The Princess and the Billionaire (9 page)

“As you wish, madam.”

So quick. So easy. With a word she could cast a person into oblivion or make his fondest dream come true. How was it she’d never realized all that was within her grasp?

That taste of power had been intoxicating. The only thing in her life that came close to the sensation was making love with her husband. Perhaps the two sensations were more intertwined than one might think at first observation. Once again it occurred to her that the acquisition of more power could ensure Eric’s place by her side.

In the distance she heard the strident yipping of her father’s infernal Corgis. She despised those horrid little dogs, all haunches and teeth and bad dispositions. Oh, yes, there would be many changes when she acceded to the throne, and it would start with those canine ferrets.

She wrinkled her nose at the slightly blowsy look of the roses. They were past their peak, petals wide open to the sun with the faded look of a once-beautiful woman lifting her face toward the light. She preferred the controlled beauty of the privet hedges, predictable angles and lines with a purpose beyond the ornamental.

The garden was neatly bordered with a stone fence punctuated by a gate at the far end. She pushed open the gate and continued walking. The dogs were making an unconscionable amount of noise. A faint hint of alarm mingled with her curiosity as she followed the well-worn footpath into the woods.

“Ridiculous,” she said out loud as the cathedral of leaves overhead rustled in the summer wind. This odd sense of approaching destiny was more than likely the result of her advanced state of pregnancy, nothing more. The barking of the dogs grew louder as she plunged more deeply into the forest. “Papa!” she called out. “It’s Juliana.”

No response save for the barking of the dogs.

Her heart beat more rapidly in earnest. “Papa!” she called, more loudly this time. “Where are you?”

She jumped as she felt something brush against her ankle. Looking down, she saw one of her father’s dogs, leaping about as if possessed.

“What on earth—?”

The small dog growled ominously, and she took a step back, but then the animal ran forward a few yards, as if trying to tell her something. She supposed the little horror wanted her to follow it into the woods where it would turn her into a human sacrifice.

“Papa!” Her voice rang out. “Please come and fetch your dog before it bites me!”

Still no response.

“All right,” she said to the dog.. “I’ll do as you say.” She followed the animal through some brush ripe with berries then into a clearing.

She glanced about, her hands linked across her belly, then saw a knot of Corgis clustered around her father’s prone form. She was at his side as quickly as her bulk would allow.

“... pain... my jaw... shoulder...” His words were slow and indistinct. “I need...” His eyes closed, and she watched, fascinated and horrified, as beads of sweat broke out along his brow.

She felt useless standing there while he writhed in pain, but her belly was so large she couldn’t bend over to wipe his forehead.

“Help,” he said, clutching at his left shoulder. “The doctor... quickly....”

“Of course, Papa,” she said. “Immediately.”

She looked down at him for a long moment, memorizing the furrows and planes of his face, then turned and slowly walked back toward the castle.

* * *

The
New York Times
broke the story about Bertrand’s death on one of the inside pages—three column inches of text accompanied by a small picture of Juliana and Eric standing, grief-stricken, at the gravesite. Matty saw it first. He called Daniel to pass on the news.

“Damn glad you didn’t get involved with them,” Matty said. “Malraux will have that place tied up in red ribbons before the grass grows over the grave.”

“You have a way with words, Pop,” Daniel said, thinking about the charming silver-haired prince he’d met just a few months ago. “I wonder—” He stopped.

“You’re wondering about the other princess.”

“She’s going to have it rough,” Daniel said, wishing his father wasn’t so good at finishing his sentences for him. “She was the odd one out when Bertrand was alive. It’s only going to get worse.” A lot worse, if his gut feeling about Juliana was on target.

“They’ll work it out fine without you,” said Matty. His words were punctuated by puffs on a cigar. “That’s one thing about royalty, Danny: It’s a job for life. They take care of their own.”

You’re wrong, Pop,
thought Daniel. The memory of the way they’d all closed ranks at Juliana’s wedding, as if Isabelle didn’t exist, lingered with him. So did the depth of her loneliness.

They spent a few minutes talking about a real estate deal on the Upper West Side, then broke the connection. Daniel buzzed for Phyllis, who popped up seconds later in the doorway.

“You rang, boss?”

“Send some flowers or whatever to Prince Bertrand’s family in Perreault.”

Phyllis jotted something in her ever-present notepad. “Birth? Anniversary? Wedding?”

“Death. The prince, a few days ago.”

