The Princess and the Billionaire (Billionaire Lovers - Book #2)

by Barbara Bretton

  Adding Isabelle to the mix changed everything. Watching her laugh with his family, making love to her by the light of the full moon, and catching another glimpse of the real woman behind the smile awakened in him a longing that went far beyond sex. He found himself wishing the weekend didn’t have to end and that they didn’t have to say good-bye now that it had.

  He parked the truck two blocks away from her apartment, then walked her to her door.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she said, kissing the underside of his jaw as they clung together in the foyer.

  “You don’t have to,” he said, holding her close. “The truck’s parked in a legal spot for a change. I’ll spend the night.”

  He sensed a slight pulling away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Had enough of me?” Cool it, Danny. You sound like a kid.

  She kissed him again. “That isn’t possible. It wouldn’t be fair to Maxine. She’s a very old-fashioned, traditional woman. Besides, she thinks of me as her daughter.”

  Normally he would have accepted her explanation. Tonight he pushed a little harder. “I have a big, empty apartment, princess. Come home with me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so or you don’t want to?”

  “You’re sounding angry, Bronson.”

  “I’m not angry. Just looking for an answer.”

  “Fine.” She pulled away, turning into the little princess right before his eyes. “I’m tired and I have a long day tomorrow, and it might be better if I spend the night alone.”

  He raised his hands, palms outward. “Okay. Great. Whatever you say, princess. I live to serve.”

  “Oh, do be quiet!” she snapped. “That’s a perfectly dreadful thing to say.”

  It was a cheap shot, and he knew it, fueled by the unsettling feeling that she was about to slip through his fingers like quicksilver. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  She touched his forearm. “I had a grand weekend.”

  “So did I.”

  “I could be persuaded to try my hand again at scrambled eggs tomorrow night.”

  “Around seven?”

  “You might want to eat a nutritious lunch, Bronson, as a precautionary measure.”

  He forced a smile. “I’ll do that.”

  “Your family are wonderful,” she said, using that odd Euro-grammar that he was finally getting used to. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  He pulled her to him and claimed her mouth with a kiss that carried with it all the fear and anger that had been building inside him these past few hours. She would go so far and then retreat, as if she couldn’t quite believe that what they had together was real. He had the feeling that one day he would open his eyes and she would be gone, vanished like a dream.

  She was soft and yielding in his arms, as warm and womanly as he could ever desire, but the sense that the ground was shifting beneath his feet remained long after they said good night, reminding him of all the reasons why it didn’t make sense to get more involved.

  * * *

  “Great job, Princess Isabelle.” The star of the radio program stood up and extended his hand. “You handled those phone calls like a pro.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Beaumont. You made the experience very enjoyable.”

  She glanced at her watch. Not yet noon, and she’d already put in a full day. A breakfast interview with Women’s Wear Daily and visits to three different talk radio shows. At two o’clock she was slated to meet Maxine and Ivan at Tres Chic to be fitted for the only evening gown planned for the Princess collection. The wonderful weekend with the Bronsons seemed a lifetime ago. If only it hadn’t ended with pointed words. Those pointed words echoed in her mind all night, making it almost impossible to sleep.

  Liar, she thought as she rode the elevator down to the main lobby. The truth was much more complicated than that. She missed the feel of his body next to hers, the distinctive smell of his skin, the sound of his breathing in the heart of the night. She’d never imagined that what happened in bed between a man and a woman could be so powerful or that it could affect her in such a fiercely primitive way.

  The elevator doors opened. She strode across the lobby, her thoughts tangled.

  “Darling girl!”

  She slowed her step for a moment and glanced around. Shaking her head, she continued.

  “Isabelle! You must stop, darling girl, I’ve come a long way to see you again.”

  A hand on her shoulder. A familiar laugh. The floor tilted beneath her feet, and she found herself in the one place where she never thought to find herself again. In the arms of Eric Malraux.

