The Princess and the Billionaire
Read The Princess and the Billionaire Online
Authors: Barbara Bretton
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction, #Contemporary Romance
The Princess
and the
Billionaire
Barbara Bretton
Acclaim for the novels of
Barbara Bretton
“Bretton’s characters are always real and their conflicts believable.”
—
Chicago Sun-Times
“Soul warming... A powerful relationship drama [for] anyone who enjoys a passionate look inside the hearts and souls of the prime players.”
— Midwest Book Review
“[Bretton] excels in her portrayal of the sometimes sweet, sometimes stifling ties of a small community. The town’s tight network of loving, eccentric friends and family infuses the tale with a gently comic note that perfectly balances the darker dramas of the romance.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“A tender love story about two people who, when they find something special, will go to any length to keep it.”
— Booklist
“Honest, witty... absolutely unforgettable.”
— Rendezvous
“A classic adult fairy tale.”
—
Affaire de Coeur
“Dialogue flows easily and characters spring quickly to life.”
— Rocky Mountain News
Publishing History
Print edition published by Berkley 1994
Previously published as
One and Only
, 1994
Copyright 1994, 2013 by Barbara Bretton
Digital Edition published by Barbara Bretton, 2013
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
Digital formatting by
A Thirsty Mind Book Design
All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
To J.S., who knows why
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Dallas Schulze, who read the manuscript with a keen eye and a kind heart; and to Susan Feldhake, whose storytelling sense never fails to inspire me; and, as always, thanks to Robin Kaigh, my agent, for ten years of sound advice and valued friendship.
One
Perreault
I
sabelle, second daughter of Prince Bertrand, stood beneath the porte cochere at the rear of the castle and watched as the taillights of Eric Malraux’s Lamborghini were devoured by the Alpine darkness.
Tomorrow morning, society columns throughout the continent would be filled with vivid descriptions of how it felt to dance in the grand ballroom with the chandeliers of Austrian lead crystal blazing overhead, their dazzling light matched by the savage glitter of icy diamond earrings and bloodred ruby necklaces worn by women of consummate grace and beauty. Their gowns had shimmered with gold and silver lights reminiscent of the days when owning a king’s ransom in jewels had been a right, not a privilege. The music of the past resonated everywhere that night, a glorious past that few guests could consider without experiencing a bittersweet sense of longing.
Isabelle hugged herself as a breeze, fragrant with pine, came down from the snow-capped mountains that surrounded the principality of Perreault. How could she think of the past when tonight she had taken her first step into the future, a future that sparkled more beautifully than any diamond possibly could?
Just one hour ago Eric had held her close in his strong arms as his honeyed kisses eased her passage from girlhood to womanhood. Her body tingled in each place that he had touched, as if shooting stars and comets were zinging through her from her head to her feet. Not that the act itself had been so wonderful. It had been messy and awkward and at times almost funny, but none of that mattered. She was in love!
At Christmas last, Eric had just been Honore Malraux’s son, a quiet and handsome young man who’d been part of her life for as long as she could remember. A boy to dance with at royal soirees. Someone who knew her as Juliana’s sister and nothing more, the girl who had been sent away to boarding school and forgotten. But then on New Year’s Eve in the gazebo Eric had kissed her, and everything changed forever. Of course, she hadn’t realized that fact at the time. She’d carried the memory of her first kiss back to boarding school, eager to share the experience with friends who had already leaped happily into the sexual fray.
Maybe there truly was a place for her in the scheme of things. Maybe her father would blink once, twice, then open his eyes to discover he had another daughter besides Juliana. Anything was possible, even being happy. If she could win the heart of someone like Eric, she could do anything at all.
A voice to her right broke through her thoughts.
“Will you be needing anything, mademoiselle?”
She turned to see Yves, master of all he surveyed, standing a few feet away from her. As always, his posture was rigid, his bearing more royal than hers, although he was only a servant.
“Is the party over?”
The man’s bushy brows lifted.
“Oui,
mademoiselle. There is no one afoot, save the help.”
Isabelle wrapped her arms about her slender torso, remembering Eric’s touch. How could Yves look so dour on so special a night? “Is my sister still awake?”
His reaction was a classic Gallic shrug of his shoulders. “It is not my province to know such things, mademoiselle. That is Maxine’s job, is it not?”
