The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  But what on earth could possibly explain that almost laughable self-confidence? In her experience, the notion of failure was something that never occurred to Americans. Defeat simply wasn’t in their national vocabulary. You had only to look at the way Bronson entered a room to know he wasn’t the kind of man who took a backseat to anything or anybody.

  She nodded toward him and dished up a more ladylike serving of eggs than she might have, had he not chosen that moment to present himself.

  “Don’t hold back on my account.” Bronson executed a ridiculous caricature of a bow in her direction. “I like a woman with an appetite.”

  Isabelle ignored the slice of honey bread she’d coveted a second ago. “I’m afraid I am not concerned with what you do and do not like in a woman, Mr. Bronson.”

  “Suit yourself.” He reached around her and grabbed himself a platter.

  Isabelle watched in envy as he loaded his plate with everything that caught his fancy.

  “You are allowed to return for more,” she tossed over her shoulder. “No one will slap your hand.”

  “Thanks,” he said, following her to the table near the French doors that led out to the garden. “I probably will.”

  She waited for him to hold out her chair. Cheerfully oblivious, he sat down and looked as though he was about to dive into his mountain of food when a cough from Isabelle caught his attention.

  “Sit down,” he said. “The food’s getting cold.”

  “My chair.”

  He glanced over at it. “Louis Quatorze, is it?”

  Muttering an oath in both French and Italian, Isabelle claimed her seat. A red-faced butler dashed out from the anteroom, but Isabelle waved him away.

  “If you wanted me to hold your chair, you should have said so.”

  She glared at him across the table. “A true gentleman wouldn’t have needed to be told.”

  He made short work of a croissant. “Like your boyfriend Eric?”

  “Eric?” she said, eyes wide. “Do you mean Honore Malraux’s son?” Perfect, she thought. Not too ingenuous. Not too arch. He’d never suspect a thing.

  “Yeah,” said Bronson. “The guy you’re sleeping with.”

  She felt as if she’d been caught in flagrante delicto. “How dare you insinuate such a thing.”

  “I’m not insinuating anything,” Bronson said, swallowing some black coffee. “I’m stating a fact.”

  “You know nothing about me,” Isabelle said, cheeks reddening. “You couldn’t possibly know with whom I spend my time.”

  “Wrong, princess. I know exactly what you were up to last night.”

  Her liaison with Eric flashed through her mind in glorious technicolor. “But you—I mean, we were—”

  Bronson threw back his head and laughed. The sound was entirely too triumphant for Isabelle’s taste. “You’re going to have to work on that poker face. It’ll get you in trouble one of these days.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder that you spend time speculating on the lives of others, Mr. Bronson, for it is abundantly clear your own bedmate of last night has abandoned you.”

  That phantom grin of his teased the corners of his mouth. “How do you know I had a bedmate last night?” he countered. “Maybe I spent it alone, thinking of you.”

  “A man like you? I cannot imagine you spend many nights alone.” She treated him to a parody of her most flirtatious smile. “Thinking of me or otherwise.”

  “Don’t waste your time batting your eyelashes at me, princess. I’m out of your league.”

  Isabelle laughed out loud. “What a high opinion you have of yourself. Are all Americans as self-satisfied as you?”

  “Only the successful ones.”

  “Then I shudder to think of the future of your country. You are vulgar, egotistical, incredibly—”

  “Good morning, all.”

  Both Isabelle and Daniel turned toward the doorway. Greta VanArsdalen, ex-wife of a notable Dutch banker, slithered into the room, a vision in cream-colored wool and silk. She exuded the ripe sexuality of a woman in her prime, a woman who knew the power of her allure and didn’t hesitate to use it. Isabelle, newly attuned to the sensual byplay between men and women, knew instantly that Bronson and the sleek blonde had spent the night together.

  Why was it that she’d never before realized how much she disliked Greta VanArsdalen?

  “You’re looking well, Isabelle,” Greta offered as she glided over to the sideboard.

