The Princess and the Billionaire (4 page)

The loss of Bertrand’s wife and the death of his sister’s fiancé were grist for the gossipmonger’s mill. To her endless regret, Maxine herself had devoured the details of the Princess Elysse’s grief when her playboy fiancé had drowned in a boating accident. Years later, when she met Elysse at the castle for the first time, Maxine had been overcome with remorse that the good woman’s loss had provided her with an hour’s entertainment.

“You’d be too young to go walking down memory lane like that,” she chided herself. Better to push these unsettling thoughts from her mind. There was much work to be done today, what with so many people in the palace for the celebration.

She hurried downstairs to fetch a packet of letters she’d promised to answer for Prince Bertrand and was passing by the wall of windows in the library when something caught her eye.

There, in the gazebo, were the two young princesses and Honore Malraux’s boy. Juliana, a snow angel in her pale blond fur coat, was talking with great animation while Isabelle, a flash of ebony fire, had eyes only for Eric. Even from a distance Maxine could feel the intensity. She couldn’t quite make out their expressions, the glare from the sun being what it was, but there was something... something.

Dread prickled its way down Maxine’s arms.

“You would be lettin’ your imagination run away with you, old woman,” she said out loud. “How many times would you see the three of them together, as normal as you please?”

She reached into the capacious side pocket of her navy wool jumper and withdrew her spectacles. Not that she needed them, of course. She was only fifty-six and not prey to the ravages of time quite yet. It was just the glare and the way it streamed through the leaded-glass windows. Squinting, she looked back toward the gazebo. Ah, yes. There they were. She could see them quite clearly now. Eric had his arm about Isabelle’s shoulders. Isabelle was looking up at him as if he were the sun and the moon and the stars, all rolled up in one quite average young man.

Maxine sighed. There was no denying that look on her beloved girl’s face. She’d given herself to that pretty young boy, given away the most important possession a girl would ever have. People said virginity wasn’t important any longer, that only fools worried about that tiny, trembling membrane, but Maxine knew otherwise. It mattered to men, being first. Oh, women could talk all they wanted about being equal and being free, but when the bedroom door closed on a bridal couple, a man liked to think he would be the one to teach his wife the ways of the world.

At first glance it seemed as if Juliana was looking upon her sister and her sister’s young man with the fond benevolence of a woman much older and a great deal wiser. But then Maxine looked more closely. Juliana’s smile was sharpened like a blade; her movements were quicker, more certain; and, dear God, she seemed to be focusing her attentions in on Eric.

Maxine took off her glasses, letting them dangle over her bosom from a long ribbon cord. It couldn’t be. Surely she was misreading the expression on Juliana’s face the way the gypsy lady used to misread the tea leaves after too much of the grape. Life was complicated enough without pitting sisters one against the other. Nothing good would come of a confrontation like that, nothing good at all.

I
f Isabelle had her way, she would have spent the afternoon in the gazebo with Eric. Instead she found herself perched on the high terrace at the rear of the palace, watching while men and women who should know better fired bullets at pieces of clay.

Cries of “Pull! Pull!” rang out in the Alpine stillness followed by the report of shotguns and peals of excited laughter. Her father’s beloved Corgis, a gift from Queen Elizabeth II, barked accompaniment. Isabelle sighed and hugged her knees closer to her body. She was hopelessly awkward with pistols and shotguns. She hated the cold dead weight against her shoulder and cheek, hated the off-balance way she felt as she peered through the sight. The mere thought of pulling the trigger made her flinch. Juliana, of course, was expert at it. While Isabelle was stranded in that godforsaken boarding school, Juliana had been at their father’s side, learning all the things that were truly important in Perreault.

“Good, isn’t she?” said a deep male voice as the clay bird shattered overhead.

Isabelle groaned inwardly. Bronson, no less.

“Yes, she is,” she managed. Why on earth did everyone find Juliana’s proficiency with a shotgun so incredibly interesting? “Quite good.”

“Why aren’t you down there performing your royal duties?”

She ignored him.

“Can’t shoot?” he persisted.

“Of course I can,” she said with a short laugh. “There’s nothing terribly special about that.” She fixed him with a look. “Do you shoot?”

“Only to kill,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s a waste of good ammunition.” If ever a man looked as if he’d have a taste for blood, it was Bronson. “Why aren’t you down there with your pal?” he asked.

She gazed pointedly toward Greta VanArsdalen who idled near a Japanese businessman from Kyoto. “I could ask you the same thing.”

His smile didn’t waver, but she noted the steel behind it. “There’s nothing between Greta and me.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Bronson. She made your alliance quite clear at breakfast.”

“I didn’t say we didn’t have sex last night. I said there’s nothing between us.”

To her dismay, her cheeks reddened. “But you—I mean, you said you...”

His eyes raked her body, not in a sleazy fashion, but rather like someone reacquainting himself with the obvious. “I keep forgetting how young you are, princess. In case you don’t know, sex and love are two different things.” He paused, his vivid green eyes twinkling. “Or they should be if you’re doing it right.”

“That’s despicable.”

“That’s the real world. I know you princesses don’t have a lot to do with the real world, but the sooner you pick up on a few elementary points, the better off you’ll be.”

“I feel sorry for you, Mr. Bronson,” she said, turning away from him. “You must lead a terribly lonely life.”

They watched in silence as Juliana and Prince Bertrand engaged in some friendly competition. Her sister’s pale hair was pulled back in a sleek French braid that bobbed merrily between her shoulder blades. The expression on her heart-shaped face was endearingly earnest as she listened to some advice from their father then blithely raised the rifle to her shoulder and took aim. The clay bird shattered and fell back to earth.

“You as good a shot as your sister?”

She shook her head, maintaining her silence, as Juliana’s laughter floated up to the balcony. Her father’s handsome face was creased with a broad smile, and jealousy, her old nemesis, clawed at her ribcage. Isabelle’s breath caught as Eric moved out from the shadows and took his place next to Juliana. Bertrand stepped aside as if that were the most natural thing in the world. There was something so right about the scene, so deeply inevitable, that Isabelle struggled to maintain her composure.

“They make a great-looking couple,” Bronson noted.

She refused to meet his eyes. Damn him. He was being tactful. Eric and Juliana made a stunning couple. You would have to be blind not to be struck by the sight of their two blond heads pressed close together as Eric helped Juliana reload. Isabelle suspected her sister could take the shotgun apart and put it back together again without anyone’s help whatsoever.

“I know you don’t believe it,” Bronson continued in a voice more gentle than she’d heard from him before, “but one day you’ll wonder what you saw in him.”

“I love him,” she said. “I’ll love him until the day I die.”

“Sure you will,” said Bronson.

“You don’t know anything at all,” she snapped. “You wouldn’t understand true love if you lived to be a thousand.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I certainly do.”

“And you think Malraux is your knight in shining armor?”

She hesitated. The biting edge to his words wasn’t lost on her. “You make it sound so foolish. Why is it so hard for you to believe that two people can fall in love?”

“Go ahead, princess,” Bronson urged. “Tell me you two will live happily ever after.”

“We will,” she snapped in exasperation. “Mark my words, Mr. Bronson. You’ll dance with the bride before too long.”

“Right,” said Bronson, “and if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get to dance with you, too.”

“You bastard!” Fury flooded her brain. All she could think of was wiping that malicious smirk from his face. She raised her hand, her palm itching to make contact with his cheek, and gasped in surprise as he deftly moved forward and pinned her hands behind her back while she prayed he wouldn’t toss her over the railing.

“Don’t even think it, princess. You’re not going to get away with that crap with me.”

She considered the wisdom of kicking him in the shins, but the set of his jaw forced her to reconsider. “You’re hurting me.”

“I’d turn you over my knee and paddle some sense into you if I thought it would do any good.”

“How terribly macho,” she said, praying she sounded braver than she felt. “I’m sure your female companions must enjoy walking three paces behind you.”

“He’s a schmuck,” said Bronson. “You can find a thousand like him at the tables in Monte Carlo.”

“And a million of you on any street corner in Manhattan.” Damn the quaver in her voice. “Why are you so hateful? What on earth have I done to make you treat me this way?”

“I hate to see people make mistakes.”

“Loving Eric isn’t a mistake.”

“It’s not love, princess, it just feels that way.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand anything about the way I feel. Why, I—”

With one swift movement he lowered his head, bringing his mouth against her mouth, kissing her hard and long. There was nothing tender about the kiss, nothing sweet or romantic. What there was, was heat. More raw fire than she would have imagined possible in a kiss. The fact that he had absolutely no business claiming her this way was almost secondary to the warmth radiating outward from the pit of her stomach.

His mouth was hard, demanding. He yielded nothing and demanded everything. And there was nothing—nothing she could do.

If he hadn’t taken her by surprise, she never would have allowed such a thing to happen.

If he hadn’t pinned her hands behind her so effectively, she would have pushed him away without a second thought.

If he—

“Is that you I hear, Mr. Bronson? We need to talk.”

Heat was replaced by panic as her father’s footsteps sounded on the stone steps, not thirty feet away from the balcony where they stood.

“See what I mean?” Bronson ended the kiss with the same suddenness with which it had begun. She struggled to regain her composure. “Lust.” His grin was all too knowing. “Hard to tell the difference, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” she hissed. “I have a good mind to tell my father what you did. He’d toss you off this balcony in a flash.”

“Feeling guilty, princess? Doesn’t Malraux—”

“So it was you I heard, Mr. Bronson.” Bertrand’s imposing figure appeared on the landing. Dressed in forest green cords and a coffee-brown suede jacket, he appeared more the country gentleman than the ruler of Perreault. A jaunty Irish cap, souvenir of his last visit to Dublin, perched atop his thick mane of silver hair. “And Isabelle.” He bestowed his best smile on his younger daughter. “Juliana didn’t tell me I’d find you here as well.” He crossed the balcony to where she stood, radiating paternal warmth and concern. “Your cheeks are flushed,
cheri.
Perhaps you are cold?”

“N-no.” She swallowed hard, studiously avoiding Bronson’s eyes. “We—I mean, I was just...” Her voice drifted away. So did her father’s attention. For once she was glad she’d failed to hold his interest.

“Isabelle was explaining some of the finer points of trap shooting,” Bronson offered, his tone laconic. “She’s an enthusiastic teacher.”

Her father’s smile was benign. “My daughter does everything with great enthusiasm.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She couldn’t help it. She looked up at Bronson, but his expression was as bland as his voice. No wonder he was so successful in business. He could lie with the best of them.

“... much like my late wife,” her father was saying. “All fire and emotion...”

Bronson’s dark brows lifted, and Isabelle held her breath.
Don’t say anything,
she pleaded silently.
If you ask one question about my mother, he’ll turn away from me as if I were invisible.

Prince Bertrand shook his head once, then twice, as if to bring himself back to the matter at hand. “We have some time before the afternoon hunt.” He focused in on Bronson, using all of his formidable charm to coax a smile from the businessman. “You said you wished to speak with me about a particular matter?”

Isabelle watched as Bronson switched gears with the ease of a Maserati downshifting into a curve. “A very important matter,” he said with none of the deference most men evidenced when speaking to her father. “Give me an hour, and I can lay out the whole project for you.”

Her father blinked, then looked over at Isabelle. “The directness of Americans can be overwhelming, can it not?”

Isabelle bit hard on the inside of her cheek. “Quite,” she said after a moment.

“In the library, then,” said her father.

“I’ll get my portfolio,” said Bronson, “and meet you there in five minutes.”

“My daughter will be joining us, if you don’t mind.”

Bronson’s emerald eyes twinkled as he looked over at Isabelle. “I don’t mind at all.”

You have a lot to learn about Perreault, Mr. Bronson,
she thought. Second daughters didn’t attend meetings with businessmen from America, no matter how important those businessmen thought they were.

Bertrand turned to Isabelle. “Tell Juliana to make her apologies, then come to the library. Our guests can amuse themselves for an hour, I have no doubt.”

She noted the disappointment on Bronson’s face and enjoyed it. “It’s been... interesting,” she said, sweeping past him with all the aplomb at her command.

“We’ll do it again,” he said.

“I doubt that,” she murmured as she reached the staircase, then paused. Looking back over her shoulder, her gaze was caught and held by the telltale pink lipstick smudge near the left corner of his mouth. Smiling, she turned and hurried down the stone steps. She hoped he had the devil of a time explaining that smudge to Greta VanArsdalen.

* * *

Daylight was cruel to the castle, Daniel noted as he followed a middle-aged parlormaid up a back staircase to his room on the second floor. Much as the uncompromising sunlight pointed out each wrinkle on the pleasant woman’s face, it also highlighted the castle’s considerable problems. Chunks of stone were missing from the walls, the lighting was quixotic at best, and puddles of rainwater had him hopscotching his way down the hallway. The air was damp and downright cold, and he wondered if the slightly lopsided windows at the landing kept out any but the gentlest of alpine breezes. Daniel wasn’t given to romantic flights of fancy, but he could almost swear he heard the clanking of armor in the distance.

“Your room, m’sieur.” The parlormaid swung open the heavy oak door and stepped aside.

Bronson found himself reaching for his pockets but stopped before he made a total ass of himself. The place looked so much like a broken-down old hotel that he’d almost tipped the woman. “Thanks,” he said, smiling.

The woman nodded. “I wait to take you back to the library.”

“Not necessary. That I can find.”

She hesitated. “The castle is large, m’sieur. It is so easy to get lost.”

It took some effort, but he convinced her he’d be able to find the library without a guide. Truth was, he could have found his room on his own as well, but the help here seemed to think outsiders couldn’t find the bathroom without a map. He could be as dense as the next guy, but at least he had a good sense of direction. His problem had to do with the opposite sex. If someone could hand him a map to help him understand women, that would be something he could use.

Admit it,
he said to himself.
The little princess really had you going for a while down there
. He was a sap, a fool. Hell, he was an asshole for letting himself get taken in like that by a kid. And that’s all she was, a kid. A girl. Yeah, she had the body of a woman, but he could see she was still wet behind the ears when it came to the battle of the sexes. She still believed in fairy tales, happily-ever-after, and that love triumphed in the end. Maybe it had something to do with growing up in a castle, surrounded by every romantic cliché Walt Disney had ever dreamed up.