“The hell I am.”
“The first time I saw you I thought you were too handsome for your own good, too arrogant for my taste, and too opinionated to ever do business in Perreault.”
“Three strikes,” he said. “I’m surprised you didn’t have me tossed in the dungeon.”
“I also thought you were incredibly sexy.”
“Keep going.”
“So did that cow Greta VanArsdalen, if I remember correctly.”
He flipped her onto her back and pinned her to the mattress. “You were going to say that on TV this morning, weren’t you?”
“If you hadn’t stopped me, I would have.”
“It was a weekend fling, princess. I never saw her again.”
“Do you make a habit of that sort of thing?”
“Weekend flings? I’m not looking for a commitment, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good,” she said, “because I feel the same way.”
“So what is this, princess? What are we getting into?”
“An affair. Sex without complications. When it’s over, we say good-bye and go our separate ways.” She paused. “Why are you looking at me like that? Isn’t that exactly what you desire in a relationship?”
“Yeah,” he said, “but it doesn’t sound the same when you say it.”
“My father played me for a fool, Daniel. So did my sister and her husband. I think that is quite enough for one lifetime.”
“I won’t hurt you, princess,” he said quietly. “That’s the one thing I can promise you.”
“Don’t make promises,” she said, placing her finger against his lips. “Just kiss me.”
* * *
When Isabelle awoke, the room was bathed in the muted blues of dusk. For a moment she didn’t know where she was and she sat up in bed trying to place her surroundings. Daniel mumbled something in his sleep, and she nearly jumped out of her skin in surprise. The whole incredible afternoon came rushing back in on her in extraordinary detail. So that was what all the fuss was about. She’d never imagined the infinite variety possible between a man and a woman. Certainly she had never suspected it during her months with Eric. She didn’t know whether to be thoroughly ashamed of herself or wake Bronson up and do it all over again.
She touched his shoulder. “Daniel.” No response. She said his name again, but he was deeply asleep. Jet lag, the result of his trip home from Japan, had finally set in, and she knew he would be out for hours. In truth she was glad, for it made things much easier.
The warmth of the bed, the solid strength of his body, the feeling that she’d been moving toward this moment since the day she was born—none of it was real. She couldn’t allow herself to believe it was possible.
Gently she pulled the covers up over his chest, then slipped from the bed. If she didn’t leave now, while she still could, she might never leave, and the thought of needing him that much terrified her.
Gathering up her clothes, she padded into the enormous marble bathroom adjacent to the master bedroom to reassemble herself as best she could.
Twenty minutes later, reasonably well put together, she sat down at his desk and wrote her telephone number on the back of one of his business cards. Returning to the bedroom, she pinned it to her pillow with one of her brooches, kissed his forehead, then let herself out of the apartment.
The next move was his.
* * *
“And where in the world have you been, lovey?” asked Maxine when Isabelle returned. “The telephone has been ringing off the hook and myself without a clue what to say. I was thinking of calling the authorities.”
Isabelle tossed her shawl across the Queen Anne desk in the foyer. She had been hoping to have the apartment to herself for a few hours in order to collect her thoughts. She simply wasn’t ready to share what had happened, not even with Maxine.
“What are you doing home early, Maxi?” She kissed the older woman on the cheek. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“And who could work with the whole world beatin’ a path to my door? ’Tis a wonder I didn’t lose my job.”
“For heaven’s sake, will you calm down and explain to me what is happening?”
Maxine pointed toward the answering machine and a two-inch stack of messages next to it. “This is a country of craziness, that’s what it is. You would think these people have nothing better to do than waste their time listening to other people’s troubles.”
Isabelle pounced on the messages and riffled through them. Given the extraordinary turn of events with Daniel, she had forgotten their television appearance. “My God, Maxi! People magazine wants to do a three-page story on me!” She glanced at the next few slips of paper. Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue wanted to feature her on their covers. “I cannot believe it. People want to order a dress like the one I’m wearing! They don’t even care about the price.”
Maxine looked as bewildered as Isabelle felt. She informed Isabelle that the telephones at Tres Chic had been ringing all afternoon with pleas for information on how to order the Princess Isabelle dress seen on “The Morning Show.”
Isabelle’s story of royalty on the rocks had sparked the public’s imagination. Americans loved what they called the “underdog” and the notion of a poor little rich girl cast out into the big cold world with only her governess for company and a trunkful of beautiful clothes. This was even better than following the Brits because it was happening right there in the US of A.
Isabelle dialed the buyer at Bonwit Teller. “I’m not a dressmaker,” she said apologetically. “I only did the needlework.”
“Who cares?” the woman responded. “Just put that beadwork on a burlap sack with your name on it, and we’re talking six-figure profits.”
It was the same with Bloomingdale’s and Lord & Taylor.
Maxine called Ivan and asked him to come over immediately, and by midnight Isabelle realized that they were on the verge of major success. She popped the cork on a bottle of Aunt Elysse’s best champagne and poured them each a glass. “America!” she said, raising her glass high. “The land of opportunity!”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” said Ivan, clinking his glass against Isabelle’s and then Maxine’s. “Seventy years I wait to make a name for myself, and it takes you one hour on television to do it for me!” He muttered something in Russian, and they all laughed, even though only Ivan knew what he was saying.