“Oh, you wonderful, stuffy old man!” Isabelle pressed a kiss to his leathery cheek. “Go into the kitchen and drink some champagne. I am certain there must be some Cristalle left. Enjoy it! I want everyone to be happy tonight!”
Yves muttered something about the dangers of the grape, but Isabelle merely laughed and gave his ear a playful tug.
“Oh, don’t be so provincial, Yves,” she said, laughing, as she led the way back inside the palace. “Don’t you ever want to throw caution to the four winds and dance till dawn?”
For once Isabelle didn’t notice the cold breezes racing through the castle as she hurried up the wide stone staircase, her slippers dangling from between her fingers. Her St. Laurent gown rustled with every movement. The skirt was suspiciously wrinkled with a huge emerald grass stain across the derriere. Isabelle considered it a mark of triumph, a medal of love, although she certainly didn’t wish to encounter Maxine with the evidence of her liaison with Eric so clearly visible to all. Maxine’s eagle eyes missed nothing. Isabelle’s kiss-swollen lips would betray her in an instant to her governess. Thank heaven Yves was too bound by rules and time schedules to notice true love blossoming right before his weary eyes.
The castle overflowed with guests who had traveled to Perreault for the celebration, so she tiptoed down the long second floor hallway toward her suite of rooms. A woman’s laughter, silvery and coy, spilled from one of the rooms, and Isabelle paused for an instant, head tilted, as she heard the distinctive voice of that American businessman she’d met earlier join the woman’s. Bronson, wasn’t it? Oh, he was handsome enough, but too aggressive by half. Isabelle wrinkled her nose. For some strange reason, American men had never mastered the fine art of subtlety. Why couldn’t they understand the value of understatement, of flattery? These two contradictory terms were amazingly compatible in the hands of even the average European male.
Eric was so wonderful at both. He managed to make a woman feel beautiful and brilliant, charming and clever, all at the same time.
Mr. Bronson, however, was either unwilling or unable to make a woman feel anything but uncomfortable. She’d met him early in the evening. Of course, the brash American had been right on time, betraying his upbringing for what it was. No one arrived on time for parties. Certainly no one who mattered. She had been standing to Juliana’s right on the receiving line, and Bronson had strode right up to her as if they were equals. She’d waited for the customary bow, but he’d just looked her straight in the eyes, practically challenging her to put him in his place. How could she refuse such an open invitation?
“Has no one ever told you about proper protocol?” she’d said as sweetly as she could manage. “You are expected to bow when introduced to royalty.”
“Of course,” he’d said, sweeping her body with his gaze. “Royalty.” The wicked glint in his eyes told her that he didn’t consider the last three members of the Perreault family to be terribly royal, but he’d bowed nonetheless. Isabelle had the feeling, however, that inside he was laughing.
When he’d approached her later for a dance, she had lifted the train of her peach-colored skirt and glided away with all the royal aplomb at her command. Besides, no man should be allowed to look at a woman the way he’d looked at her. His gaze was direct, sensual, almost threatening in its power. She’d turned away from him and stepped into Eric’s arms, so happy to have a man as kind and sensitive as the young Mr. Malraux at her side.
But, then, what difference did it make? Obviously Mr. Bronson’s method had been successful enough, if the muffled sounds of passion behind the door were any indication.
Smiling, she moved past his room. She wished him well tonight. She wished everyone well.
The spacious apartments she shared with her sister were at the end of the corridor. At the turn of the century this had been the nursery wing, furnished to accommodate the large families that had been part and parcel of the Victorian era. As the years passed, the royal family’s size had decreased, until the whole of Perreault’s monarchy consisted of Isabelle and her sister Juliana—and their father, of course.
The ornately carved oak door creaked as she pushed it open. “Juli?” She tossed her dancing slippers on a Chippendale chair in the corner, then dashed through her bedroom and the sitting room and into the room where her sister slept peacefully in her four-poster bed. Asleep! How could her very own sister sleep on the most important night of Isabelle’s life? It was unthinkable. They’d been separated for so many years, but still they were sisters. Isabelle admired Juli’s poise, her cool intelligence, the way she seemed to accept the world, flaws and all. Oh, there was still a certain awkwardness between them—after all, they had spent most of their lives apart. But Isabelle knew that there was no one else on earth who would understand the importance of her wondrous news the way her older sister would.
She leaped onto the feather bed and nudged Juliana’s shoulder. “I have the most spectacular news, Juli! You must wake up.”
