The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  “My God!” He’d killed her mother for betraying him. He killed her sister for getting in the way of his goal. And he would kill her as soon as she delivered her child.

  His hands caressed her belly. “You have given back to me one hundredfold, darling child. The son you’re soon to bear will carry my bloodline and yours into the future and retain the throne of Perreault for its rightful owners.”

  “No!” She struggled to modulate her tone. “I mean, my child will not inherit the throne, Honore. That belongs to Victoria. She was Juliana’s firstborn.”

  “How little they teach you about your own homeland. The first male child inherits, Isabelle, whether he was delivered of you or Juliana. She failed to live up to her responsibilities. You, darling child, would never disappoint.”

  He explained that if two generations had passed without male issue, the entire principality would have reverted to French/Swiss rule under a treaty signed three hundred years ago by the first ruler of Perreault.

  His hands moved up over her belly and cupped the heavy fullness of her breasts. “Sonia’s breasts were large,” he said in a lazy voice. “Her nipples were perfect dusky circles.” He pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her white trousers then slipped his hands inside. His touch scalded her skin, made her feel violated and dirty.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Please don’t.”

  His fingers forced their way under the band of her maternity bra. “Already heavy with milk,” he said approvingly. “My wife did not have enough milk to nurse Eric. You will not disappoint in that regard.”

  Something inside her snapped, and she struggled to her feet in an attempt to get to the door, but he grabbed her and threw her down on the sofa. She fell clumsily, half on her side, half on her stomach, as another contraction overwhelmed her.

  “This is for your own safety,” he said, binding her wrists behind her back with the telephone cord. Then he bound her ankles with his silk tie. “I cannot have you stumbling over the rocks outside, not when you are so close to delivering my grandson.”

  A wild scream tore from her throat. He slapped her hard, shocking her into silence, then shoved his silk pocket square deep into her mouth. She gagged on the smell of his cologne.

  “I will not hurt you, darling child,” he said, his hands so close to her breasts. “You are much too important for that.”

  * * *

  Pressing his body flat, Daniel eased himself up and onto the deck. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he was suspended a mile over the valley below. On his stomach, he inched his way toward the window, careful to stay below the line of vision of the occupants. The only thing he had going for him was the element of surprise, he thought again. If he lost that, he lost everything.

  He heard voices from within, but he couldn’t make out the words. He moved closer, stopping for a long moment when a board squeaked in protest. From far below came the sound of car engines, and he prayed Malraux didn’t hear them. He’d hoped Interpol wouldn’t be far behind, but he also knew that Honore wouldn’t hesitate to use Isabelle as a pawn.

  You’re going to make it, princess, hang on a little longer. We’re going to come out of this, and then I’m going to say all the things I should have said a long, long time ago.

  Her scream broke the Alpine stillness. It bounced off the mountains and back at him. It filled his gut and set fire to his soul. Looking into the window, he saw Malraux with his hands on Isabelle’s breasts and a few thousand years of evolution went up in smoke as he realized he was about to kill a man.

  * * *

  Honore’s hands were greedy, proprietary. He cupped her breasts as if he had the right to touch her, as if he owned her and the baby she carried. She tried to scream, but the gag made it impossible. Her throat felt as if it were being torn apart with the force of her fear and rage.

  Oh, Bronson... she thought, trying to project herself back to the warmth and safety of his arms. I should have told you I loved you.

  Honore was saying something, but his words held no meaning for her. She wasn’t there—not really. This wasn’t happening to her—not his hands against her—not the contractions—not Daniel’s face in the window—

  She was going insane, that’s what it was. She’d conjured him up from her dreams, from the deepest part of her soul.

  With a roar, Bronson exploded through the window in a shower of broken glass. Honore turned at the sound, but Bronson was too fast for him. He sprang at Honore like a guided missile. Honore staggered. Daniel landed a blow to his jaw that sent the older man to the floor.

  Honore lay there, apparently knocked cold.

  Daniel turned toward Isabelle. It was all there in his eyes, everything she’d ever wanted to see, everything she’d ever wanted to hear.

  He pulled the gag from her mouth. Behind him Honore, not unconscious at all, struggled to his feet.

  * * *

  A bullet whizzed past Daniel’s cheek and splintered the wall behind Isabelle’s head. She screamed, then Daniel saw her body go rigid with fear. He had to get Malraux out of the chalet and into the open. When Interpol finally showed up, he didn’t want Isabelle anywhere near the showdown. If anyone got hurt, he wanted it to be him.

  The thing to do was draw Malraux’s fire. “You’re finished, bastard,” he said, moving toward the man. “It’s over.”

  Malraux fired again. The bullet grazed Daniel’s scalp. “Lousy shot, Malraux. What’s the matter? You didn’t have any trouble killing Juliana.” Daniel backed his way toward the door. “You’re going to have to kill me to stop me, and even if you do, you’re not going to get rid of me, because I’m going to keep coming at you all the way to hell.”

  Malraux took the bait. “Arrogant bastard.” He fired another shot. Blood soaked Daniel’s right shoulder. “I’ve been toying with you, but I am tiring of the game.”