  * * *

  “Maxine, Maxine, Maxine. Where is your brain, woman? Five minutes I’m talking to you, and you haven’t heard one word.”

  Maxine shook her head as if trying to clear the cobwebs. “I’m sorry, Ivan. Now what is it you were saying?”

  Ivan launched into a list of facts and figures about the Princess line while Maxine struggled to keep her mind on his words. All morning long she’d had the terrible feeling that disaster was lurking right around the next corner. It was the same dreadful feeling she’d experienced those last months in the castle.

  She and Ivan had spent a wonderful weekend with his married daughter and her family in the countryside of northern New Jersey. It felt like home there, a gentler version of the mountainsides of Perreault. Ivan promised to take her to the house he owned in the Poconos in Pennsylvania, and Maxine looked forward to it.

  The only disturbing event had been that first night when Maxine had sat bolt upright in bed, certain she had heard the unearthly wailing of a banshee, but the next morning Ivan’s daughter Natalie had laughed and said it was only the sound of the neighbor’s beagle howling at the full moon.

  “Maxine!”

  “Something’s wrong, Ivan,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t know what it is, but something dreadful is coming, and we can’t do a thing to stop it.”

  “You’re a superstitious Irishwoman, Maxine Neesom. The girl is fine. She’ll be here in an hour for our meeting, and you’ll see for yourself. Now put your mind to business.”

  * * *

  Isabelle was bored. Deeply, profoundly, irrefutably bored. She stole a glance at her watch. A scant ten minutes past one o’clock. She and Eric had been together less than an hour, and she found herself praying for an earthquake or some other act of God to help her break free. He claimed he’d been in a taxicab on his way to Tante Elysse’s apartment when he’d heard her on the radio and instructed the driver to take him immediately to the station. The story was meant to impress, but it left Isabelle even more bored, as if that were possible.

  “More wine, darling girl?”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I have a long afternoon ahead of me.”

  “You’ve barely touched your food. Your appetite always charmed me.”

  “I must be coming down with a cold,” she said. “I am feeling a trifle under the weather.”

  He considered her closely. “You are different, Isabelle. I cannot place exactly in what way, but you are not the same woman who left Perreault.”

  Her laugh was brittle. “I should hope not. Experience changes a woman, Eric. Even a woman as foolish as I was.”

  “You were never foolish, darling girl. It is I who—”

  She raised her hand. “I’m afraid I do not wish to continue this conversation, Eric. I agreed to join you for lunch because you claimed there was a matter of some importance that needed to be discussed. Thus far I have heard nothing of any consequence.”

  “So wonderfully hot-tempered.” He leaned back in his chair and favored her with a tender smile. “I have always envied you for living to the full extent of your emotions.”

  She pushed back her chair, causing a bevy of waiters to race to her assistance. “I’m sorry, Eric, but there is no point to this conversation. I appreciate the opportunity to see the photos of Victoria and the
fact that you seek rapprochement for Juliana and me, but I am simply not interested.” She tucked her purse under her arm. “And I venture to say my sister is not interested, either.”

  “Juliana is with child once again.”

  Isabelle’s brows lifted. “So soon? Victoria is—what? Four months old?”

  “Juliana is eager to have a son.”

  “Terribly eager, I should say. I cannot imagine that it is good to space children so closely together.”

  “Your sister is a determined woman. She usually gets whatever she desires.”

  “I know,” said Isabelle. “I have had firsthand experience.”

  “We need time to talk, Isabelle. There are many things that need to be said, and we cannot say them all over such a short lunch.”

  “I have said everything I wish to say, Eric, and I have heard a great deal more than I wished. Have a pleasant trip back to Perreault.”

  “When will I see you again?” he persisted as she gathered up her belongings. “I will be in town for another two days.”

  “No, Eric.” His meaning was unmistakable. “Not in this lifetime.”

  “Surely you must know how I feel—how I have always felt....”