Juliana was as fair as Isabelle was dark; as calm and cheerful outwardly as Isabelle was turbulent and prone toward black crises of the soul.
Isabelle knew if she was awakened in the dead of night, she would snarl and grumble and not listen to one single word her sister had to say. Juliana simply yawned, her rosebud mouth forming a perfect
O,
then propped herself up against the eighteenth-century headboard and listened quietly as Isabelle recited chapter and verse about her miraculous, wonderful, altogether fabulous night.
“And that’s not all.” Isabelle lowered her voice to a sultry whisper, then held her hands a distance apart.
Juliana buried her face against her pillow. Even her delicate ears were bright red. You would almost think it had been Juliana, not Isabelle, who had spent the last fifteen years at convent school. “No!”
“Yes!”
“That’s—that’s impossible.”
“I swear on the Sacred Heart and Mama’s grave.”
“But—how did he—how could you—”
“It’s the most amazing thing,” Isabelle said as she sprawled across the foot of the feather bed and stretched lazily. “I was scared to death when I first saw him, but it was as if we were made for each other, Juli. Truly, the whole experience takes much less time than I would have imagined.”
“Was he gentle?”
“Gentle and sweet and so wonderful—”
“I cannot believe you have done it, Isabelle. Are you in love?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Does he love you, too?”
“I know that he does.” Would a man ever do the things Eric had done to her—for her—if he didn’t love her with all his heart and soul? Impossible, she thought. What they had shared was special. Surely no one on earth had ever known such happiness as she’d found in his arms.
“Robert?” asked Juliana.
“Niall?”
“Good God, no.”
“Henry? Marco? That handsome American? I saw the way he was looking at you—”
Isabelle threw back her head and laughed. “You goose! It’s Eric Malraux! How could you not know?”
There was a silence, deep as the darkness beyond the leaded glass windows. The type of silence that a wiser woman would have understood. Isabelle, however, was young and foolish and very much in love.
“I—I had no idea.” Juliana looked down at her hands, as if embarrassed to know such intimate details about her sister.
“Oh, Juli, didn’t you see the way he was looking at me at the New Year’s party? The flowers he sent at Saint Valentine’s Day when I was on holiday from school?” What on earth was wrong with her sister? Isabelle had expected squeals of excitement, at the very least, and a veritable barrage of questions.
“That was months ago,” said Juliana in her soft, measured voice. “Certainly it was not something I remembered.”
Isabelle was almost incandescent with pleasure. “To tell the truth, even I had almost forgotten that he’d kissed me in the gazebo on New Year’s Eve. I was so caught up in flirting with Jean-Claude that night that I scarcely paid Eric any heed. I had never thought of him like that but—” She sighed and closed her eyes, remembering.
Juliana said nothing, but Isabelle was so swept up in her romantic reverie that she didn’t notice.
“He swept me into his arms and kissed me right there in the gazebo with the snow swirling all about and the cold wind slicing through our clothing.” She sighed deeply, theatrically, as she lifted her thick dark hair off the back of her neck. “It was the most exciting thing in the world.” She laughed gaily. “That is, until tonight.”
Juliana’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
“Oh, Juli, did you ever in a million years think this would happen to me?”
“No,” said Juliana, her eyes the color of the ice-crusted lake beyond their window. “I never did.”
* * *
It isn’t real—this can’t be happening—doesn’t he know how much I love him?
Juliana felt as if her heart was about to snap in two like a dried twig. A heaviness had settled in across her chest, pressing against her ribs and making it difficult to breathe. Dear God, how could it be that Eric didn’t realize the depth of her emotions? She had loved him from her very first second on this earth. His was the face she saw when she awoke in the morning, the face she saw in her dreams at night. The face she wanted to see every day for the rest of her life.
“... and then he brushed my hair from my face—oh, Juli, he was so wonderfully gentle—and said, ‘Oh, Isabelle, you are...’”
Her sister’s words came through a thick fog of pain.
This is only a story—another one of Isabelle’s tall tales—I’ll wake up in the morning, and it will all be just a ridiculous bad dream.
Hadn’t it always been this way? From the moment she came into the world, Isabelle had captivated everyone. She hadn’t cared a fig about rules or responsibilities; she had simply danced through life with an abandon few could equal. One day she would dream of being a siren of the silver screen, and the next day she planned to lead safaris in darkest Africa. Part gypsy, part Joan of Arc, Isabelle sparkled brighter than her dreams.
