The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  “Tell Mom to cancel her order,” Daniel snapped. “There’s no wedding on the horizon.”

  “You know Mom. She sees everything in terms of happy endings. Seriously, though, she’s thrilled that you’re seeing someone.”

  “Who in hell said I was seeing anyone? I was on a TV show, for God’s sake.”

  “I saw the way you were looking at her, Danny. We all saw the way you were looking at her. You’d have to be blind to miss the signs. You can’t tell me you don’t feel something for her, because I won’t buy it.”

  “What the hell is wrong with the bunch of you?” he exploded. “Doesn’t anybody in this damn family think of anything except my marital status?”

  “Touchy, aren’t we?”

  “Can you blame me?” he shot back. “I’m thirty-four years old, Cathy. I made my first million before I turned twenty-one. Believe it or not, I can take care of my own goddamn love life without any help from you.”

  He slammed the phone down in its cradle and looked around for something to punch. That’s what was wrong with his office. Nothing to punch. He made a mental note to have maintenance install a speed bag in the corner especially for times like this. With a family like his, times like this came with regularity.

  He pushed back his chair and stood up. Tension was coiled inside his chest and winding tighter. He paced the length of his office, trying to work off his anger. He and the princess had enough things working against them. If they added public opinion to the mix, they might as well call it quits now.

  Damn it, he didn’t like waking up to find a note pinned to his pillow. He’d wanted to see her beautiful face, hear the sound of her gentle breathing, feel the softness of her breasts against his chest. What the hell was wrong with her, disappearing like that without even saying good-bye?

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, she wouldn’t let him pick her up at her aunt’s apartment. She was busy setting boundaries, building fences between them that he found himself wanting to blast his way through. He’d never met a softer woman with a harder edge in his life. Hell, for all he knew she was still in love with her sister’s husband. If he had half a brain left in his head, he’d keep that in mind.

  She was too complex a bundle of woman for his taste. She was young, strangely naive about some things, and yet, she possessed that European sophistication that made him feel backward and gauche. They didn’t speak the same language or want the same things from life; and no matter how long she lived in the United States, she’d always be royalty, and he’d be a guy whose relatives crossed the ocean in steerage. The gulf between them was wider than the Atlantic, and nothing he could say or do would ever change that.

  Still there was something else going on between them, something deeper and stronger, more powerful than anything he’d ever known before, and that something had been there from the very first time they met. They understood each other on a level that went beyond words. Too bad the words they managed to find kept getting in the way. Yesterday, with her naked in his arms, he’d found himself thinking about next week and next month, projecting the two of them into a future his family had always told him he would want.

  “Well, the joke’s on me, folks.” He stood by the window and looked down at the traffic moving slowly down Park Avenue. The little princess said she didn’t want a commitment. She wasn’t looking for anything more than a pleasurable interlude. Most women wanted the night before to slide into the morning after. He woke up to find the bed empty and the scent of her perfume in the air. She didn’t want what he couldn’t give, and he wished he could be happier about that fact than he was.

  * * *

  Honore had said the groundbreaking for the casino would happen before the first snows. A site had been chosen that fronted the lake, and Juliana had been quite impressed by the architect’s rendering. Her lingering doubts about the advisability of courting the gambling trade had been replaced by a modest optimism.

  It was now late October, however, and still the ground remained unbroken. Juliana had questioned her father-in-law about it the day before yesterday, only to have him kiss her cheek and tell her not to worry.

  As if that were possible, given the state of Perreault’s financial affairs. Despite the delay over the groundbreaking, Honore had been a godsend. Why he chose to stand beside her and offer his support was a question she dared not ask. She only knew that she blessed him every time she sat down with the Minister of Finance and considered the disaster her father had left behind upon his death. “What on earth is this?” she had asked Honore, her eyes brimming with tears. “Where did these debts come from? My God, Honore, we owe you millions of francs!”

  In a tender voice Honore had explained that her father had been a wonderful ruler but a dreadful businessman. He had offered to forgive the debts, but Juliana would not hear of it. Putting aside her reservations, she had granted him the right to build his casino complex with her full cooperation. It was the least she could do. If Honore called in the debts, the entire principality would be in ruin.

  Under the circumstances, how could she possibly complain when Malraux family business kept her husband traveling much of the time?

  “Madam, the periodicals you requested have arrived.”

  Juliana looked up from her correspondence to see Yves standing in the doorway. “Thank you, Yves. You may bring them in.”

  Moments later he reappeared with a box filled with newspapers and magazine clippings arranged in date order.

  “Will there be anything else, madam?”

  She shook her head. “No, Yves. You may go now.”

  “Je suis votre serviteur.” He bowed, then left the room.

  It had not taken long for news of Isabelle’s escapades in America to reach the castle. Tante Elysse had fired off a blistering letter to Juliana, taking her to task for casting the poor child into the night without anything to call her own. Juliana had wanted to point out to the woman that she was writing her letter from her beach house in Bermuda and not from the poor child’s side, but she controlled the impulse. Her aunt’s opinion was of little interest to her. Elysse had turned away from Perreault long before Juliana was born. There was no reason to pay any attention to her ramblings at this late date.