  Hang on, he told himself. Get outside. Reaching behind with his left hand, he unlatched the door. He had to get Malraux away from the princess and out in the open so Interpol would have a clear shot at the son of a bitch.

  Malraux followed him out onto the deck, stepping around the trail of blood Daniel was leaving behind. “You’re nothing,” he said. “Not worth the bullet.”

  Daniel laughed in his face. “What’s the matter, Malraux? Don’t have the guts to pull the trigger?”

  Malraux raised the gun and aimed it at his heart.

  * * *

  Isabelle struggled wildly against her bonds, but the contractions were sapping her strength. She had to get to Daniel—she had to help him. Honore was an expert shot. His prowess with a gun was well known throughout the continent. He’d been toying with Bronson, postponing the inevitable. He’d killed before. She had no doubt he would be more than happy to kill again.

  And Daniel had played right into his hands. She knew what Bronson was trying to do. He’d lured Honore out onto the deck in order to protect her and the baby. Damn you, Bronson! She worked desperately, trying to free her hands from the knotted telephone cord. I don’t want a dead hero! She wanted him exactly the way he was—happy, angry, scared, and everything in between.

  She heard the sound of a scuffle from out on the deck followed by the loud crack of a gunshot. Everything fell silent. You’re fine, Bronson, she thought fiercely. You wouldn’t dare let something happen to you when we need you so much. She would keep him safe with the power of her will, surround him with so much love, so many hopes for the future that no harm could befall him.

  Minutes passed. Finally the silence was broken by the whine of an engine as a car made its way up the hill. Two men in dark suits burst through the front door. “Interpol,” said one, thrusting an ID at her. “Where—?”

  “The deck,” she said, praying they were who they said they were. “Honore has a gun.”

  The men drew their own guns, then headed for the deck. She waited. Fear was a living, breathing mass tearing at her chest. She closed her eyes, putting all of her energy, al
l of her power, into keeping him safe.

  “I love you, Bronson,” she whispered. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  “What was that, princess?”

  Please, God, please... She opened her eyes. His face was bruised and bleeding. His shoulder was soaked with blood, and the front of his white shirt was shredded to ribbons.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, starting to cry as one of the Interpol agents quickly untied her hands and feet, then went to call for help.

  “Yeah,” said Bronson with a loopy grin, “but you should’ve seen the other guy.” He swayed on his feet and sank heavily onto the sofa next to her.

  She met his eyes, afraid to form the question.

  “He’s dead,” said Bronson, gesturing toward the deck.

  “He killed my mother, Bronson.” Her voice caught. “And Juli.” She hesitated. “After the baby was born, he would have—”

  “He’s gone, princess. You’re safe. You’ll always be safe.”

  She began to cry in earnest. “I want to hug you, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, Bronson, what has he done to you?”

  “Nothing that can’t be repaired.” His beautiful green eyes met hers. “This isn’t the way I had it planned, princess, but I’ve waited too long as it is to say it.”

  Her heart beat so fast inside her chest she thought she would faint.

  “I love you, Isabelle, and I’m not about to let you go again.”

  “Is that a proposal?”

  “Fair warning: I don’t intend to take no for an answer.”

  “You know that I—” She stopped midsentence as another contraction began.

  “Princess?” He watched, eyes wide, then yelled for the agents. “Something’s wrong, damn it! She’s in pain. Call a doctor.”

  “Help is on the way, Mr. Bronson,” said the taller of the two. “Just relax. You’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t give a damn about myself,” he roared. “She’s in pain—”

  “I—I’m not exactly in p-pain,” Isabelle managed after a moment.

  “The hell you’re not. I saw the way—”

  She touched his wrist. “Bronson,” she said, “I’m in labor.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-one

  Edouard Christopher Matthew Bronson was born four hours later at the hospital of the Sacred Heart. Three weeks early, he weighed seven pounds, one ounce, and the doctors pronounced the heir to the throne to be every bit as healthy as he looked.

  His mother and father were exhausted but elated. Isabelle dropped off into a deep, satisfied sleep while the doctors finally convinced Daniel to let them care for his wounds.

  Honore Malraux’s body had been recovered from the base of Mont Vollard. His son, more devious than anyone had realized, would stand trial on charges ranging from drug smuggling to murder. Celine Malraux had been arrested at her apartment in Paris. Theirs had been a true family affair—Celine had overseen a major money-laundering operation from her elegant pied à terre. As for Juliana’s babies, they were not with Celine at all. Instead, they had been hidden away in Isabelle’s old suite of rooms, where they were cared for by a harsh-voiced nanny with all the warmth of an Alpine winter.

  Baby Edouard was now the nominal ruler of Perreault, but the real power rested with Isabelle. All around them things were changing with the speed of light, but Daniel was determined that nothing would destroy what they’d fought so hard to hang onto.

  “I’ve never seen you like this before,” said Matty as Daniel glared at his bruised face in the hospital mirror. “You’re acting like a bridegroom.”

  “That’s what I’m shooting for, Pop.”

  Matty’s smile was wide. “You’ve got a terrific woman waiting for you, Danny. Don’t screw it up.”