Ivan was a most delightful man, and Isabelle wasn’t blind to the affection present between him and Maxine. It seemed that years ago Ivan had been a tailor for the Bolshoi Ballet, slaving away with nothing but a dream to keep him going. When Rudolf Nureyev defected to freedom in the 1960s, Ivan defected with him. Unfortunately Rudi went one way, Ivan went another, and poor Ivan had been slogging for a living ever since.
Maxine, the worrier, refused a second glass of champagne, declaring the celebration both premature and excessive. “The girl puts a few fancy stitches on a dress, and she thinks she’d be inventin’ the wheel. Nothing lasts forever, I say, and you would do well to be rememberin’ that.”
Isabelle winked at Ivan. “We know nothing lasts forever, Maxi. That’s why we intend to make the best of it while it does last.”
Maxine shot them both a withering look. “Opportunists. This country is filled with nothing but opportunists.” Her withering look embraced Isabelle’s dress as well. “My sweet girl dressed like a common—”
“Stop while you can, Maxine,” Isabelle warned sweetly. “You told me to help with the household expenses, and I have finally found a way that will help not only us, but Ivan as well.”
“Would you be listenin’ to Miss High-and-Mighty. Nobody would pay a brass farthing for those dresses if you weren’t a princess.”
“You’re right, Maxi, and we intend to exploit that fact for everything it’s worth, don’t we, Ivan?”
Ivan, oblivious to the implied insults, poured some champagne. He and Isabelle toasted princesses and embroidery and were about to offer a toast
to syndicated daytime television when Maxine grabbed the bottle.
“Enough with this nonsense! ’Tis unseemly, that’s what it is. You don’t see any English royalty peddling their wares on television like common shop girls.”
“If I had the Windsor’s jewelry, I wouldn’t have to, either. This is the real world, Maxi. Aren’t you the one who told me to get out there and do something?”
Maxine knew when she’d been bested, but to save face, she muttered something about Isabelle finding herself a husband instead of wasting her time on television shows.
“I don’t want a husband,” Isabelle said, the memory of her hours in Bronson’s bed heating her blood. “Every man I’ve met since we’ve been here has bored me to tears.” Which neatly excluded Daniel since she’d met him in Perreault.
“I have a nephew,” said Ivan, “Drives a limousine, got a house on Long Island, and four weeks’ paid vacation every year. You could do worse, Izzy.”
Izzy? Somehow it made her feel very American, and she smiled.
“I know of one who wouldn’t be letting you best him,” said Maxine, her expression sly. “Daniel Bronson.”
She couldn’t possibly know anything, Isabelle told herself. The trick was to stay calm and act natural. “What a ridiculous thing to say. You know perfectly well that Mr. Bronson and I are not fond of each other.”
“I know what I saw today on the telly, and a picture is worth a thousand words.”
“She’s right, Izzy. I saw it, too.”
“Ivan, please! Mr. Bronson and I don’t even like each other.”
Ivan shrugged his shoulders. “So when does like have anything to do with love? I know sparks when I see them, and you two had sparks.”
“You could do worse, lovey,” said Maxine. “I’d feel better if I knew that when I die I could leave you in his hands.”
Isabelle was still laughing an hour later when she said good night. Maxine would die right on the spot if she knew that was exactly where Isabelle had spent the day: in Daniel Bronson’s hands.
Chapter
Eleven
Apparently Maxine and Ivan weren’t the only ones who thought Bronson and Isabelle had chemistry.
The New York Daily News, the Post, and Newsday all said that they were a real-life Sam and Diane, whoever they were, and gave their battle-of-the-sexes exchange on “The Morning Show” a collective thumbs-up. The general consensus was that if Isabelle and Daniel weren’t having an affair, it was simply a matter of time.
Even Isabelle had to admit that the still photos from “The Morning Show” were provocative. There was no mistaking the body language or the intensity. They were tuned in to each other, to the exclusion of everyone else in the studio. Her face flamed with the realization that what had been so obvious to everyone watching the show had taken both of them by surprise a few hours later.
Maxine left for work a little before eight o’clock just as the telephones began to ring with more requests and invitations and offers for Isabelle. When the intercom buzzed a half-hour later, Isabelle was juggling two phones and the beginning of a headache.
“Delivery for you, ma’am,” said the doorman. “I’m sending Barney up with it.”
“Roses!” she exclaimed when she opened the door. She quickly put her phone call on hold. “How lovely!”
“Better clear off a table, ma’am,” said Barney as he handed her a bouquet of bloodred American Beauties. “Somebody musta bought out the entire florist’s shop.”
Barney didn’t exaggerate. White roses, pink roses, yellow roses by the dozens, followed by an enormous live bush of pink tea roses for the terrace. A tiny rhinestone tiara peeked out from among the blooms. The card was signed simply, “Daniel.” She smiled as she held the card in her hand before slipping it into the pocket of her trousers.