  She reached into the box and withdrew a sheaf of newspaper clippings. Isabelle on television. Isabelle coming out of a boutique, packages in hand. Isabelle at the Russian Tea Room, Lutece, and 21.

  Juliana leaned forward, intrigued. Isabelle on the arm of Daniel Bronson? She should have known the slut would not remain without a man for long. Isabelle’s choice surprised her, however. Certainly she could have done better than be bedded by an American.

  How gratifying to know that perhaps he was the best she could do. She wanted nothing but the worst for her beloved sister.

  Last month Honore had suggested that Juliana free her sister’s trust fund. “It serves no purpose, dear child. Let the girl have her money. What she does with it cannot compromise your happiness in any way.”

  Juliana had considered his suggestion then rejected it. It appeared that Isabelle had overcome her financial difficulties through an appalling bourgeois clothing venture. Juliana saw no need to help fund the undertaking.

  “I will not reward treachery,” she said to her father-in-law. “Not for any reason.”

  Neither she nor Honore mentioned Eric’s part in it. Honore understood his son’s shortcomings. Juliana was willing to overlook them. He was her husband. And, if the gods were with her, one day soon he would be the father of her son, the next ruler of Perreault.

  The intercom on her desk buzzed. The nanny, a plain-faced Swede, informed her that Victoria had been bathed and awaited her mother’s good night.

  “I am unavoidably detained,” Juliana said smoothly. “I shall see her in the morning for breakfast.”

  The nanny began to protest, but Juliana cut her dead. It was growing harder and harder to find help who understood their place. Certainly she need not spend her time explaining hers
elf to an employee. Victoria was four months old. It was highly unlikely she would know the difference between her mother and her nanny. If she did, she would learn to adjust the same as her mother had before her.

  * * *

  For the first few weeks, Daniel’s apartment on the forty-ninth floor was their refuge from the world. He gave Isabelle her own set of keys on their second night together. Both were equally surprised, but neither said anything about it. Isabelle was determined to maintain her own sense of herself despite the overwhelming urge to seek safety in Daniel’s arms. As for Daniel, he veered between admiration of her burgeoning independence and the strong male desire to own her.

  Isabelle discovered that being profitably famous was a time-consuming venture, something Daniel could have told her if she had asked. Based on the incredible volume of orders for the “Princess dress,” Ivan had hired an advertising agency to put together a promo campaign featuring Isabelle, and she spent a goodly number of hours posing for a camera in a series of beautifully embroidered dresses. Ivan was a clever businessman, and he’d divided the line into ready-to-wear and custom made. In a moment of rash enthusiasm, Isabelle had agreed to personally embroider two dresses a month for women willing to pay the price. To her amazement, the price was enough to feed a family for a year.

  Daniel had a few anxious moments in late October when it seemed as if the Japanese investors would back out of the deal with Bron-Co, but thanks to Matty’s shrewd business sense, the deal held firm. Unlike New York’s other real estate families, the Bronson’s fortune was built on a solid and wholly-owned foundation of already developed real estate properties that were bringing in steady profits.

  Maxine, of course, knew all about Daniel, but Isabelle stubbornly refused to bring the two of them together. Introducing him to Maxine would make the whole affair seem much too important, much too permanent, and she kept coming up with lame excuses to keep them apart.

  In mid-November, Daniel finally had enough of Isabelle’s reluctance and, over dinner at his apartment, he issued an ultimatum.

  “Either you introduce me to Maxine in the next ten days, or it’s over between us.” He handed her a sizzling platter of shrimp scampi, then dished one up for himself.

  “Whatever you say.” Isabelle breathed deeply of the wonderful aroma. “You, Mr. Bronson, are the world’s most wonderful chef. These shrimp smell divine!”

  “To hell with the shrimp,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “Did you hear what I said?”

  She popped a shrimp into her mouth and sighed with rapture. “Food of the gods! Handsome, rich, and a wonder in the kitchen. I—”

  He grabbed her plate and yanked it away from her. “No answers, no food.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Can the royal outrage, princess. It won’t work this time. I want to meet Maxine.”

  “Good heavens,” she said with an amused laugh. “Why all the fuss? Of course you can meet Maxine.” Even if the thought did send flutters up her spine. “Perhaps around Christmas.”

  “Perhaps next week.”

  “Next week she’ll be in Florida with Ivan at a trade show.”

  “Thanksgiving at the latest.”

  “When is Thanksgiving?” she asked.

  “Fourth Thursday in November.”

  “It’s an important American holiday, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “You’re avoiding the question, princess.”

  “My shrimps are getting cold.”

  “Screw your shrimps.”

  “Bronson! Your language is appalling.”

  “And it’ll get a hell of a lot worse if you don’t answer me.”

  “This is quite unfair,” she said, bristling with indignation. “All of this fuss about meeting Maxine while you have kept your family hidden from me as if they were figments of your imagination.”

  “My family’s an open book,” he said. “Pick up any newspaper or magazine, and you’ll find something about one of us.”