“His poor daughter,” Phyllis said, looking genuinely concerned. “Just married, about to have a baby, and now she’s inherited the throne. I wouldn’t want to be her for a million dollars. Her freedom is gone before she even had a chance to enjoy it.”

“This from the raging royalist of Queens?”

“I’m not stupid, Daniel. I want the perks, not the pressures.”

“So what do you think’ll happen to the other sister?” He managed to sound only mildly curious.

“Judging from what I’ve been reading, she’ll probably marry one of those rich Euro-types she’s been partying with.”

He scowled. “What do you mean, partying?”

“Honey, if half the stuff they’re printing about her is true, this girl has a track record Carl Lewis would envy.” She paused. “For heaven’s sake, Daniel, don’t look at me like that. You asked, and I told. It’s just an opinion.”

“Too goddamn much gossip,” Daniel muttered, crumpling up a piece of paper and aiming it for the wastebasket across the room. “What the hell ever happened to privacy?”

Phyllis stalked out of his office, mumbling something about tyrants under her breath. Knowing Phyllis, Daniel guessed she was probably wondering why all the interest in Isabelle.

He really didn’t give a damn what happened to the little princess. She wasn’t his responsibility. Hell, they barely knew each other.

Still, the thought of her in the arms of one of those professional boyfriend-types he’d seen roaming through Europe made his gut knot up. Despite her interlude with Eric Malraux, the dark-haired princess still had the fires of righteous innocence burning in her heart. Even Daniel, who wasn’t particularly good at navigating emotional landscapes, could see that she still believed in a love that would last a lifetime. All it would take was two or three more mistakes on the scale of Malraux and she’d turn into one of those hollow-eyed women who relied on cabana boys for their self-esteem.

But hell. It wasn’t his problem. Any last, lingering hope for a deal with the principality had died with Bertrand, and now that Daniel was negotiating hot and heavy with the Japanese, the odds were he’d never cross paths with any of them again.

New York

E
lysse, sister of the late Prince Bertrand and ex-wife of too many men—both noble and otherwise—to count, checked the last of the wardrobe trunks lined up in her foyer, then nodded toward the doorman and his assistant. “If you would, gentlemen, I’ll be forever in your debt. The nice man in the big black limousine will help you load them in the boot.”

Isabelle watched the proceedings with alarm. “Aunt Elysse! How can you do this to me?”

“Quite easily, my dear.” Elysse checked her makeup in the mirror of her gold compact. “I am more than willing to put a roof over your head and food in your stomach, but I simply cannot live with you. And certainly not during August in New York. You are demanding, foolish—although not unintelligent—and altogether too loud and too young for my aging tastes. I shall simply remand myself to my home in Bermuda as is my custom and wait for the storm to pass. I will see you again in the spring, by which time I hope you will have found your own residence.”

“I can’t live here by myself.”

“You won’t be living here by yourself,” Elysse pointed out. “You have Maxine.”

“But Maxine doesn’t know anything more about New York than I do!”

“And think of the fun you two will have learning all about it.”

“You simply cannot do this to me.”

“I can and I must,” Elysse said, sliding on her gloves. “I am old, I am tired, and I need time and space for myself. My banker will take care of the apartment’s carrying charges and the utilities. There is food in the pantry and a well-stocked freezer. After that, my dear, I’m sure you’ll find a way to fend for yourself.”

“But who will clean up after me?”

Elysse rolled her blue eyes in despair. “How I thank God that I left Perreault when I did and learned to be an independent woman. I shudder to think that there was a time when I believed the world owed me a living.”

Isabelle brushed away her words with a wave of her hand. “Yes, but who will do the cleaning?”

“A service will come in every Friday, my dear, but you are on your own the rest of the time.” Elysse pointed to her cheek. “Now if you will kiss your aunt good-bye, I must be on my way.”

Isabelle did as she was asked. Her aunt smelled of Chanel No. 5 and impatience. “Why on earth did you invite me to live with you if you weren’t going to be here?”

“My dear, you had an abysmal interlude in Paris, and we both agree you were faring equally badly in London. What choice was there? I couldn’t bear to see you thrown to the wolves. You’re quite a delectable little morsel, and they would have devoured you in one bite.” She shrugged her narrow, elegant shoulders. “We are family, but that does not mean we must live together under the same roof. Need I say more?”

“No,” said Isabelle, “I would rather you didn’t. You make me sound like an undisciplined ogre, unfit for human company.”

Elysse’s laugh rang out.
“Au contraire,
my darling. You’re a most amusing and beautiful child, and it is my fondest hope that one day you will become a quite satisfactory woman. But I see no need to share that journey with you.
Au revoir,
Isabelle. I will see you again in April.”

Isabelle stormed back into the kitchen where Maxine sat nursing a pot of tea and reading the newspaper.

“Well, the traitor has run out on me,” she announced, slumping into a chair opposite Maxine. “Once again my own flesh and blood has seen fit to desert me.”

Maxine looked up at her. “’Twould seem you have been left with more than you deserve, lovey, considering the way you’ve been acting.”

“Please do not start with your criticisms again, Maxi. I am simply not in the mood.”

“This is the life you’ve been given, and it is high time you made your peace with it.”

Isabelle shot Maxine a perfectly foul look. “If you’re so dreadfully unhappy with me, Maxine Neesom, why don’t you go back to Perreault and play nursemaid to Juliana’s child?”

“You know the answer to that as well as I do, lovey. When I chose you, I broke my ties forever.” Maxine resumed reading her newspapers.

Isabelle swiped a chocolate donut from the platter in the center of the table and stalked back into the living room. In the two months since her father’s death, Isabelle had bounced from place to place, trying to find somewhere she could put down roots, even temporarily.

One week after Bertrand’s funeral, Isabelle had found herself expelled from her homeland with nothing more than her wardrobe trunks and Maxine by her side. Juliana had maintained her icy silence where Isabelle was concerned, empowering Yves to deliver the nasty bit of news. There was little doubt that the man enjoyed it. Somehow Juliana had managed to turn public opinion against Isabelle, and that extended to the castle staff. “Her wild ways took their toll on her father,” went the whispers. “She broke his heart in two.”

She knew that wasn’t true, that she had existed in the shadows of her father’s life. To break someone’s heart meant that you had held a place within it, and Isabelle knew she never had.

“Pack everything,” she’d instructed Maxine, “because I will never return.”

“Rash statements are the most often regretted,” Maxine had said. “This is the place of your birth. One day you’ll return.”

But Isabelle was beyond reason. Perreault had been a dream to her, a distant vision of something that could never be. In a way there was a certain relief in knowing that it was over.

Paris, however, proved a disaster. The Hotel George V was very pricey, something she had never thought about before. Two weeks into their stay, the manager had appeared at their suite with the embarrassing news that the castle had refused payment and would mademoiselle please make other arrangements.

Unfortunately, mademoiselle hadn’t given much thought to things like hotel bills. Those mundane details had always been taken care of by the anonymous accountants laboring away in the castle offices.

She and Maxine had moved on to London where Isabelle and her friend Gemma quickly discovered that they were too old to be roommates again. Isabelle embroidered some flashy designs on a plain silk dress and left it behind as a thank-you gift, although she suspected just seeing her departure might have been gift enough.

“I have a brother in Dublin,” Maxine had offered. “He might be willing to let us stay with him for a spell.”

But Isabelle had had other ideas. How many times had Aunt Elysse said Isabelle would love New York City? Maybe the time had come to find out for herself.

“Well, you certainly found out, didn’t you?” Isabelle said as she looked out the window at the street below. New York was louder, dirtier, and faster than she’d ever imagined. It was also more expensive, more dangerous, and more exciting than in her wildest dreams. Just walking three blocks to Trump Tower was an adventure. But she had counted on having her aunt there to guide her through the maze that was the Big Apple. And, she must admit, to be there to pay the bills.

Maxine had checked the pantry and freezer and clucked that the supplies wouldn’t last forever, and they’d best be thinking about the future. The last time Isabelle had given serious thought to her future, she’d believed marriage would be at the heart of it. Now, whenever she turned her thoughts toward that particular road, all she saw was darkness.

* * *

Phyllis burst into Daniel’s office, waving a copy of the
New York Post.
“She’s in town! Page six says she’s living right near Trump Tower.”

Daniel leaned forward and switched off the tape recorder. “Don’t you ever knock, Phyl? I’m trying to practice my Japanese.”

“Forget your Japanese,” his assistant said, shoving the newspaper under his nose. “The princess is in town.”

“I don’t have time for this today. I’m leaving for Tokyo next week and I still haven’t got past
domo arrigato.”

Damn it. He didn’t want to look. He’d done a pretty good job of keeping the princess tucked away in some far corner of his brain and intended to keep her there.

“I’m not going to leave until you look at it.”