  “I’d call you out on that one, but I can’t move my arm.” He was pieced together with bandages, gauze, stitches, and hope. “You’ll take care of that other matter?”

  Matty nodded. “You’ve got my word.”

  Daniel grinned at his reflection. “Do I really look this bad?”

  “Yeah,” said Matty, “but she’ll never notice. She’s in love.”

  “Maybe,” said Daniel, “but she’s also in charge. Things are different now, Pop. She may not want the things she wanted before all of this happened.”

  “Go to her,” said Matty. “Tell her. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”

  Daniel walked down the corridor toward Isabelle’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open.

  She looked up at the sound. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a hospital gown, her gold bracelet with the tiara charm, and the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen. Their child was cradled against her breast.

  “He’s asleep,” she whispered as Daniel sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “I thought he was nursing.”

  “He was.” It didn’t seem possible, but her smile grew even more beautiful. “Our son has an amazing appetite, Bronson.”

  Our son. Emotions he’d never imagined grabbed his heart and wouldn’t let go. “You did a great job, princess.”

  The baby nuzzled closer, and she stroked the tiny pink cheek with the tip of her index finger. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Can you do the rest without me?” Damn it. What had happened to the words of love, the sweet promises he’d planned to make?

  “Not terribly romantic, Bronson.”

  “I’m not handling this very well, am I?”

  “Whatever it is, just say it, Bronson.” The world was in her eyes, and he took heart.

  “Marry me.” A statement, not a question. Plain, simple, powerful. He met her eyes. “I love you, princess, and I can’t imagine growing old with anyone but you.”

  Her beautiful dark eyes welled with tears. “Everything is different now, Bronson. You might be getting much more than you imagined.”

  “I know exactly what I’m getting.”

  She gestured toward the world beyond the window. “Perreault is on the verge of collapse. We have no money, no industry. We don’t even have a reputation any longer. Certainly not a good one. I want better than that for our son.”

  “Marry me,” he said for the second time. “We’ll go back to New York, and you’ll never have to see this place again. You said you loved New York, and it sure as hell loves you.”

  “But I love Perreault, as well.” She sighed deeply. “I didn’t realize how much until I saw Eddy’s face and thought of all the wonderful things I could never share with him if we turned away.”

  “So what are you telling me?” he asked over the painful lump in his throat. “That it can’t work? That you’re going to stay here and—”

  The baby fussed, and she stroked his cheek again.

  “You’re not listening to me, Bronson. I can’t live without you, and neither can our son. A long time ago you saw a way for this country to make a mark for itself. A way for us to grow.”

  “You’re talking about the ski resort?”

  “Anything—whatever you think will work. Papa was wrong, Bronson. We have to embrace the future, otherwise there won’t be a future for Perreault at all.”

  “It’s not too late,” he said, considering the idea. “It’ll take a lot of effort, a hell of a lot of PR, but I think it can be done.”

  “Is it a deal, then?” Her dark eyes glittered with excitement.

  “Remember, I have a company to run, princess. New York is still my home base.”

  “I know,” she answered, that royal hauteur reappearing. “And I have a country to run.”

  “Equal partners,” he said. “Otherwise there’s no deal.”

  “Equal partners,” she agreed. “But I get the final say on what happens with Perreault.” She overflowed with ideas, some of them crazy, many of them brilliant. “Every woman in this country can embroider as well as I. I can help them increase their annual income and give Ivan’s Princess line a boost
at the same time. Think of it, Bronson! The possibilities are limitless.”

  “That’s all terrific, princess, but I’m not going to spend the rest of my life locked away in that castle.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” She shuddered. “It will take a while before I’m ready to live in the castle again. Right now I would like nothing better than to return to New York with you and plan our wedding. I’ll come back here whenever I’m needed.”

  “We’re going to be spending a hell of a lot of time in airplanes.”

  “I know you hate flying, Bronson.”

  He hooked his finger inside the collar of his shirt and lifted the chain with his Saint Christopher medal dangling from it. “It doesn’t bother me now that I have protection.”

  She leaned forward. “What on earth happened to that medal?” The heavy silver was dented, and a piece from the bottom was missing.

  “A bullet,” he said.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Dumb luck,” said Daniel. “The doctor said he saw it twice during the war.”

  “A miracle.”

  “No,” he said, looking down at his son. “The real miracle is in your arms.”

  “Can I come in?” Matty’s voice boomed from the hallway.

  “Keep it down, Pop,” Daniel said. “Eddy’s sleeping.”

  “Close your eyes, Isabelle,” Matty called out, more quietly this time. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “Roses,” said Isabelle, doing as he asked. “I love roses.”

  “Sorry, princess,” said Daniel. “It’s not roses.”

  She opened her eyes and saw Matty standing next to the bed, holding Victoria against his right shoulder and Allegra in the crook of his left arm. She saw herself in their eyes, and she saw Juliana. All of the pain, all of the loneliness—she would make sure it never happened again, that these two little girls would never know how it felt to be second best. Most important of all, she knew that Bronson understood.

  “You knew I wouldn’t be able to leave them, didn’t you?” she said to Bronson.