  “I know. I spent an afternoon in the library last week.” Her grin was sheepish. “There are certainly a lot of Bronsons.”

  “And you want to meet them?”

  She nodded. “It only seems fair.” Perfect, she thought. He’d made it quite plain that he wanted to keep his family and his affair with Isabelle separate. Now perhaps he would forget this obsession with meeting Maxine.

  “I’ll pick you up four o’clock the day before Thanksgiving.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “You want to meet my family. They want to meet you. They throw a big bash out at the house in Montauk on Thanksgiving and they asked me to invite you. I didn’t think you’d be interested.” His look sharpened. “Ask Maxine, too, if she’s not doing anything.”

  She was so surprised that she dropped her fork. It clattered against her plate, then slid to the floor at her feet. “I don’t know—I mean, that’s such—” She stopped. “I don’t know what I mean.”

  “Yes or no, princess? Meeting my family isn’t that big a deal.”

  But it was, and they both knew it.

  * * *

  Maxine Neesom was a handsome woman in her mid-fifties. Her hair was a deep red, graying slightly at the temples, and she carried herself with an air that could only be described as regal. Daniel Bronson wondered if she came by it naturally or through osmosis.

  The moment she opened her mouth, however, he knew. Maxine was as real, as solid, as his parents. And every bit as blunt.

  “So, Mr. Bronson,” she said, opening the door and ushering him inside. “I’m thinking it’s time we met.”

  He extended his hand, and they shook. Her grip was every bit as firm as he’d expected. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, Ms. Neesom.”

  He followed her into the living room, a comfortably elegant mix of antiques and starkly modern pieces that he found agreeable.

  “My girl isn’t here yet,” Maxine said as she motioned for him to sit on the sofa, “but she said for you not to be worryin’. She’ll be here any time.”

  Daniel nodded. At the moment he was more interested in getting to know Maxine.

  She crossed to the bar. I’d be offering you something fancy, but Elysse only keeps the basics.”

  “The basics are fine with me, Ms. Neesom.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “Straight up.”

  Her broad face was transformed by her smile. “A fine choice, Mr. Bronson. A fine choice.”

  “My name’s Daniel.”

  She considered him for a long moment. “Maxine to all who know me.”

  She poured them each a tumbler of whiskey.

  Daniel lifted his glass. “To Bertrand.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “God rest his dear soul.”

  They each took a long swallow.

  Maxine lifted her glass. “To my darling girl.”

  “To the princess.”

  They sat together for a few minutes in companionable silence. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. “Are you really her governess?”

  “I suppose you’d be askin’ because I look too young, but I’ve cared for the child since the day she drew her first breath.”

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  “Like she was my very own flesh and blood.”

  “And you want to know if I’m a decent, upstanding citizen.”

  “’Tis easy enough to find out about you, Daniel Bronson. That big fine Irish family of yours is known to everyone in this city. What you are to Isabelle is what would be turnin’ my hair gray.”

  “You don’t have to worry, Maxine. We have an open and honest relationship. No game-playing.”

  Maxine sniffed. “When a man and a woman come together, game-playing is unavoidable.” She frowned at him. “You’re old enough to know that.”

  “The princess isn’t much of a game-player, Maxine.” He took a gulp of whiskey. “She’s set the rules between us.”

  “And you’d be going along with them?”

&nb
sp; “With a few exceptions.” He leaned forward, balancing the whiskey glass on his knee. “Are you going to ask me my intentions?”

  Maxine shook her head. “I wouldn’t be needin’ to, Daniel Bronson. One look at your face tells the tale.”

  Chapter

  Twelve

  “A truck?” Isabelle asked. “You drive a truck?”

  Daniel inserted his key into the lock of the shiny black vehicle. “What did you think I drove?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, amazed. “A Porsche. Maserati. Something—smaller.”

  “Welcome to New York, princess. If you’re going to travel our roads, a truck’s the best way to do it.”

  Four-wheel drive. Extra-heavy-duty shocks and suspension. Antilock brakes. She had no idea what he was talking about, but it all sounded quite exotic and terribly impressive.

  She gauged the distance between the ground and the body of the truck. “I don’t think I can do this without a stepladder.”

  “I had the running board removed a few weeks ago. Come on, I’ll give you a boost.”

  He gripped her around the waist and lifted her into the air, swinging her up and into the passenger seat.

  “Buckle up,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  She did as she was told.

  “This is marvelous, Bronson,” she said as he pulled away from the curb and moved into the heavy city traffic. “The view is splendid from up here.”

  “It was this or a tank,” he said as they neared the Queensboro Bridge. “Anything smaller is fair game in this city.”

  “Listen to you. There are times it sounds as if you hate this city.”

  “Sometimes I do. There’s so damn much wrong with it and so much that isn’t being done to make it right.”

  “Perhaps you should consider running for office.” She grinned at him. “Mayor Daniel Bronson has a nice ring to it, has it not?”

  “Forget it. Bureaucratic red tape brings out the worst in me.”

  She thought about the homeless people she’d seen sleeping on benches and in the doorways of expensive boutiques. “The first thing I would do is make certain everyone had a place to live.”