The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  The moment she hung up the telephone she wanted to dial him back and tell him that she was wrong, that she wanted to be with him in Tokyo, that she missed the sound of his voice, the feel of his skin, the look in his eyes when they made love. Talking to him had awakened a storm of emotions inside her heart, a wild rush of longing that stole her breath away.

  But she’d done the right thing. Sex was wonderful, but there had to be more, especially with a child on the way.

  She rose from her chair, her movements a bit more awkward than they’d been the week before. She was on her way into the kitchen to make a pot of tea when she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the television screen. Her hair was scraped back into a scruffy ponytail. Her face was devoid of makeup. Instead of a sexy confection of lace and ribbons, she wore a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up, navy blue maternity slacks, and a pair of slippers. Her belly was definitely rounded. In profile it was finally becoming obvious that she was pregnant and not fat, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful.

  “Would you like me this way, Bronson?” she asked her reflection. No glamour. No garter belts or slinky stockings. Not a princess, but a woman. And a pregnant one at that.

  Placing her hands on her belly, she admired her reflection. She was well into her fourth month and she—wait a minute. She held her breath and pressed her palms more closely against her belly. A slight rippling motion deep inside—more a quickening than anything else. Her imagination perhaps, or could it be something more wonderful, more amazing, more thrilling even than the act that had made it possible?

  “Oh, Bronson,” she whispered, tears welling. “We’re having a baby.”

  * * *

  A miserable February rain sliced across the crowded London street as Juliana cautiously made her way to the door of Patrick Marchand’s offices. She was at that stage in her pregnancy when walking was a triumph of will over gravity.

  Wouldn’t you think the man could afford an office with a lift, she thought as she slowly climbed the steps. With what she’d been paying him these past months, surely he could do better than this dilapidated building. She consoled herself with the fact that it no longer mattered. After today Marchand would no longer be in her employ, and he could situate his offices in the middle of Piccadilly for all it mattered to her.

  “Princess Juliana, I am pleased to see you.” Marchand nodded his thanks to the receptionist who had ushered Juliana inside. “You are looking quite well.”

  He drew up a chair for her and, with great solicitude, helped her to sit down. She removed her soft cashmere scarf, folded it into an oblong, then rested it on her lap next to her purse and leather gloves.

  “I am here to settle accounts, Mr. Marchand,” she said without preamble. She wanted no paper trail to link her with the investigation, a simple and clean transaction in cash.

  His thick brows drew together in a look of concern. “You are displeased with our work?”

  “On the contrary. I am no longer in need of further information.” She opened the clasp of her Chanel bag and removed an envelope. “I believe this settles all debts.” She slid the ivory vellum across the desk toward Marchand, who proved to be quite a gentleman. Arching a brow, she said, “I am surprised to find you a trusting man, Mr. Marchand, considering the business you are in.”

  He smiled and placed the envelope in his desk drawer. “My profession has made me an expert judge of character, Princess Juliana. You would not cheat me out of my fee. It is in other areas that I should keep careful watch on you.”

  Juliana nodded and gathered up her belongings. “A wise man, Mr. Marchand, and another reason why it is time to terminate our association.”

  He swiveled around in his chair and plucked a folder from a hanging file. “I have some additional information you might be interested in. It is in rough form, but it may be of interest.”

  She hesitated. She already knew as much as she cared to about her husband’s wandering eye. “I think not.”

  He slid the folder across the desk toward her. “There are no other copies on file, Princess Juliana. I would prefer if you disposed of this material as you see fit.”

  She had no intention of reading the material, but she tucked it under her arm and left. She would simply file it all away and forget it.

  Curiosity, however, was a potent emotion, and by the time she arrived back at the castle, she found it impossible to ignore the folder. Eric was off somewhere with his parents, Honore and Celine, to some family function that Juliana had begged off on, claiming the discomfort of pregnancy as her excuse.

  “I’ll take a light supper in the library,” she said to Yves as he took her coat and scarf in the front hall.

  “As you wish, madam.” He bowed and hurried off to do her bidding.

  A fire danced merrily in the hearth, welcoming her. The library had always been her favorite room in the castle. Sometimes she thought she caught the aroma of Papa’s pipe, the rich bouquet of his cognac.

  She shook her head, trying to banish the unwanted memories. It hurt too much to think of him. He came to her sometimes in her dreams. That haunted look in his eyes, the deep furrows and lines of his face, the Corgis yapping about him as he lay on the cold, cold ground—

  “Madam.”

  She spun around to see Yves standing in the doorway. Was she imagining the look of disappointment on his face?

  “Perhaps a cup of tea would be advisable while cook prepares supper.” Correct—always so correct.

  She nodded, moving toward the window while he set up the service on the sideboard, then quietly left the room.

  She sat down on a straight-backed chair near the hearth and opened the file. How boring. Much of it was a rehash of the same business Marchand had reported earlier. She trailed her finger down a column of addresses; all purportedly represented foreign offices of Malraux International but were of questionable intent.