  She left the restaurant, knowing he would be delayed paying the bill. The fates were with her, for a taxi was discharging a passenger right there at the curb. She claimed it like a native New Yorker, slamming shut the door behind her.

  “Where ya goin’, lady?” barked the cabbie.

  “Anywhere,” she said, sinking down into her seat. “As long as it’s far away from here.”

  * * *

  “This was the single smartest thing I ever did.” Daniel reared back and landed another punch. “Should be standard office equipment.”

  Phyllis, notebook in hand, stood in the doorway and watched as he hammered the speedbag with a flurry of punches. “You didn’t learn this in Harvard Business School.”

  “Even Harvard Business School doesn’t know everything, Phyl.” Another barrage of punches, each one harder than the last. “Some of the best moves you pick up on the street.”

  “You don’t expect me to talk business while you’re bobbing and weaving, do you?”

  “I’m listening.” A quick right then a left. “It helps my concentration.”

  “Well, it’s blowing the hell out of mine.” Phyllis rose to her feet. “Let me know when you’re finished, Rocky. Then we’ll talk.” She paused in the doorway. “By the way, Isabelle called while you were on long distance with Umeki. She’s canceling dinner.”

  He peppered the speedbag with jabs. “She want me to call her?”

  “I’m just your assistant, boss, not your social secretary. You figure it out.” She closed the door behind her.

  Daniel hauled off and battered the speedbag with everything he had. When he finished, he debated the wisdom of doing it all over again, but his hands ached and his muscles felt more tense and knotted than they had before he started.

  She was pulling away from him. It hadn’t taken long. He’d felt it last night, heard it in her voice. All of that damn talk about Japan hadn’t helped. What woman would want to sit there and listen to the man she was sleeping with talk about flying off to Japan to live for a few months? Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder. Absence made you forget. She knew it, and so did he.

  * * *

  “For the thousandth time, Maxine, nothing is wrong. I do wish you would stop asking me that. You’re becoming quite annoying.”

  “The feeling is on me, lovey, and it won’t be going away just because you say it should. Something is wrong, and I won’t be resting until you tell me what it is.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Isabelle yawned and poured herself a glass of tea from Ivan’s samovar. “Gigi’s finished with the fitting. I believe I’ll go home. I am exhausted.”

  “You should take a nap before himself comes over.”

  Isabelle glanced away. “I left a message for Daniel. I’m not much in the mood for dinner tonight.”

  “Aha!” Maxine stood in the doorway. “You are not leaving, lovey, before you tell me what it is you’re hiding.”

  Isabelle opened her mouth to lie but was shocked to find the truth springing to her lips. “Eric is in town.”

  Maxine made the sign of the cross. “Mary Mother of God, what would he be wanting with us?”

  Isabelle gave her a sidelong glance. “Not us, Maxine. Me.”

  “And I hope you’d be sending him packing.”

  “No,” said Isabelle, “I sent myself packing right after lunch.”

  “Don’t be tellin’ me you ate lunch with him.”

  “Yes,” said Isabelle, lifting her chin. “I was curious as to what he wanted.”

  “Curiosity can lead a person to ruin.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Maxi. We shared wine and poached fish, not an assignation. I wanted to hear about Juliana—about the baby. Is that a crime?”

  Maxine muttered something dark, but Isabelle paid her no heed. The woman was always hearing banshees in the night and feeling the cold hands of fate against the back of her neck. She blessed herself again.

  “Will you stop that,” Isabelle snapped. “He’s a fool, not a monster.”

  “Fools can be more dangerous.”

  “Agreed,” said Isabelle. “And that is why I walked away from him.”

  “And how did you feel, lovey, when you did that?”

  “Free,” said Isabelle. She sighed. “He showed me pictures of little Victoria. It hurts to know I have a niece whom I’ll probably never meet. Juliana is pregnant again, Maxi. Can you believe that?”