He knew Phyllis well enough to realize she meant business. “Okay,” he said, reaching for the newspaper. “If that’s what it takes to shut you up.” He glanced down at the photo. “What the hell—?” Her hair was piled atop her head, diamonds dangled from her ears—and she was carrying a bag from Gristede’s? He looked up at Phyllis. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“No joke, boss. That’s hot off the presses. I couldn’t believe it, myself.” Phyllis leaned across the desk. “You should call her, Daniel. Invite her to lunch.” She grinned. “Invite me to lunch with the two of you.”

“Forget it.”

“She’s all alone in the city,” Phyllis urged. “She could use a friend.”

“We’re not friends.”

“So make friends with her. You danced with her at her sister’s wedding, didn’t you?” Her expression grew sly. “You need a social life, Dan-o.”

He skimmed the story that accompanied the picture. “Sounds like she’s doing okay without me. Lunch at Le Cirque and dinner at 21. She could give lessons.”

Phyllis yanked the paper away from him. Rolling it into a tube, she tapped it against her hand. “God, how I’d love to hit you in the head with this.”

He couldn’t help laughing. “What is it about me that makes women want to hit?” The little princess had threatened him repeatedly, and once he’d even let her connect.

“Figure it out,” Phyllis snarled, then stomped back out to her desk.

“If you’re so damn interested, why don’t you call her?” he said as the door slammed shut behind her. “Like we’d have a chance,” he muttered, staring out the window at the traffic on Park Avenue. She was royal and she was beautiful, which made her as useless as two left shoes. She also had a bad temper, no visible talents, and lousy taste in men—and she didn’t like him any more than he liked her. He and his ex-wife had had more than that going for them, and they’d ended up in divorce court, bickering over the china service.

No doubt about it: He and the princess were a match made in romantic hell, and the sooner he got that through to his libido, the better off he’d be.

He didn’t need her. He didn’t want her. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to call her.

New York was a big city. There had to be room enough for both of them.

* * *

By the first week of October, Isabelle had decided that New York City was nothing more than a collection of small towns loosely linked by a common language—or at least what approximated a common language. She’d never imagined English could be spoken in so many different ways, but one month in Manhattan had shown her how wrong she was.

The tiny blurb that had appeared in the newspaper a few weeks ago had been the start of her introduction into the social whirl of the city. All it had taken was one sharp-eyed photographer, and her phone began to ring off the hook with invitations to gallery openings and galas and lunches. Royalty was a valuable commodity in New York City, and she found herself doted upon in a most agreeable manner.

Even her needlework engendered comment. Juliana had not only held up her trust fund, but also she had seen to it that Isabelle’s wardrobe had yet to arrive. Isabelle, hungry for pretty clothes, had dressed up some plain garments with beadwork and fancy stitchery, and overnight the well-dressed ladies who lunched were oohing and ahhing as if they were vintage Diors.

“Americans certainly do eat a lot of lunches,” she said one morning as she poured herself a cup of tea and joined Maxine at the breakfast table. “I have a noon luncheon engagement tomorrow and a one-thirty on Wednesday.”

Maxine scowled in her direction. “And wouldn’t I be wishing I could spend my days eating fancy food off china plates.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Maxi!” Isabelle buttered a piece of toast and reached for the marmalade. “Nobody told you to get that idiotic job. We’re doing just fine.” Maxine had taken a clerical job at a Seventh Avenue dress factory called Tres Chic.

“‘Just fine’ isn’t good enough,” Maxine said. “One rainy day, and we’re in trouble.”

“You sound like one of those worrying women in the ladies’ magazines.” She bit into the toast, then added another layer of marmalade.

“’Twould be nice if I wasn’t the only one doing the worrying.”

“We have nothing to worry about, Maxi, can’t you understand? Any day Aunt Elysse’s lawyer will get my trust fund released and have it deposited at a local bank. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Too much time, if you ask me,” Maxine sniffed.

“Well, no one is asking you.”

“You’d be asking me to do everything else around here.”

“Is it my fault no one thought to teach me how to cook?” Or iron a blouse. Or balance a checkbook. The list was endless. “I’m getting quite tired of hearing about my shortcomings.” She added yet another layer of marmalade to her toast. “I’m certain there is something I’d be good at, and sooner or later I shall discover what it is.”

Maxine watched as she took a bite of toast. “We can’t be buyin’ new clothes on our budget, missy.”

Isabelle’s eyebrows lifted dangerously. “Are you implying something, Maxine?”

Maxine’s face remained impassive. “’Twould be a shame for those lovely clothes to go to waste.”