She considered saying all of that to Cathy in just so many words, but that seemed more effort than the subject warranted, and so she sneezed again instead.
* * *
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Isabelle sniffled into her handkerchief on Christmas Day. “How could this possibly happen to me? I haven’t had a cold in years.”
Bronson handed her a huge glass of orange juice and two aspirins. “You’ve got one now,” he said, watching while she swallowed the tablets. “Let’s hope it’s not the flu.”
“It wouldn’t dare be the flu,” she said. “We leave for Japan in seven days, and I have seven weeks’ worth of running around to do.”
“I don’t think you’re going to be doing much running around, princess. Not in that condition.”
“I refuse to stay in this condition,” she said, her voice a miserable shadow of itself. “I can’t stay in this condition. Damn it, Bronson, it’s Christmas Day!”
“And we’re spending it together just like we planned.”
“You needn’t be sarcastic.”
“I’m not being sarcastic. It’s a statement: Today is Christmas, and we’re together.”
“I look dreadful,” she said, touching her red nose. “And I sound even worse.”
He grinned. “We’re together, but I didn’t say we were having fun.”
“I’d throw my pillow at you, but I don’t want you to catch my germs.”
“I appreciate that,” he said dryly, “If I postpone that trip one more time, there’ll be an international incident.”
She sank down into her germ-riddled pillows, feeling dreadfully sorry for herself. How could he even talk about that stupid trip when she was feeling so miserable? Nothing seemed normal. Not her fingers or toes, not the thoughts inside her head. She felt as if she’d been taken over by an invading army and her defending troops had fled. “You should be with your family, Bronson, not cooped up with me in this awful apartment.”
He shot a look at the clock across the room. “You’re right. If I leave now I could be there by dinner.”
“Fine,” she snapped. He’d obviously been making an attempt at humor, but she refused to respond. “Leave me alone. Why should you be any different? Maxine deserted me, and now you’re planning your escape.”
“Maxine didn’t desert you. You told her to go.”
“Yes, but I never thought she would take me up on it.” Maxine and Ivan went to his daughter’s for dinner. Maxine had cooked an authentic Chanukah meal for Ivan and his family the previous week, and now Natalie was returning the favor with a Christmas feast.
“Don’t offer what you can’t deliver, princess. That’s the first rule of doing business.”
“I’m not in business,” she retorted, reaching for a fresh handkerchief.
“Jeez, you’re tough to take when you’re sick.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “See! You are angry. I knew it. Your entire family is probably angry with me.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s one of the good things about having a big family: Nobody notices if someone’s missing.”
She waved her lace-trimmed handkerchief in the general direction of the living room. “I’ve done all the shopping. The packages are wrapped. And now there’s no one to give them to.” She burst into tears.
“Damn it, princess, quit crying.” Daniel hated the way he felt when she cried, all clumsy and uselessly male. “You’ll be better in a day or two, and we’ll drive the presents out to Montauk.”
“Y-you would do that for me?”
“Sure,” he said. He’d walk the presents out to Montauk if she would stop her crying. “If you want to deliver your presents in person, you’ll deliver your presents in person.”
“Oh, Bronson...” She dissolved into another bout of weeping that had him pulling his hair out in frustration. The past few days she’d been like a human roller coaster, all towering highs and staggering lows. Talking to her was the equivalent of riding the Cyclone at Coney Island without a seat belt.
“What?” he asked, pacing the room. “What’s wrong? I know getting sick for Christmas is a bummer, but it’s not the end of the world.”
She cried even louder.
“I’m calling a doctor,” he said, heading for the phone. “You must have one hell of a fever.” That was the only explanation he could come up with. Either that or insanity ran in her family.
“Damn it, Bronson, don’t call the doctor.” She punctuated her words with a sneeze. “I’m crying because I took ill before I could find a suitable present. I’d searched and searched for something big and wonderful. I even asked Cathy for ideas. I thought I’d have a few more days to look for the perfect gift, but then I took ill and...” She trailed her hand in the air as her words faded away.
He looked down at the medal hanging around his neck from a silver chain. “I always thought they gave Saint Christopher a raw deal. I had one of these when I was in high school. It’s good to have him back on the job.”
“He’s the patron saint of travelers.”
“I know.” Actually, he loved the medal. It meant more to him than any fancy sweater or leather briefcase she might have found in some pricey, impersonal shop. Too bad she didn’t realize it.
“I thought it might help you with your problem.”
“According to my travel agent, you’d need Saint Jude for that.”
Isabelle frowned. “Saint Jude?”
“Patron saint of hopeless cases.”
“I’m fearless,” she said between sneezes. “I’d fly in anything. The Concorde—a Piper Cub—a helicopter—” The sneezes outnumbered her words, and she fell back against the pillows, grabbing for tissues.
“Thanks, princess,” he said. “You’re great for the ego.”
She looked up at him. “You must have done a good deal of shopping for Christmas, what with the size of your family and all.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a shopping fool.”
