The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  He shot her a quick, curious glance. “That’s what we’re working on, princess. It takes time.” Bron-Co was involved in a number of inner-city renovations designed to help house the homeless and disadvantaged in safety and comfort.

  “So tell me, Bronson: What did you and Maxine talk about while you waited?” She’d begged the photographer to let her go early, but he had flatly refused. The thought of Maxine and Bronson alone together had sent her imagination down some frightening paths.

  He looked over at her. “Nothing much.”

  “Surely you talked about something.”

  “Nothing you’d be interested in, princess.”

  “She must have told you stories about me.”

  “Why do you think we talked about you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m the only thing you two have in common.”

  He laughed out loud. “She loves you like a daughter.”

  Isabelle relaxed—at least a little. “She orders me about as if I were her daughter. She can be a most infuriating woman.”

  “I liked her.” He grinned. “And I think she liked me.”

  Isabelle wasn’t entirely certain what she thought of that turn of events, so she kept silent. Maxine certainly knew enough embarrassing stories about Isabelle to fill a book.

  He pointed out the sights as they bounced across the rutted road called Queens Boulevard. His family owned an amazing number of office and apartment buildings. They even owned a pool hall and a night spot that boasted flashing lights and a crowd of oddly dressed young people waiting on line to get inside.

  “We’re stopping here?” Isabelle asked as Daniel angled the truck into a parking spot.

  “For a minute,” Daniel said, setting the brake. “Sal and Rose aren’t coming out until tomorrow afternoon, and my mother needs the turkey in the morning.”

  “I’m utterly confused.”

  “Great,” said Daniel with a grin. “That’s the best way to approach Thanksgiving with my family.”

  He helped her from the truck and headed toward the Golden Cue.

  “A billiard parlor, Bronson?” Isabelle stopped dead in her tracks. “I don’t think—”

  “Not good enough for you, princess?”

  She hesitated. “I’ve seen American billiard parlors in movies. I hardly think they’re the kind of place where...” She allowed her voice to trail off delicately.

  Bronson laughed and swung open the door. “After you, princess.”

  Isabelle lifted her chin and stepped inside. The room was loud, smoky, and dim lit. A pair of elderly men sat near the plateglass window arguing heatedly about something called the Mets. A middle-aged woman in a pair of gold Spandex stretch pants leaned over a jukebox, a cigarette dangling from her lips. A young guy clad in black leather winked at her over his pool cue.

  Isabelle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Bronson,” she said, looking up at him, “this is making me terribly apprehensive.” This was the type of place that bred gunfights the way ponds bred mosquitoes.

  “Hold on, princess,” he said. “It’s about to get interesting.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Yo, Sal! Get your butt down here with that turkey before I raise the rent!”

  Isabelle watched in utter shock as the room came to life.

  The woman at the jukebox spun around at the sound of Daniel’s voice. Her heavily made-up eyes widened in surprise, then she launched herself across the room with her arms spread wide. “Danny! Where you been keepin’ yourself anyway?”

  Daniel staggered under her onslaught then planted a kiss on her cheek. “Good to see you, Helen. How’s the grandkids?”

  “Four of ’em now,” Helen said, casting a curious glance at Isabelle. “And my youngest daughter is expecting her first in May.”

  “Better watch out,” called one of the old men near the window. “Pretty soon she’s gonna catch up with you Bronsons.”

  The young guy in leather approached them. Isabelle had to swallow down the urge to hide behind Bronson.

  “Hey, Dan.” The two men slapped hands together in a very odd fashion. “How’s it goin’?”

  “Not bad, Frankie. You coming tomorrow?”

  Frankie nodded. “The old man says it might be his last Thanksgiving, and the whole family’s gotta be together.”

  To Isabelle’s horror, the two men burst into laughter.

  “That’s disgraceful!” Isabelle snapped. “How dare you make light of another’s impending doom?”

  Daniel placed his arm around Isabelle’s shoulder. “Sal’s been saying the same thing since I was five years old, princess. He’s healthy as a horse.”