  “As are you, Greta.”

  Greta’s gaze landed on the collar of Isabelle’s blouse. “How perfectly sweet,” she purred. “Embroidered collars are so cunning.”

  Fine needlework was Isabelle’s only claim to artistic talent. The woman’s cutting remark found its target with ease. She was possessed of an almost irresistible urge to embroider the woman’s mouth shut.

  Greta cast a look in Bronson’s direction. Isabelle could feel the heat from across the table. Suddenly she felt terribly young and extremely uncomfortable, and she welcomed the arrival of the other guests. In moments the room was filled to overflowing with Swedes and Japanese, Brits and Italians, until it seemed as if every nationality in the world was represented at the table.

  But it was the only American at the table who commanded Isabelle’s attention, and each time she looked at Daniel Bronson, he was looking right back at her and laughing.

  * * *

  She thought he was laughing at her. Maybe he had been, but he wasn’t any longer. Damn it. She was a spoiled brat. Why couldn’t she stay that way instead of turning into a real live human being in front of his eyes? He saw her uneasiness in the way she held her chin high and stabbed at her eggs with short, determined jabs of the sterling silver fork. He liked the way she used that fork. She might act like a pampered house pet but she also had a no-nonsense directness that would have made her feel right at home on the streets of Queens.

  The idea of the glamorous Princess Isabelle strolling along Roosevelt Avenue, window-shopping at Woolworth’s, and saying hi to the guys at the construction site on the corner brought a huge smile to his face, something he instantly regretted when he glanced across the table at her and caught the look in her eyes. Damn it, princess, he thought, ripping apart a piece of honey bread and smearing it with sweet butter. I’m not laughing at you. Not really. Who would’ve figured the girl with the sharp tongue would have such thin skin? He didn’t want to think of her as a real live person with a breakable heart. He wanted to think of her only as another of Perreault’s underutilized natural resources.

  The word around town was that she was wild as an unbroken mare, as flighty and unpredictable as her mother, and twice as beautiful. While the old-timers on the staff despaired for her future, they still seemed to have a soft spot in their hearts for Isabelle, a soft spot that didn’t exist for her sister Juliana.

  Next to him Greta was going on about some idiotic horse show she was riding in next month in Philadelphia, and wouldn’t he absolutely love to come to Philly to cheer her on? He grunted something noncommittal and shot another look at the dark-haired princess. Those high, almost Slavic cheekbones and her straight nose gave her face a chiseled quality, softened only by the huge dark eyes with the thick tangle of lashes that cast a shadow each time she glanced down at her plate. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain-smooth, with a patch of high color riding across each cheekbone.

  It suddenly hit him that she wasn’t half as smart or sophisticated as she wanted him to believe. She was a nineteen-going-on-twenty-year-old girl with a bad case of the hots for a guy who wasn’t good enough to kiss her Maud Frizons. He’d overheard the servants talking about the little princess and Malraux’s son, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was all about. She thought she was in love, even though Bronson could have told her that sooner or later the fog would lift and she would see Eric Malraux for the nobody he was. People often mistook loneliness for love and, unless he missed his guess, this was one of those times. Trouble was, if he t
old Isabelle right now, she wouldn’t believe him.

  Just because he was too old and too jaded to believe in happily-ever-after was no reason to deny the girl her dreams. He’d had a first time himself and dreamed those same dreams. She’d learn soon enough that life didn’t always work out according to plan, not even for princesses with eyes dark as night.

  But still there was something about her that called out to Bronson in a way that made him feel both powerful and vulnerable at the same time. Something that went beyond the allure of her cascade of dark curls or the sweet curves of her ripe young body and touched at the most primitive part of his soul. She shifted in her seat, brushing away a lock of hair with an elegant, artless gesture and for a moment, Bronson knew exactly how she would feel in his arms. She was too young, too spoiled, too much trouble for a man as practical and pig-headed as he was, but still—

  I’m not laughing at you, princess, he thought as he met her eyes. I’m just wondering why I couldn’t have been first.

