasn’t Artem, for crying out loud. He could keep his libido in check when the situation called for it. “I assure you I’m not smitten. I have no feelings toward the princess whatsoever, aside from obligation.”

  “Ah yes, your bargain.” Artem turned the egg in his grasp, inspecting it. Blinding light reflected off its pavé diamonds in every direction, making the egg look far more precious than a collection of carefully arranged gemstones. Dynamic. Alive. A brilliant, beating heart.

  Dalton had never seen anything quite like it. The other Marchand imperial eggs paled in comparison. When it went on display in the showroom, Drake Diamonds would be packed wall-to-wall with people. People who wouldn’t go home without a Drake-blue bag dangling from their arms.

  If the egg went on display.

  It would. The exhibition and gala would take place as scheduled. The spectacular secret egg was just what Drake Diamonds needed. When Dalton and Artem’s father died, he’d left the family business on the verge of bankruptcy. They’d managed to climb their way back to solvency, but Drake Diamonds still wasn’t anywhere near where it had been in its glory days.

  Dalton aimed to fix that. With the egg, he could.

  He would personally see to it that the palace in Delamotte had nothing to worry about. He’d keep Aurélie under lock and key. Then, in three weeks’ time, she’d pack up the eggs and go straight home. Dalton would strap her into her airplane seat himself if he had to.

  Artem returned the egg to its shiny satin pedestal, peeled off the jeweler’s gloves and tossed them on the table. Then he crossed his arms and shot Dalton a wary glance. “Tell me, what sort of fun is the princess up to at the moment?”

  Dalton shrugged. “She’s in my office.”

  “Your office? Of course. Loads of fun, that place.” Artem shot him an exaggerated eye roll.

  This was going to stop. Dalton might have agreed to escort the princess on her grand adventure, but under no circumstances would he succumb to constant commentary on his personal life. “I’ve asked Mrs. Barnes to get her settled with a glass of champagne and a plate of the petit fours we serve in Engagements.”

  “So you have absolutely no interest in the woman, yet she’s in your office snacking on bridal food.”

  Before Dalton could comment, there was a soft knock on the door.

  The brothers exchanged a loaded glance, and Dalton swiftly covered the jeweled egg with the lid to its tasteful indigo box.

  Once the treasure was safely ensconced in velvet, Artem said, “Come in.”

  The door opened, revealing Dalton’s secretary balancing a plate of petit fours in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, wearing a distinct look of alarm. “I’m sorry to interrupt...”

  Dalton’s gut churned. Something wasn’t right. But what could have gone wrong in the span of a few minutes? “Yes, Mrs. Barnes?”

  “Your guest is gone, Mr. Drake.”

  Surely she was mistaken. Aurélie wouldn’t just take off and leave the eggs behind. She wouldn’t think about walking around a strange city all alone, without her security detail.

  Or would she?

  Dalton swore under his breath. Why did he get the feeling that Aurélie would do both of those things without bothering to consider the possible disastrous consequences of her actions?

  Live a little, Mr. Drake.

  “Shall I take a
look in the ladies’ room?” Mrs. Barnes asked.

  Dalton shook his head. If he thought for one second that Aurélie Marchand could be found in the ladies’ room of Drake Diamonds, he’d march in there and go get her himself. “No, thank you. I’ll see to her whereabouts. That will be all, Mrs. Barnes.”

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded and disappeared in the direction of Dalton’s office.

  “Calm down, brother. I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. She’s not going to just disappear and leave the Marchand family jewels behind.” Artem waved a casual hand at the velvet box in the center of the table.

  Dalton sighed. “Have you forgotten that she’s in a strange city? In a foreign country. All alone.”

  “Exactly. She’s hasn’t ventured any further than the Plaza. Come on, I’ll help you track her down.” Artem reached for the suit jacket on the back of his chair.

  “No,” Dalton said through gritted teeth. He pointed at the velvet box. “You stay, and see to it that the eggs are safely locked away in the vault. I’ll find Miss Marchand.”

  And when he did, he’d lay down some ground rules for their arrangement. After he’d made it clear that he considered her behavior wholly unacceptable. Princess or not.

  “As you wish,” Artem said. “But can I give you one piece of advice?”

  Dalton glared at him. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Whatever you do, don’t take her to bed.” Artem’s mouth curved into a knowing grin. “Assuming you find her, of course.”

  * * *

  Who did Dalton Drake think he was?

  She hadn’t traveled halfway across the world, and risked the wrath of her father, only to stay trapped in a closed room on the tenth floor of Drake Diamonds. Not that the surroundings weren’t opulent. On the contrary, the place was steeped in elegant luxury, from the pale blue plush carpet to the tasteful crown molding. It felt more like being in a palace than a jewelry store.

  Which was precisely the problem.

  She didn’t want to be stuck inside this grand institution. It wasn’t what she’d signed on for. Did he not realize the risks she’d taken to get here? She already had three missed call notifications on her cell from Delamotte. None from her father, thank goodness. It would take him days, if not weeks, to realize she was gone. The Reigning Prince had more important things to worry about than something as trivial as his only daughter fleeing the country. Oh, the irony.