  “My old man’ll live to be a hundred,” said Frankie, “and he’ll be buggin’ me on the day he dies.”

  “Damn straight,” said a voice from the doorway. A gray-haired man stepped into the room. “Now will one of you bozos help me with this goddamn turkey before I bust an artery?”

  * * *

  By the time she and Daniel left the Golden Cue, Isabelle’s head was spinning. Daniel loaded the enormous fowl into the rear of the truck, then helped her into the passenger seat.

  “Bet you never thought you’d be sharing a ride with a twenty-six-pound bird,” he said as they eased back into traffic.

  “I should say that’s a fair statement.”

  “You’re looking a little shell-shocked.”

  “I’m feeling shell-shocked.”

  He laughed. “Sal isn’t always that hyper. He was excited to meet a real live princess.”

  “He thought I was from Peru,” Isabelle said with a shake of her head.

  “Sal’s short on pronunciation but long on heart.”

  “Where on earth do you know him from?”

  “He’s my dad’s best friend.” He shot her a sidelong glance at a traffic light. “They went to school together.”

  “And your father still keeps up with him?”

  “My old man’s not about to let a few million dollars get in the way of a good friendship.”

  “Sal said your family owns half of New York City,” she said as they drove past the sports restaurant Daniel’s father had built years ago near the site of the World’s Fair.

  “We’re working on it.”

  “How does it feel to be so wealthy?”

  “How does it feel to be a princess? If it’s all you’ve ever known you have nothing to compare it to.”

  She thought of the stories she’d heard about Matty’s rise to wealth. “I thought your father was a self-made man.”

  “He is, but by the time I came along, he was on his way. Trust me, princess. My childhood was anything but deprived.”

  “Will all of your brothers and sisters be at your parents’ house?”

  “Getting cold feet?”

  “You must admit you do have an uncommonly large family, Bronson.”

  “What can I say? We’re Catholic.”

  He had her laughing out loud as he described each of his siblings in trenchant detail. By the time he launched into capsule portraits of their spouses, Isabelle was holding her sides.

  “And there must be nieces and nephews,” she prodded, eager to know more.

  “Eleven of them.” He chuckled. “Katie’s going to go crazy when she meets you. She wants to be a princess when she grows up.”

  Sudden tears burned behind her lids. “I think she can do better than that.” In truth, little Katie already had. Katie had a family who loved her.

  * * *

  The princess didn’t think he noticed, but Daniel had a sixth sense when it came to a woman’s tears. All that talk about family coming so close on the heels of her father’s death had obviously triggered a rush of emotion. Her face was turned toward the window as she pretended to be fascinated by the lights of Nassau County as the truck zoomed past. Once again he was acutely aware of the differences between them, not just in experience but in expectations.

  He accepted the idea of happiness as a matter of cour
se. The princess didn’t quite believe it existed, and he wondered if she ever would.

  * * *

  Isabelle dozed for a while, her face pressed against the window of the truck. She woke up at the Patchogue-Shirley exit where Daniel found a McDonald’s and introduced her to her first Big Mac with fries. Daniel laughed at the way she gawked at the cardboard carrying case for the sodas and the hamburgers wrapped in paper. It was all quite overwhelming.

  “American cuisine not up to your standards?”

  She nibbled at a French fry. “American cuisine is wonderful,” she said with forced brightness. “It seems I’m simply not as hungry as I thought.”

  The truth was that Isabelle was fighting a dreadful attack of nerves that had her stomach too tied up in knots to eat. The closer they got to Montauk, the more apprehensive she became. His family was so big, and it sounded as if they all actually liked each other. She had no idea how they would feel about her coming into their close-knit world—not that she was likely to be a permanent part of that world. Both she and Daniel knew the likelihood of that occurrence was too tiny to merit thought.

  * * *

  “The princess is here! The princess is here!”

  Isabelle stopped dead in her tracks in the driveway. “What on earth—?”