  “Foolishness,” she said, flipping quickly through a stack of photographs of Eric. It didn’t matter where he’d been or with whom. He belonged to her and always would, if only because his father willed it.

  A son, she thought as the daughter in her womb kicked violently against her rib. A son would tie the Malraux family to the throne into the next century and beyond.

  She slid the photograph into the locked file she kept in the bottom drawer of her father’s desk. She flipped quickly through the rest of the papers: scraps of foolscap, index cards, note paper. A fax transmission from a New York City phone number. The handwriting was large and scrawling, very American and difficult to read, the ink fading on the thermal paper.

  It was dated mid-January, just a few weeks ago.

  “I don’t want to see this,” she said, her hands beginning to tremble. “I don’t want to know any more.”

  But she couldn’t look away. She saw her sister’s name. The address of a Dr. Joan McCaffree. And one simple sentence that changed her world: “Sonogram verified princess’s pregnancy—it’s a boy.”

  * * *

  “It was the strangest thing, Maxi,” said Isabelle as she carried the platter of toasted cheese sandwiches to the table. “I have dreamed of Mama every night for the past two weeks.”

  Maxine’s blue eyes filled with tears. “’Tisn’t surprising, considering your condition. Most young women turn to their mothers in times like this.”

  Isabelle walked over to the window and tapped against the glass with her knuckles to summon Ivan and his son-in-law for lunch.

  “Now, that’s exactly what’s so strange about the dream,” she said as she opened the refrigerator and withdrew a carton of skim milk and a big bottle of cream soda. “I am but a child in the dream, no more than five years old. Mama is sitting at her dressing table, and I’m watching as she pulls the stopper from a bottle of Bal a Versailles and touches the crystal to the base of her throat.”

  “How often I saw Sonia do exactly that,” said Maxine, her voice rich with sadness. “I would stand in the doorway and watch as she
coiled that thick dark hair into a chignon... that foolish, beautiful girl.”

  “Honore once told me she loved to dance, that she would whirl from partner to partner and never grow tired.”

  “Your mother was a woman of great charm. All who met Sonia fell under her spell.”

  “But she wasn’t a good mother, was she?”

  Maxine met her eyes. “Is that what Honore told you?”

  Isabelle shook her head. “No, but when I combined his memories with my own, it was not difficult to arrive at that conclusion.” She sat down across the table from Maxine and reached for the woman’s hand. “Tell me, please, Maxi. I find myself thinking about Mama all the time, wondering if I will find a way to keep from making her mistakes.”

  “The fact that you would be askin’ me that question tells me you will be a good mother to that babe you’re carrying.”

  “And Mama?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Sonia was not meant for the life of wife and mother, lovey. She lived for sensation.” A bright comet arcing across the sky, then vanishing in a burst of light and heat. “You mustn’t condemn her.”

  “Did she have an affair with Honore?”

  “Where on earth would you be getting an idea like that one?”

  “I don’t know,” Isabelle said slowly. “A hunch... a feeling. There was something about the way Honore talked about Mama. It was in his voice.”

  “Honore Malraux is a good businessman, but he is not a friend, lovey. Not to any of us.”

  “Maxine! I’ve never heard you say something against Honore before.”

  “Like father, like son,” Maxine continued. “It’s Honore who’d be pulling Eric’s strings, make no mistake about that. He was as much responsible for Juliana’s marriage as your own dear father was.”

  “He called again, didn’t he?”

  Maxine nodded. “Mark my words, the man is up to mischief. You are seeing a very important man, lovey. That fact would not be lost on Honore.”

  Isabelle made an impatient gesture with her hands. “I do not care about Honore and his business dealings, Maxi. I only care where it concerns my mama.”

  Maxine sighed. “Your mother was an impetuous woman, lovey. You mustn’t condemn her for that.”

  “I don’t condemn her, Maxi. I only find myself lying awake at night wondering how I will know what to do with a child, how I will keep from making some terrible mistake that will perpetuate itself through the generations.”

  “Ah, lovey,” said Maxine, drying her eyes. “I’m thinkin’ you’ve become a woman at last. Now, if you would just tell Daniel about the child...”

  * * *

  “You’re a day early, princess,” said Daniel when he answered the telephone that night. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “Am I that predictable?”

  “Only to me.”

  “Maxine and Ivan were here today,” she said, launching headlong into meaningless conversation. “Ivan and his son-in-law cut some more wood for the fireplace.”

  “Are you having a bad winter?”

  “Not very bad.” She laughed. “At least not by Perreault standards. It’s hard to believe spring is only a month away.”

  “I miss you, princess.”

  She started. “What did you say?”

  “I miss you.”

  The baby moved within her womb, almost as if he or she had heard Daniel’s words. She took a deep breath. “I miss you, too.”

  “I’m not just talking about sex.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Maybe I could fly home for a day or two. I find myself lying awake at night trying to picture your face, your smile.”

  “No!” She forced her voice down to more normal volume. “I mean, I’d never ask you to do that, what with the way you feel about flying and all.”

  “I have an in with Saint Christopher.”

  “You’re wearing the medal.”

  “All the time.”