He called a little before nine-thirty. “Your phone’s been busy, princess.”
She leaned against the edge of the desk and pressed the phone closer to her ear. Her headache immediately disappeared. “Everything has gone crazy here since yesterday, Daniel.” She told him about the dress orders, her needlework, and Ivan. “And now the apartment is filled with the most beautiful roses in the world.”
“Not half as beautiful as you.”
She laughed. “I’m not accustomed to being complimented by you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you won’t leave like that next time. I would’ve liked waking up to see your face.”
“Two compliments in a row.” How could she tell him she’d left because she needed to know that she could. “Does this mean we’re actually beginning to like each other?”
“Anything’s possible.”
She thought about the things they’d done the day before, the things they’d said. “This is certainly not a normal love affair, is it?”
“Not by a long shot. Maybe that’s why we were so damn good together.”
She hugged the phone more tightly. “We were, weren’t we?” she asked. “Very good together.”
“I want to see you tonight.”
“I want to see you, too, Bronson.”
“I thought you were calling me Daniel.”
“I’m a creature of habit. Besides, you don’t call me by my Christian name.”
“Does that bother you, princess?”
“Not a whit. Does it bother you, Bronson?”
“Not if you...” His request was simply put and quite thrilling.
She found herself smiling broadly. “I’ll consider it.”
“Eight o’clock,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at your aunt’s place.”
“No! I mean, you don’t have to do that. I can find my way around the city.”
He wouldn’t hear of it. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind meeting that nanny of yours.”
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t think she’ll like me?”
“It’s not that.” Frantically she cast about for an excuse. “Maxine goes to bed early.”
“Eight o’clock?”
“I mean, she’s been working late.”
“Princess, are you sure there is a Maxine?”
“Of course there is a Maxine, and you’ll meet her very soon, Bronson. I promise.”
* * *
Either television talk shows were more popular than he’d thought, or everyone Daniel knew had a hell of a lot of time on their hands. Whatever the reason, it seemed as if everyone in New York City had caught “The Morning Show” yesterday.
Cabdrivers, the guy who sold newspapers at the corner kiosk, his mother who swore she never watched anything except “Guiding Light,” everyone had seen his appearance on the talk show and everyone had an opinion. “Say hi to the princess!” the guy buffing the lobby floor had called out as Daniel entered the Bron-Co building. “I’d give up democracy any day for someone like that.”
Poor guy didn’t know how close he came to losing his teeth.
Get a grip on yourself, he chided as he stepped onto the elevator. Stay cool.
The elevator operator was a new guy. He glanced at Daniel when he entered the car, then glanced at him again. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”
“You might,” said Daniel. “I own the company.”
“No, that’s not it,” said the guy. “Someplace else.”
Gimme a break. Not that goddamn TV show.
The guy smacked his forehead. “You were on TV yesterday! ‘The Morning Show’—all about big shots, right?”
“Yeah,” said Daniel, thinking fondly of automation. “Big shots.”
“You and that duchess—”
“Princess.”
“Yeah, the way you and that princess were going at it, I figured you had to be an item.”
“We’re not an item.”
“Yeah?” The guy didn’t look convinced.
“You heard it here.”
The car shimmied to a stop, the doors opened, and Daniel exploded into his o
ffice.
“Say one more word about the television show, Phyl, and you’re dead meat,” he announced as he tossed his coat on the rack in the anteroom.
Phyllis had always been fearless. “‘Hollywood casting directors, take note,’” she read from the Wall Street Journal. “‘Handsome millionaire and beautiful princess are—’”
Daniel grabbed the paper and crumpled it into the wastebasket on his way into his office. “You’re hanging by a thread, DeRosa. Don’t push me.”
“You can’t fool me with that grouchy act,” she called after him. “You love this! You and a princess on national television!”
He loomed in the doorway. “National? What are you talking about, national?”
“They’re syndicated, boss. Didn’t anybody tell you?”
“Son of a bitch!” He slammed the door shut behind him. He and Isabelle had a snowball’s chance in hell of maintaining their privacy. His intercom buzzed.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone, Phyllis.”
“It’s your sister, the doctor.”
“Especially my sister the doctor.”
“She says it’s an emergency.”
“She always says it’s an emergency. Tell her I’ll call back.”
A second later the intercom buzzed again. “She said she won’t hang up until you talk to her.”
“Great. I hope her phone bill goes through the roof.”
“I’m going to put her through,” said Phyllis. “I don’t need this aggravation.”
“This’d better be good,” he warned before Cathy had a chance to say a word. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Hello to you, too,” said Cathy, her tone huffy. “And here I am, just calling to tell you I understand.”
“Understand what?” He sounded suspicious and with good reason.
“Why you’ve been keeping such a low profile the last few months. A princess, Danny! I’m impressed.”
“It’s not what you think.” At least, it hadn’t been until yesterday.
“Feeling protective, are we? That’s one of the first signs. Mom is already talking about silver patterns.”
The Princess and the Billionaire Page 13