  Bronson put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “That sounds like Katie. She’s six years old. She’s the one who wants to be a princess when she grows up.”

  She glanced down at her corduroy trousers and woolen cape. “I hope she won’t be disappointed. This is hardly Cinderella’s ball gown.”

  “Don’t sweat it, princess. You couldn’t disappoint her if you tried.”

  Isabelle plunged her hands into the pockets of her trousers so no one would see them tremble. The last time she’d been this nervous was the day her father asked her to present his thirty-minute speech to the Perreault Agricultural Collective on the benefits of compost to a group of disgruntled farmers.

  The driveway was crowded with automobiles. Daniel’s truck was parked between two other similar-looking vehicles. The Bronsons obviously enjoyed their trucks. A Mercedes nudged a Volvo while a Porsche was half in, half out of the garage. There were other cars, as well, but she wasn’t close enough to see their make. Not a limousine or Rolls-Royce in the assortment.

  She could hear the ocean beyond the house. The crisp air carried with it the wonderful smell of salt water, and she wondered if she’d get the opportunity to see the light of the full moon dance across the waves.

  The house itself was huge and rambling with four wide steps that led up to a spacious porch. She and Daniel had no sooner reached the top step when the front door swung open, and she found herself swept into the foyer on a sea of Bronsons.

  “Forgive us if we don’t know the right protocol,” said a comfortably round, dark-haired woman who introduced herself as Daniel’s mother, Connie. “But we want you to know that any friend of Danny’s is a welcome guest in our house.” Connie then proceeded to execute an off-balance curtsy, hanging onto her husband’s arm for balance.

  Matty Bronson pumped Isabelle’s hand. “A pleasure, Princess Isabelle. I knew your father and respected him. It’s a great loss.”

  She looked into his green eyes—now she knew where Daniel got them—and saw nothing but sincerity. “Thank you, Mr. Bronson. I shall always miss him.”

  “Enough with the Mister business,” said Matty gruffly. “The name is Matty.”

  “Please call me Isabelle,” she said. She felt a tugging at her sleeve and looked down into the blue eyes of the most adorable little blond girl she’d ever seen.

  “Are you really a princess?” asked the child. She wore a bright-blue nightshirt and huge slippers in the shape of bunny rabbits.

  Isabelle crouched down. “I’m really a princess.”

  “My name is Katie. I wore a princess costume for Halloween. My mommy made it for me.”

  “I’m sure you were a beautiful princess, Katie. Did you have a tiara?”

  Katie popped a thumb in her mouth. “Wha’s that?”

  Isabelle ruffled her hair with her fingers. “A crown,” she said. “A beautiful sparkling crown to show everyone you’re a princess.”

  “Are you married to a king?” asked Katie.

  “Katie!” Her mother’s warning voice rose above the crowd.

  Isabelle smiled. “I’m not married to anyone,” she said easily.

  “Do you want to be married?” Katie asked. “I do. I want to marry a handsome prince.”

  “Don’t you remember what I told you, Katie?” Connie Bronson spoke up. “Uncle Danny and the princess are good friends.”

  Katie digested that bit of information, then asked the inevitable question. “Are you and Uncle Danny going to get married?”

  “I’m not going to get married for a very long time, Katie.” She stood up again. God only knew what the next question might be.

  “Nice save,” muttered Daniel. “By this time tomorrow you’ll have it down to an art form.”

  Isabelle quickly decided she would settle for remembering everyone’s names. The sheer number of relatives was daunting. Four sisters, two brothers, six spouses, and a slew of children, most of whom Isabelle wouldn’t meet until the morning. Blue jeans and T-shirts seemed to be the accepted uniform on both men and women alike. They were loud and friendly, and she had to keep reminding herself that each and every person in that room was a millionaire, for none of the obvious trappings of wealth were visible. For one thing, there wasn’t a servant in sight.

  “Certainly your mother doesn’t care for this house herself,” she said as Daniel led her upstairs to the room they would be sharing. “A house this size should have a staff of at least five.”

  “Mom has help,” Daniel said, ushering her into a large, L-shaped room at the far end of the hall, “but she and Dad don’t believe in asking anyone to work on holidays.”

  It was more than Isabelle could comprehend. “At home it is considered an honor to serve. Especially at times of celebration.”

  “Here it’s considered a job.”

  The difference defined all that separated her experience from Daniel’s. “There is much I don’t understand.” She sank onto the edge of the bed. “There are times I feel as if I had been dropped into your country from another planet entirely.”

  He sat down next to her. “My family can be overwhelming. Want me to ask them to back off?”

  She shook her head. “It isn’t them, Daniel. I suppose I am tired, that’s all.” She had spent most of the day posing for a magazine cover and granting radio interviews. “The same questions over and over, as if there is nothing more fascinating in this world than to live in a castle and have people bow to you.”

  “You have to admit it looks pretty glamorous from the outside.”

  “You have no idea, Bronson. Simply no idea.”

  He watched as she rose from the bed to unpack her clothing. It was the closest she’d come to talking about her life in Perreault since the day she’d told him about her sister’s treachery. He found himself wanting to know more, wanting to discover what had caused that look of sadness in her dark eyes. She gave her body to him but she withheld her soul, and he knew that the time was near when that would no longer be enough to satisfy him.

  * * *

  Breakfast on Thanksgiving morning was Isabelle’s first crisis.

  “Everyone shifts for themselves around here,” said Matty when she and Daniel entered the bustling kitchen. “Eggs, pancakes, bagels—make whatever you like.”

  Connie and one of her daughters were busy stuffing the turkey Isabelle and Daniel had picked up from the pool hall. Two of her other daughters were standing at the island counter, preparing vegetables and laughing together. One lovely red-haired woman sat in a rocking chair near the window, nursing an infant. Through the window Isabelle could see Daniel’s brothers and brothers-in-law cutting and stacking wood near the end of the patio.

  The room was a whir
lpool of activity, and Isabelle froze in place.

  “C’mon, princess. How does an omelette sound to you?”

  “It sounds wonderful,” she said, “but who is going to prepare it?”

  “No servants on holidays,” he reminded her, the slightest edge to his voice. “You’re going to have to pitch in.”

  “There’s one slight problem,” she said as her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. “I’ve never cooked a breakfast before.”

  “You’re joking.” He looked at her more closely. “You’re not joking? You don’t know how to cook?”

  “Don’t seem so surprised,” she snapped, lifting her chin. “It is not on the list of necessary skills for a princess.”

  “Didn’t they teach you anything in that fancy boarding school you went to?”

  “They taught me to be a snob.”

  He grinned. “I have a feeling you didn’t need many lessons, princess. It seems to come naturally.”

  She couldn’t help it. She started to laugh, and that started Daniel laughing and before she knew it, the entire kitchen echoed with the sound. Her embarrassment and discomfort evaporated as if it had never existed.

  “She doesn’t know how to cook,” Daniel announced to the throng. “Any suggestions where to start?”

  “Scrambled eggs,” Matty called out from behind his newspaper. “Easiest way to learn.”

  Connie, elbow deep in turkey, made a face. “Nothing is easier than a fried egg, sunny side up.”

  Katie tugged at the sleeve of Isabelle’s cashmere sweater. “I can make scrambled eggs.”

  Isabelle looked at Daniel. “Tell me that isn’t true.”

  Pat, Katie’s mother, looked up from the carrots she was slicing. “Progressive day care,” she said with a friendly smile. “Katie can cook scrambled eggs, toast, and squeeze fresh orange juice.”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes comically. “Is there some way I can enroll in this progressive day care school?”

  If there had been any lingering doubts about their royal visitor, that remark dispelled them. As friendly as they had all been before, the atmosphere changed as she threw herself wholeheartedly into the challenging business of scrambling an egg.