She waited, her foot tapping impatiently beneath the covers. He looked at her, his expression bland.
“If you’re trying to torture me, Bronson, it’s working quite well.”
He slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Damn! You’re looking for a present.”
She glared at him. “That might be nice, considering you forgot my birthday last month.”
“I didn’t forget it, princess. I didn’t even know it was your birthday until you told me.”
She hated logic. Especially male logic. “If you don’t have a present for me, why don’t you just say it? I won’t be angry.”
They could have heard his hoot of laughter back home in Perreault. “You don’t fool me, princess,” he said, still laughing. “You’re thinking dungeons right now, aren’t you?”
“No,” she snapped. “I’m thinking guillotines.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a square box wrapped in shiny silver paper and tied with a big red satin bow. “I think this has your name on it.”
Delightedly she reached for the box. Jewelry, she thought, as she untied the ribbon. A ring. Definitely a ring—diamonds—maybe sapphires and diamonds. Dear God, could it possibly be an engagement ring? Wouldn’t that be an odd twist of fate, to receive an engagement ring when she was no longer certain she wanted to marry? But how romantic—how wonderful—how—
“Oh,” she said, as she lifted the top of the box. “A bracelet.” It was a beautiful bracelet, a coil of thick, heavy gold with a spray of tiny diamonds on the clasp and a gold tiara charm dangling from it.
“Look inside.”
“You had it engraved.” She peered at the cursive letters. The date. His initials. Her initials. “How wonderfully sentimental. I’m surprised you didn’t add your social security number.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She blinked at him. “What do you mean, what’s that supposed to mean? It was a declarative sentence, quite self-explana
tory, even with my accent.”
“If you don’t like the bracelet, just say it.”
“I love the bracelet, Bronson,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m not sure about the tiara.”
“It’s a crown,” Bronson said.
“It’s a tiara,” she corrected him.
“The jeweler said it was a crown.”
“Is the jeweler a princess?” she asked sweetly.
“If you love it, why haven’t you put it on?”
“I wasn’t certain it looked quite right with my nightgown.” She snapped the bracelet around her left wrist. “See? Chanel couldn’t have done better.” She realized she was acting like a spoiled brat, but she couldn’t stop. The flu must be altering her brain waves or something. You idiot! You didn’t want a ring from him. He didn’t give you a ring. You don’t want a commitment any more than he does. You should be happy!
“Remind me to give you a gift certificate for Valentine’s Day, princess.”
With that he turned and stormed out the door.
From somewhere on the next floor she heard the strains of “Jingle Bells” being played. “Oh, do shut up!” she muttered and then burst into tears.
An hour later he returned with Chinese food, vanilla ice cream, and a huge red poinsettia.
“Oh, Bronson,” she said, beaming. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I did.”
“Are you implying that I need to have my feelings soothed with presents?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
They were off and running again, arguing over his hot and sour soup and her dish of Ben and Jerry’s.
All things considered, it was the best Christmas either one had enjoyed in years.
* * *
Juliana slipped down the worn staircase and headed for the library, clutching her robe tightly about her body for warmth. Outside the winds beat ceaselessly against the walls of the castle, searching for any chink in the stones, any opening. On nights like these it seemed the castle was losing the battle. Frigid drafts of wind swirled about her ankles, curling beneath the hem of her ivory cashmere robe and making her shiver.
The dying embers of a fire still burned in the library fireplace. She drew her father’s chair closer to the hearth and curled up in it, as much as her belly would allow. She had thought she would go utterly mad from the noise of music and laughter and endless conversation. By the time their guests had all retired to their respective rooms, Juliana’s nerves were so raw she felt like weeping. Weeping would be a relief. She would welcome anything that would help dissipate the awful tension building inside her chest.
Honore had insisted that a Christmas gala was not only proper but necessary. “It’s time to open the doors again, Juliana. We must think of the future.”
She watched the dwindling fire as bitterness gnawed at her breast. She’d wanted to ask Honore what future he was talking about, for surely there was no future on the horizon for Perreault. They were deep in winter’s grasp, and still the projects Honore espoused existed only on paper. For two days she’d watched while a veritable army of revelers availed themselves of her hospitality, and for what? Honore claimed this was a necessary part of the process of building good will with the same people who would soon frequent the casinos. All of which would matter only if the casinos one day came to pass, something that Juliana was beginning to doubt.
Honore had been quite pleased when she’d informed him that she’d released Isabelle’s trust fund into her sister’s hands. “You are a wise woman,” he had said approvingly. “Better to annihilate an enemy with benevolence than anger her with justice.” There was something wrong with that aphorism, but she chose not to pursue it.
So many parts of her life seemed to be spinning out of control: the nonexistent casino project, Eric with his constant traveling and lackluster lovemaking, Victoria who cried each time Juliana took her in her arms, and the most painful disappointment of them all—she laid her hands across her belly—the sonogram run last week had shown the child she carried was healthy, was developing on schedule, and was a girl. Honore had suggested she abort the child, but Juliana had been horrified. “You could try again almost immediately, my dear, and thus have the son you desire.”