  “And what else?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  She was almost afraid to. “You haven’t asked me what I’m wearing today, Bronson. I’m disappointed in you.”

  “Okay,” he said, a low rumbling laugh floating through the wires and curling around her eardrum. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Sweatpants, a baggy T-shirt, and floppy slippers.”

  “You’re kidding.” He paused. “Aren’t you?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Any diamonds?”

  “Not a one.”

  “I thought no princess worth her tiara goes out without diamonds.”

  “I wear one piece of jewelry, Bronson, and that’s a gold bracelet a very wonderful man gave to me for Christmas.”

  It was his turn to sound surprised. “I thought you hated it.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You looked like you wanted to throw it at my head.”

  “I was dreadful that day,” she said, “and I apologize. It never occurred to me that I might have hurt your feelings.”

  “It never occurred to you that I even had feelings.”

  She couldn’t deny the truth. “I’m learning, Bronson, that’s all I can say. When you grow up the way I did, it’s difficult to know the boundaries.” She thought of the endless stream of servants, the fancy schools, the buffers between herself and the real world. “I wish I could explain what it was like.”

  “I’m here,” he said, “if you feel like talking.”

  “There is so much to say... so many things I have not thought about in so long.” She laughed. “I do not know where to begin.”

  “Anywhere, princess.” His voice was warm, caressing. “I’ve got all the time you need.”

  She leaned back in her rocking chair and closed her eyes. “I remember my mother sitting at her dressing table...”

  * * *

  They talked five days in a row. Long, intimate conversations about family, about dreams, about everything except the future. He was that rare specimen: an adult who liked his family, who understood its importance in the framework of life. And he was smart enough to know how rare a thing that was. Isabelle envied him his childhood with her entire being. But never once did he say he wanted a family of his own.

  On the sixth day she took a car into Manhattan for her monthly appointment with the obstetrician Dr. McCaffree had suggested. “Right on schedule,” said the doctor. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

  She rode back home in a quandary. Tell him, Maxine had said. A man should know he’s about to be a father, Ivan had scolded. What are you waiting for? her own conscience demanded. Tell him!

  She dialed his number as soon as she reached the cottage. If she had her time zones straight, it was four a.m. in Tokyo. “Sorry if I wake you up, Bronson,” she murmured as the operator rang his room, “but at least I know you’ll be there.”

  The telephone rang ten times, twenty, twenty-five. She slammed down the receiver. It must be—what? Four in the morning? She dialed again. This time she let it ring thirty times with the same result. “Message, please?” asked the telephone operator. “None,” she growled. The Japanese were much too polite for the message she wanted to leave.

  “I was in Hokkaido,” he said when they connected a few days later. “The back of beyond.”

  She brushed away stupid, ridiculous tears. “I was so worried.”

  “You, princess? I would’ve figured you’d throw the telephone out the window.”

  “That was what I wanted to do the first four times I called. Then I started to worry.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “That I worried about you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That you cared enough.”

  This is it. This is the time. “Bronson, there’s something—”

  “Could it wait until next time, princess? Hastings is at the door. We have a plane waiting to take us to Kyoto for a meeting.”

  Isabelle sighed. Maybe it was a sign from the gods. “It
can wait, Bronson.” It had waited almost six months already.

  He was due home the middle of May. That gave her two more months to figure out how to tell Daniel he was going to be a father.

  * * *

  “... Hastings is doing a damn good job,” Daniel said, finishing up his second progress report for the month of April. “We’re running ahead of schedule. By the time I sign off, we’ll be well under way.”

  “I’ve gotta hand it to you,” said Matty, his voice loud and clear despite the miles, “this time last year I wouldn’t’ve given you a plugged nickel for your chances over there. When you’re right, you’re right, Danny. If Malraux hadn’t established a beachhead, I’d say give Perreault another shot.”

  Daniel flipped closed his portfolio and stashed it back in his briefcase. “So how’s everything back home?”

  “Patty’s expecting.”

  “Again?”

  His old man laughed. “She said she’s going to have a son this time no matter what.”

  An odd twinge of pain settled itself beneath Daniel’s ribcage. It felt a hell of a lot like envy.

  “Did you hear me?” Matty boomed.

  “Sorry, Pop, bad connection. What did you say?”

  “I thought I saw Isabelle the other day at Madison and Sixty-third.”

  The twinge of pain intensified. “I don’t think so, Pop. She’s off somewhere communing with nature.”

  “It sure looked like her. She was in the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car. I thought it was my car at first, then I saw this real pretty girl with a big head of hair.”

  “A lot of pretty brunettes in this world.” It couldn’t be Isabelle. She was in the country somewhere. She wouldn’t lie to him about something like that.

  “Yeah, there are,” said Matty, “but you know the way she tosses her head back and all that hair goes flying?”

  “Hadn’t noticed,” Daniel mumbled. Like hell.

  “Just a thought,” said Matty. “Forget I said anything. I probably need new glasses.”

  * * *

  The doorbell rang as Maxine and Ivan were sitting down on the terrace to a fine boiled dinner of corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes.