The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  Isabelle nodded at her reflection. “Wonderful eye makeup, but isn’t my hair a little—big?”

  “You’re a gorgeous girl, honey. You wanna stand out in a crowd, don’t you?”

  Isabelle touched the top of her hair and stared as her hand bounced off the surface. “I always thought I did stand out in a crowd.”

  “Well, sure you do, but this is TV. You need a little extra oomph.”

  “Oomph?”

  “You know. Pizzazz.”

  Pizzazz was almost as bad as oomph, but Isabelle got the general picture.

  “Does this outfit have enough—oomph?”

  The hairdresser inspected her slinky royal blue chemise. “Must’ve cost a mint. Get a load of that beading along the neckline.”

  “I did the beadwork.”

  “You?” The hairdresser inspected the work more closely. “Great job. You woulda thought a machine did it.”

  Isabelle, uncertain if she had been complimented or insulted, merely smiled.

  The television studio was a confusing maze of corridors, doors, trailing wires, and harried people. Isabelle followed a frantic young man through that maze.

  “Damn,” the young man muttered as they stopped in front of a closed door. “The red light is on.” He glanced at his watch, and Isabelle noted the beads of sweat at his temples.

  “What is going on?”

  “The show, that’s what. God, my ass’ll be grass.”

  The notion of green grass sprouting on the man’s derriere made Isabelle laugh out loud. “The American idiom is surely filled with surprises.”

  The man shot her a look. “Idiom, shmidiom. You’re up next, and we can’t get inside until the damn light goes out.”

  “They’ll wait for us,” Isabelle said.

  “Honey, you’re not back in the palace. This is the US of A. People don’t wait for anybody.”

  “But if I’m the star of the show, they’ll have to, won’t they?”

  The man rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a lot to learn about living here, sweetheart.”

  Moments later, the red light went out, the door swung open, and the man pushed Isabelle toward the light.

  “Be funny,” he advised, “be sassy, and sparkle!”

  Sparkle, thought Isabelle. I can’t do that.

  “Ten seconds,” yelled a skinny black woman with red hair. “Five... four... three... two... we’re on.”

  “Welcome back, everybody.” A man’s voice rang out. Isabelle rose on tiptoe in an attempt to see over the cameras but failed. “My name is Bob Harris, and we’re talking about fame and fortune. You’ve already met Carl Lindemann and little Sallie Gleason who had to work hard for every penny they earned. Now let’s introduce the other side: two lucky people who were born with platinum spoons in their mouths. Let’s welcome—”

  “Go!” The young assistant placed his hands at the small of Isabelle’s back and pushed. She stumbled forward into the blinding lights. She couldn’t make out the audience or the crew; all she could hear was the applause drawing her in. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and walked toward the set.

  Bob Harris was a jovial sort. He extended his hand, then kissed her on the cheek. It took all of her self-control to keep from dressing him down. You would think an Englishman would have more respect for royalty, but he was in America now, where such things didn’t matter. How quickly they all forgot the things that were truly important in life.

  She nodded toward the two guests already standing there, then turned toward the fourth guest as he stepped into the spotlight.

  “Bronson!”

  He stopped a few feet away from her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  The audience erupted with laughter. Both Isabelle and Daniel started and glanced about, as if they’d forgotten where they were.

  “What have we here?” asked Bob Harris as they took their seats on either side of him. He winked into the camera. “Is there something going on that we should know about?”

  Isabelle tossed her big hair off her face and smiled. “Mr. Bronson and I are old friends,” she said with false cheer. “We met last year at the Perreault Tricentennial. He and Greta Van—”

  “In fact, the princess and I danced at her sister’s wedding,” Bronson broke in smoothly, meeting her eyes. No one had eyes that green, she thought. They had to be contact lenses. “Her waltzing needs a little work.”

  “Americans!” she said breezily. “So in love with truth as they perceive it. Whatever happened to the graceful social lie?” She hoped everyone recognized him for the skunk he was.

  “Fighting words,” bellowed Bob Harris, current purveyor of glitz and glamour. “Now let’s get to the heart of it. You two lucky people were born rich. Why work if you don’t have to?”

  Bronson obviously found the question beneath contempt. “Once you get out of school, it’s up to you to build your own life. Trust funds only go so far. You have to rely on brains and ambition to take you the rest of the way.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said Lindemann, the salad dressing king. “I didn’t go to Harvard Business School. I had to start from scratch. Worked three jobs just to get my seed money.”

  “Right,” said little Sallie. “Bet you didn’t have to audition for jobs when you were still in training pants. Try being three years old and on unemployment. Does something to a person’s self-esteem, I can tell you that.”

  “Absolutely,” Isabelle chimed in, feeling one with them all. “Can you imagine how it feels to be cast to the four winds by your own sister with nothing but the clothes on your back?”

  Bob Harris seized the moment. “Do you mean your sister, Princess Juliana, the ruler of the little principality of Perreault, threw you out of the castle?”

  There was a gasp from the audience.

  “I certainly do,” said Isabelle, warming to the subject. She cast a quick glance toward Bronson and was rewarded by the look of surprise on his face. “She threw both Maxine and me—”

  “Maxine?” Harris broke in. “Is Maxine another princess?”

  “Maxine is my governess.” Bronson’s groan was audible over the laughter of the audience, and she leaned across Bob Harris to glare at him. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Mr. Bronson.”

  “No, no,” said Bob Harris. “We’d love to hear what Daniel has to say, wouldn’t we, audience?” Wild applause confirmed his opinion. Harris really was the most annoying man.

  Bronson met her eyes. “I think a family’s problems should remain that family’s business.”

  “Spoilsport,” said Harris, turning away from Bronson. “I know we’re all interested in the princess’s story.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Harris,” said Isabelle with a sweet smile. So much for Bronson’s opinion. “It’s terribly difficult to be alone in a strange city with no one to help you find your way. I have done my solitary best to—”

  “What about your governess?” Daniel interrupted.

  “You make governess sound like a dirty word,” Isabelle snapped. “It’s not an unusual occupation.”

  “Aren’t you a little old for a nanny?”

  “And aren’t you a little old to be working for your father?”

  “I work with my father, not for him. There’s a big difference.”

  “I’m afraid that difference escapes me.”

  “The difference is, I don’t travel around with my own personal slave.”

  “How dare you! Maxine is not my slave. In fact, she’s working for a man named Ivan on your Seventh Avenue in order to make ends meet.”

  “To make ends meet? You have your nanny out there in some sweatshop while you sit around on your royal—”

  “Finish that sentence, Mr. Bronson, and I shall see to it that your attorneys are kept busy for the next six months.”

  He remained unchastened. “Where are you living, princess? The penthouse of the Plaza? Big comedown from the
castle, isn’t it?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, I am living with my aunt.”

  “Rent free?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you still need to have your nanny out there bringing in some bucks?”

  “For your information, my sister cut me off without a sou. All I have is what I brought out of Perreault with me, and as my aunt does not have unlimited funds, we are doing the best we can.”

  “You mean your nanny is doing the best she can. What are you doing, princess?”

  Isabelle opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  Bronson, the wretch, grinned at her. “Come on. You must be doing something constructive.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” she said in exasperation.

  Bob Harris laughed louder than anybody. “I’ve never heard a talk show called constructive before.”

  “I’m quite serious,” Isabelle persisted. “One afternoon last week I took stock of my skills and I realized the one thing I was quite adept at is being famous.”

  “I didn’t know being famous was a skill,” Harris said.

  “Of course it is. Isn’t that what you Americans do best?” She launched into a spirited description of the television shows, books, magazines, and radio programs she’d come in contact with since her arrival in America. “It seems to me that being famous is a full-time occupation in this country. How else can you explain the existence of Charo?” She offered a dazzling smile to the camera. “This is the land of opportunity, and since I am in need of gainful employment...”

  The audience burst into uproarious applause, and Isabelle found herself positively basking in their approval. The director signaled Bob Harris to cut to a commercial.

  “Two minutes thirty, folks, then we’re back on,” called an assistant.

  Little Sallie ran off for the ladies’ room. The salad dressing king waved frantically for the makeup artist to powder down the shine on his bulbous nose. Bob Harris unclipped his mike and strolled over to chat with the audience, which left Daniel and Isabelle alone beneath the lights.

  “You’re looking good, princess,” he said. “I like your hair big like that.”

  “Don’t talk to me. And don’t insult my hair.”

  He ignored her warnings the way he always did. “Were you telling the truth before?”

  “Of course I was.”

  “Juliana tossed you out?”

  “As soon as the funeral was over.”

  “What happened?”

  “That, Mr. Bronson, is none of your business.”

  “You’ll spill your guts on television, but you won’t tell me?”

  “I don’t like you, Mr. Bronson, and you have made it abundantly clear on many occasions that you don’t like me, either.”

  “I like you.”

  “You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

  “I want to know what happened with your sister.”

  “Then you can fly to Perreault and ask Juliana. That is something I will not talk about with anyone.”

  “I bet it has something to do with that sleazeball you were in love with.”

  “Shut up.”

  “She get tired of sharing him with you?”

  “Why do you find it necessary to attack me at every opportunity?”

  “I’m not attacking you, princess, I’m—”

  “Ten seconds, everybody!” barked the director as the other guests rushed back into the spotlights. “Four... three... two... we’re back!”

  * * *

  Her confrontation with Bronson during the commercial break had Isabelle’s temper flaring. Fortunately, she was able to turn her fire into something approximating sparkle. The audience seemed to love it. And they especially loved it whenever she and Bronson got into one of their heated discussions. The phone calls were witty and complimentary, especially the ones that inquired about her dress. Isabelle was happy to oblige with information about Ivan’s factory and her own talent with a needle. How it must infuriate Bronson to play second-fiddle to an article of clothing! There were an appalling number of questions about their relationship, but both Isabelle and Bronson stated in no uncertain terms that they were not involved with each other.

  The hour was up too quickly.