She had been so offended that he quickly apologized for his faux pas. “It’s a new world, dear child. Choices are in our best interest.” Juliana, however, strongly disagreed. Taking an innocent life was wrong.
It was the not-so-innocent lives that didn’t bear closer examination.
Be careful what you wish for. The truth of that statement made her laugh out loud. Locked away in the bottom drawer of her father’s old desk was more information than she had expected or wanted. The pictures of her husband and Isabelle had torn at her heart, but she had found a way to deal with the threat. The information she now possessed was beyond her comprehension. The scope of it the sheer ugliness of what was revealed in those papers had stunned her into silence. Money laundering was the least of it. The thought of drugs being moved through the principality made her blood run cold.
She knew Eric couldn’t possibly be involved, if for no other reason than he lacked the cunning to carry out his part in the scheme. Honore, however, was another story. She had not been deaf to the whispers. Still she could not allow herself to confront him. The truth was, she needed her father-in-law. Bertrand had left behind an ocean of debts, both to Honore and to others. Honore had forgiven Bertrand’s debt to him; the other debts remained outstanding, a constant source of deep embarrassment for Juliana and the principality.
“You are not to worry, dear child,” Honore had said. “I will see to it that everyone is taken care of.”
She would not question how. That was up to her father-in-law. He had made her marriage possible, and for that she would forgive him almost anything.
* * *
By the twenty-seventh of December, Isabelle was forced to admit her cold was getting worse instead of better. She and Daniel were due to leave for Japan in five days, and she hadn’t even begun to pack or do any of the thousand things she needed to take care of before they left.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. McCaffree,” she said as the young woman entered the examining room.
“Problems don’t come on a time schedule,” the doctor said, flipping through Isabelle’s chart while she talked. “It hasn’t been that long since your last visit, has it?”
“September,” said Isabelle. “You changed my birth control prescription.”
Dr. McCaffree nodded. “Now what seems to be the problem?”
Isabelle sneezed.
“I see. Have you anything to add to that description?”
“Only that I require the services of a miracle worker. I’m short-tempered, tired all the time, and my throat is raw. I feel absolutely dreadful and I am due to leave for Japan on the first of January.”
“We’ll have to see about that.” She withdrew a tongue depressor from a jar. “Open, please—that’s it—I don’t like the look of that throat. Stay open, Isabelle, while I take a culture.”
Fifteen minutes later, the doctor came back into the room. “There’s good news and bad news.”
Isabelle sniffled then blew her nose. “Yes?”
“You don’t have strep throat, but you do have a rotten case of flu, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“I can still go to Japan, can’t I?”
“Of course you can,” said the doctor, “only not on the first of January.”
“But—”
“No buts. You could damage your hearing permanently if you fly before we clear up the ear infection you have brewing. I’ll fill out a prescription and—” She stopped. “Are you sexually active, Isabelle?”
Her cheeks burned. “What on earth does that have to do with an ear infection?”
“If you’re pregnant, I’ll need to choose a different medication. We’d hate to expose the fetus t
o any side effects.”
“I am—active, but I don’t see how I can possibly be pregnant. I’ve taken my pills regularly.”
“Only abstinence is foolproof, Isabelle. The bathroom is the second door on the right. You’ll find a specimen cup on the ledge above the sink.”
* * *
It’s not possible, Isabelle thought as she waited by the telephone for the results a few hours later. She’d taken every one of her pills exactly when she was supposed to take them. The odds of becoming pregnant were so slim that she was being ridiculous to even entertain such a notion.
Dr. McCaffree was just being cautious. Americans loved to sue their doctors. McCaffree was merely exercising the prudence necessary in such a litigious society.
She tapped her fingers against the edge of her night stand. If only she didn’t feel so dreadful, she’d go for a walk, anything to break the tension.
“Lovey, I made some—”
Isabelle fairly jumped out of her skin. “Maxine!” Her voice was down to a low rasp. “Must you sneak up on me like this? Consider knocking next time.”
Maxine stood in the doorway balancing a tray of food. “I’ll be overlookin’ your bad mood while you’re sick.”
“How kind of you,” she drawled in a particularly obnoxious tone of voice. “What do you want?”
Maxine looked pointedly at the tray. “I thought you’d be wantin’ to play a game of canasta. What would you be thinkin’ I want, lovey, me with a tray of food in my hands?”
“I’m not hungry.”
To Isabelle’s dismay, Maxine bustled into the room. “Hot chicken soup is what you’d be needin’.”
“Chicken soup?” Isabelle had to laugh. “Is this Ivan’s idea?”
“Better than these modern medicines that drain a person’s wallet. I don’t see that doctor making you well.”
“I haven’t started taking the pills yet.”
“All this fuss and feathers for nothing.” Maxine put down the tray on top of the dressing table then handed her a steaming bowl of soup. “Eat. Feed a cold, starve a fever.”
The Princess and the Billionaire (Billionaire Lovers - Book #2) Page 19