  Chapter

  Three

  Breakfast dragged on forever. There were so many people laughing about so many inconsequential things that Isabelle could scarcely manage to keep her mind on the foolish conversations flying about her head, much less respond in kind.

  Only forty-five minutes until she was in Eric’s arms once more. The thought was enough to make even this boring meal palatable. She sipped her coffee, listening for the deep roar of Eric’s Lamborghini. Outside, a crisp autumn day beckoned, and she wished she could meet Eric down near the lake. Away from prying eyes, she could throw herself into his arms and—

  Bronson’s amused laughter brought her back to the breakfast table. “Come on, princess,” he said in that infuriating American accent of his. “Dr. Wortham asked you a question.”

  Isabelle conquered her desire to kick him under the table. Instead she turned her attention to the physicist and managed to field some questions about Perreault’s stand on global warming without making a total fool of herself.

  “Very good,” said Bronson a few minutes later as he joined her near the sideboard. “I almost believed you knew what you were talking about.”

  She cast him a look that would have destroyed a lesser man. “And what makes you think I didn’t know what I was talking about?”

  “Remember what I told you about your poker face? You lost it again back there.”

  Juliana would have graciously admitted her shortcomings and made it her business to introduce Dr. Wortham to an expert. “Does the doctor realize that?”

  “Princess, if she doesn’t, she’d better give back that Nobel prize.”

  “Oh, do be still,” Isabelle hissed, putting her plate back down on the sideboard. “Who asked for your opinion?”

  Bronson grabbed the honey bread from her plate and bit off a chunk of it. There was something almost primitive about the flash of white teeth, something disturbing and earthy, and Isabelle looked away. Thank God he wasn’t her type at all.

  “He’s out there, you know.”

  “Who is?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  “Don’t you ever tire of juvenile pranks, Mr. Bronson, or is it merely another facet of the remarkable American character?”

  “You don’t like Americans, do you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked at her.

  “I like some Americans,” she replied pointedly. “Those who understand that familiarity is something to be earned.”

  He grinned. “That doesn’t change the fact that your boyfriend is outside.”

  “Impossible. He isn’t due for another quarter hour.” She met his eyes. “Besides, he wouldn’t wander through the garden. He would come inside. After all, Eric is like one of the family.”

  “Not if he wasn’t alone.”

  To her horror, tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to stem the flow. “Eric wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “Life is tough, princess,” he said, his gaze intent upon her. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “You’re despicable,” she whispered. “I pity you that you find it necessary to hate those who are lucky enough to have someone to love.”

  He gestured toward the garden beyond the glass doors. “Go ahead. Find out for yourself. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll be waiting for your apology.”

  “You’ll be waiting in hell for it, Mr. Bronson, because I would rather die than give you the time of day.”

  “You’ll change your mind, Isabelle,” he said, heading back toward the breakfast table. “Sooner or later, you’ll come around.”

  Isabelle didn’t linger long enough to try to untangle his words. With hasty apologies to the others, she dashed from the room. She could have let herself out the French doors and into the garden, but Bronson already had more than enough to amuse him, so she hurried through the hallway and into the kitchen.

  “Princess Isabelle!” Olivia, one of the chef’s assistants, leaped to her feet as Isabelle burst into the room. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Isabelle shook her head. “A back door,” she said, glancing about the room. “We have one that leads into the garden, don’t we?”

  Olivia maintained her composure, even though Isabelle was certain the girl was filled with curiosity. “Through the butler’s pantry and down the hallway to the right. It takes you to the rose garden.”

  Isabelle clapped her hands together. “Splendid! I’ll be on the other side of the garden.” Away from prying eyes watching from the French doors. She would die of embarrassment if Bronson and the other guests saw her scurrying down the path after Eric.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” She flashed the girl a quick smile. “Thank you, Olivia. If anyone should ask, you haven’t seen me all morning.”