  “Poor little tykes to be brought into a world of confusion.”

  “Victoria is beautiful,” Isabelle mused. “So fair—with huge blue eyes like Daniel’s niece—”

  “Daniel will agree with me,” interrupted Maxine. “Time and distance are what should be between you and Eric.”

  “You’re not to tell Daniel about this.”

  “You wouldn’t be keeping secrets from him, would you, lovey?”

  “We’re not married, Maxi. It isn’t necessary that he know everyone I see and everything I do.”

  “I doubt if Daniel would be seeing it that way.”

  “Don’t you dare say one word to him, Maxi.”

  “’Tisn’t my business to be sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Good,” said Isabelle.

  “Terrible,” said Maxine. “Why hide something if you have nothing to hide?”

  * * *

  Daniel threw himself back into work with the same intensity he’d brought to hammering the speedbag. Phyllis left a little after six. “Don’t work too hard,” she said. “You’ve got a seven-thirty breakfast meeting with Dershowitz at the Plaza.”

  “Yeah, Phyl,” he mumbled, engrossed in the specs on the Japan project. “You, too.”

  The telephone rang a few times around eight o’clock, but he ignored it. He didn’t give a good goddamn who called. If it was important, they’d call back. If it wasn’t, the hell with them.

  A few minutes later he heard a knock on his door. “What is this?” he mumbled, tossing down his pen. “Goddamn Penn Station?” He crossed the room and opened the door.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. B.,” said Fred, the head of security, “but you weren’t answering your phones.”

  “Is there a problem, Fred?” He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Not tonight.

  “Seems you got a visitor downstairs. She says you’re expecting her.”

  “I’m not expecting anybody.”

  Fred lowered his voice. “It’s that princess, Mr. B. She doesn’t much like being told no.”

  “Send her up.” He turned away from the puzzled man as he tried to regain control of his emotions. He didn’t like being taken by surprise.

  What the hell did she want? he wondered, as he pushed papers around on his desk. Was she coming to tell him it was over?

  A so
ft tap on the door. “Bronson.” An even softer voice. “May I come in?”

  He didn’t look up. “Do what you want.”

  “Not a very warm welcome.” A hint of arrogance laced her honeyed tones. He heard the click of the lock.

  “You’re the one who canceled, princess, not me.”

  He heard her footsteps approaching his desk. “I brought dinner with me.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Pastrami on rye, pickles, cream soda.” No response. “Phyllis said that was your favorite meal.”

  “Phyllis should mind her own goddamn business.”

  “Look at me, Bronson.”

  “I’m not in the mood for game-playing.”

  “I don’t want to play games,” she said, sweeping his papers off the desk.

  “Son of a bitch! You—” He looked up. Her dark eyes were lit from inside with flame. Her hair was wild about her face. She shrugged off her wine-colored coat, then tossed it to the floor.

  “Make love to me, Bronson,” she said, lifting herself onto his desk. “Right here. Right now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I need you.” The expression on her face brought him immediately to a fever pitch.

  With a moan he crushed her to him, plundering her mouth, stealing her breath and making it his own. She moved against him with abandon, as if she couldn’t get close enough to him, couldn’t make it happen fast enough.

  He pushed her skirt up around her waist, then tore her panties from her body with one fierce movement. She was ready for him, more than ready, throbbing and wet and eager. She fumbled with his fly, her hands trembling with need. He freed himself from his trousers and briefs.

  “Slide to the edge,” he told her, cupping her heat with his hand. She did as told, shivering at the feel of the cool wood against her legs. He spread her thighs. She was all pink and moist, beautiful everywhere.

  “Now,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Please—now!”

  The sound of her voice was almost enough to bring him to climax. Clasping her buttocks, he lifted her hips and plunged himself into the warm softness of her body. They both came almost immediately in strong, fierce spasms that erased everything but the primal need to own each other, body and soul.