  “You were wonderful, Princess Isabelle.” Robert Silverstein, the producer, hesitated a moment as if unsure of protocol, then extended his hand. “The phone banks are lit up like Christmas trees. We’ve already had two hundred questions about your dress alone.”

  “I had a simply marvelous time,” she said. Except for Daniel Bronson, she had. “I cannot remember when I last enjoyed myself so much. And you can tell anyone who asks that the dress is an original from Tres Chic.”

  “You’re going to have your fifteen minutes and then some,” Bob Harris chimed in. “I have a number of projects in the works. You’d be a natural in a fashion segment. Give me your card, darling, and my people will call you.”

  “I don’t have a card,” Isabelle said with a toss of her head, “but I’d be happy to write my number down for you if you’d like.”

  “Oh, I’d like,” said Harris with a roguish wink. “You don’t know how much I like...”

  Daniel watched the proceedings with disgust. They were slobbering all over her like a pack of dogs in heat. She’d hit upon exactly the right blend of brashness and naïveté that Americans loved, and by the time the show was over she’d had the audience ready to fly over to Perreault and take Juliana to task for casting such an adorable little princess into exile.

  “Nice job, Mr. Bronson.” The director popped up at his elbow. “I liked that story about your father and the sailboat.”

  “Too bad he wasn’t here to tell it.”

  “Oh, you did just fine,” she continued, oblivious to his mood. “We only received a few phone calls of complaint.”

  “Complaints?” He looked down at her. “Complaining about what?”

  She stepped back. “Oh, nothing terribly important. A few people thought you were treating the princess with a lack of respect. But don’t worry: Everyone else thinks you two are having an affair!” With that she turned and hurried off to catch up with the salad dressing king.

  An affair? Not too likely. They couldn’t say two words to each other without erupting into fireworks of a different kind. He watched as Isabelle dimpled for Bob Harris, little Sallie, and assorted members of the crew. Somewhere under all that bravado was a real live woman. Too bad he’d never get to meet her.

  He wheeled and headed for the exit. He still had time to go to the office and knock off some work before jet lag kicked in big time.

  “Mr. Bronson!”

  No way was he going to turn around.

  “Mr. Bronson!”

  He pushed open the door and strode down the corridor. “For God’s sake, stop this instant and talk to me!” Petulant. Imperious. Pure Isabelle.

  To his surprise, he stopped. “Okay, princess, spit it out. I’m not in the mood for more crap.”

  She looked like she wanted to introduce his face to her fist. “You owe me an apology.”

  “The hell I do.”

  “The way you talked to me back there was unconscionable.”

  “It’s a free country. I thought that’s part of what you liked about America.”

  “You were making fun of me, and I do not appreciate it.”

  “I did exactly what you wanted me to do. I fed you the straight lines and you ran with them. You wanted to be famous, and now you’ve got your wish.”

  “I want you to know that everything I said today was true.”

  “Who said it wasn’t?” Why did she have to look so damn vulnerable when she was angry? If she cried, he’d be a goner.

  “I can tell by your expression that you don’t believe me” Her dark eyes looked suspiciously wet.

  “What difference does it make if I believe you or not?”

  “Damn it, Bronson! Why do all New Yorkers answer a question wit
h another question?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, grinning. “Do you?”

  Their eyes met.

  The moment lengthened.

  She didn’t blink or get teary or dimple at him. Her gaze was direct and uncompromising. Lethal. He’d been a pretty good sprinter in college. If he bolted for the door now, he could probably make it to Eighth Avenue before she got to the corner.

  “Have time for a cup of coffee?” he asked against his better judgment. Everything that had happened so far today had been against his better judgment.

  “I don’t drink coffee, but I should love a cup of tea.”

  Then she smiled. A real smile that made the sad light in her dark eyes vanish and sent thirty-four years of defenses crumbling into a pile at his feet.

  * * *

  The coffee shop was located a block south of Columbus Avenue on the ground floor of a modest office building. A menu was pasted to the front window with a few items crossed out in black Magic Marker. A hand-lettered sign, “Baklava fresh daily,” was taped above it. Daniel held open the door for Isabelle, and she stepped inside. A faint haze of cigarette and kitchen smoke filmed the air. The blare of a radio competed with the cook’s muttered oaths as he cracked an egg onto the grill.

  “Don’t sit at the counter,” a waitress tossed out as she hurried by balancing a trio of plates. “Nobody’s working the counter.”

  Isabelle stopped and looked toward Daniel for instruction.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing toward a booth near the rear.

  “This is wonderful,” she said as she slid across the bench. “I’ve only seen places like this in films. I didn’t believe they really existed—” She stopped. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “Every time you say something like that I think, ‘She’s got to be kidding.’ Then I remember who you are.”

  “I doubt if you ever forget that, Mr. Bronson. You certainly remind me of the fact of my birth at every opportunity.”

  The waitress stopped at their table and looked at them. “What’re you having?”

  “Tea,” said Isabelle. “No cream. Lemon on the side. Served in a large mug not a cup. And honey if you have it.”

  “We don’t have honey.”