  “As you wish, mademoiselle.”

  The butler’s pantry was an enormous, windowless room in which the bounty of harvests past rested on deep shelves that went from floor to ceiling, effectively hiding the door that led down to the cellar. Conserves, jams, jellies, and relishes vied for space with jars of Belgian carrots, raspberry vinegars, and cornichons. Glass bottles of pale gold olive oil rested next to enormous sacks of unbleached flour and winter onions.

  She pushed open the back door and stepped out into the garden. Although it was late October, a few bloodred roses still clung to the thorny branches, their sweet fragrance softening the sharp, tangy air. The pathway divided at the edge of the rose garden, and she paused, her gaze drawn across the endless sweep of lawn. If she stood on tiptoe, she could make out a curve of driveway sheltered beneath the porte cochere. Sunlight glittered off the elegant angles of the familiar red Lamborghini, and her breath caught as if she’d received a blow to her chest.

  She hesitated, then the sound of laughter, low and intimate, caught her attention. Turning, she peered through a thick rhododendron bush and looked toward the gazebo. Juliana and Eric were clearly visible, standing inside the gazebo. What on earth could they be talking about that would make Juliana duck her head and smile like that? And Eric certainly looked pleased with himself, albeit a trifle nervous. He wore a turtleneck sweater the color of jet, and she thought she’d never seen him look more romantically handsome. He had that elegant pallor she’d always associated with poets and artists, even though Eric had grown up surrounded by horses, not books and brushes.

  He was leaning against the south side post, his golden head tilted to one side, while Juliana talked with what seemed to be great intensity, her pale hair whipping across her cheek in the breeze. Juliana looked so serious while Eric—darling Eric—looked serious and sincere and so absolutely adorable that Isabelle’s heart melted.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she called out as she approached the gazebo, “and I love you for it.”

  Juliana turned toward her sister, her cameo-perfect face composed and radiant. “Oh, I doubt that you do, Isabelle.”

  Isabelle climbed the three steps and went to Eric’s sid
e. “You cannot fool me, you two wonderful people. You’re making plans for my birthday, aren’t you?” In two and a half weeks she would be turning twenty years of age, and she knew that wonderful occasion would not pass without great fanfare. She linked her arm through Eric’s. Especially not now. “Tell me, are we having a private party for family or a wonderful bash with no one over twenty-five allowed?” She gave Eric’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Why so silent? Has my big sister been telling you all of my dark and dreadful secrets?”

  “Eric had some marvelous ideas,” said Juliana, breaking in smoothly, “none of which you are to know about until the tenth of November.”

  “So you were plotting something wonderful for my birthday.” She threw back her head and laughed with joy. “I knew it! Juli, you are so terrible at keeping secrets.”

  Eric cast a look back toward the garden room. “We seem to be attracting no small amount of interest.”

  Isabelle glanced over her shoulder. Bronson, arms folded across his broad chest, was watching the scene with blatant curiosity. “Oh, pay no attention,” she said airily. “That obnoxious Mr. Bronson has nothing better to do than stick his nose into other people’s affairs.” Her choice of words brought a rosy glow to her sister’s cheeks. “Oh, Juli!” She laughed and planted a kiss on Juliana’s forehead. “Don’t be so provincial. We’re all adults now, aren’t we?” Feeling amazingly smug and quite adult, she swung about and met Eric’s eyes. “Juli knows all about us.”

  “I’d rather suspected as much.”

  “Are you angry with me?” She pressed kisses along his jawline. “Juli is my sister. I simply couldn’t keep such wondrous news from her.”

  “Don’t make our girl suffer, Eric.” Juliana’s voice was sweet and soft as springtime rain. “You know she finds it impossible to keep a secret.”

  Eric met Juliana’s eyes, and Isabelle frowned at the look that passed between them. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  His serious expression dissolved into the pleasant smiling countenance she knew and loved. “Darling girl,” he said, drawing her into his embrace. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”