The Princess and the Billionaire (13 page)

The warmth of the bed, the solid strength of his body, the feeling that she’d been moving toward this moment since the day she was born—none of it was real. She couldn’t allow herself to believe it was possible.

Gently she pulled the covers up over his chest, then slipped from the bed. If she didn’t leave now, while she still could, she might never leave, and the thought of needing him that much terrified her.

Gathering up her clothes, she padded into the enormous marble bathroom adjacent to the master bedroom to reassemble herself as best she could.

Twenty minutes later, reasonably well put together, she sat down at his desk and wrote her telephone number on the back of one of his business cards. Returning to the bedroom, she pinned it to her pillow with one of her brooches, kissed his forehead, then let herself out of the apartment.

The next move was his.

* * *

“And where in the world have you been, lovey?” asked Maxine when Isabelle returned. “The telephone has been ringing off the hook and myself without a clue what to say. I was thinking of calling the authorities.”

Isabelle tossed her shawl across the Queen Anne desk in the foyer. She had been hoping to have the apartment to herself for a few hours in order to collect her thoughts. She simply wasn’t ready to share what had happened, not even with Maxine.

“What are you doing home early, Maxi?” She kissed the older woman on the cheek. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“And who could work with the whole world beatin’ a path to my door? ’Tis a wonder I didn’t lose my job.”

“For heaven’s sake, will you calm down and explain to me what is happening?”

Maxine pointed toward the answering machine and a two-inch stack of messages next to it. “This is a country of craziness, that’s what it is. You would think these people have nothing better to do than waste their time listening to other people’s troubles.”

Isabelle pounced on the messages and riffled through them. Given the extraordinary turn of events with Daniel, she had forgotten their television appearance. “My God, Maxi!
People
magazine wants to do a three-page story on me!” She glanced at the next few slips of paper.
Harper’s Bazaar
and
Vogue
wanted to feature her on their covers. “I cannot believe it. People want to order a dress like the one I’m wearing! They don’t even care about the price.”

Maxine looked as bewildered as Isabelle felt. She informed Isabelle that the telephones at Tres Chic had been ringing all afternoon with pleas for information on how to order the Princess Isabelle dress seen on “The Morning Show.”

Isabelle’s story of royalty on the rocks had sparked the public’s imagination. Americans loved what they called the “underdog” and the notion of a poor little rich girl cast out into the big cold world with only her governess for company and a trunkful of beautiful clothes. This was even better than following the Brits because it was happening right there in the US of A.

Isabelle dialed the buyer at Bonwit Teller. “I’m not a dressmaker,” she said apologetically. “I only did the needlework.”

“Who cares?” the woman responded. “Just put that beadwork on a burlap sack with your name on it, and we’re talking six-figure profits.”

It was the same with Bloomingdale’s and Lord & Taylor.

Maxine called Ivan and asked him to come over immediately, and by midnight Isabelle realized that they were on the verge of major success. She popped the cork on a bottle of Aunt Elysse’s best champagne and poured them each a glass. “America!” she said, raising her glass high. “The land of opportunity!”

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” said Ivan, clinking his glass against Isabelle’s and then Maxine’s. “Seventy years I wait to make a name for myself, and it takes you one hour on television to do it for me!” He muttered something in Russian, and they all laughed, even though only Ivan knew what he was saying.

Ivan was a most delightful man, and Isabelle wasn’t blind to the affection present between him and Maxine. It seemed that years ago Ivan had been a tailor for the Bolshoi Ballet, slaving away with nothing but a dream to keep him going. When Rudolf Nureyev defected to freedom in the 1960s, Ivan defected with him. Unfortunately Rudi went one way, Ivan went another, and poor Ivan had been slogging for a living ever since.

Maxine, the worrier, refused a second glass of champagne, declaring the celebration both premature and excessive. “The girl puts a few fancy stitches on a dress, and she thinks she’d be inventin’ the wheel. Nothing lasts forever, I say, and you would do well to be rememberin’ that.”

Isabelle winked at Ivan. “We know nothing lasts forever, Maxi. That’s why we intend to make the best of it while it does last.”

Maxine shot them both a withering look. “Opportunists. This country is filled with nothing but opportunists.” Her withering look embraced Isabelle’s dress as well. “My sweet girl dressed like a common—”

“Stop while you can, Maxine,” Isabelle warned sweetly. “You told me to help with the household expenses, and I have finally found a way that will help not only us, but Ivan as well.”

“Would you be listenin’ to Miss High-and-Mighty. Nobody would pay a brass farthing for those dresses if you weren’t a princess.”

“You’re right, Maxi, and we intend to exploit that fact for everything it’s worth, don’t we, Ivan?”

Ivan, oblivious to the implied insults, poured some champagne. He and Isabelle toasted princesses and embroidery and were about to offer a toast to syndicated daytime television when Maxine grabbed the bottle.

“Enough with this nonsense! ’Tis unseemly, that’s what it is. You don’t see any English royalty peddling their wares on television like common shop girls.”

“If I had the Windsor’s jewelry, I wouldn’t have to, either. This is the real world, Maxi. Aren’t you the one who told me to get out there and do something?”

Maxine knew when she’d been bested, but to save face, she muttered something about Isabelle finding herself a husband instead of wasting her time on television shows.

“I don’t want a husband,” Isabelle said, the memory of her hours in Bronson’s bed heating her blood. “Every man I’ve met since we’ve been here has bored me to tears.” Which neatly excluded Daniel since she’d met him in Perreault.

“I have a nephew,” said Ivan, “Drives a limousine, got a house on Long Island, and four weeks’ paid vacation every year. You could do worse, Izzy.”

Izzy? Somehow it made her feel very American, and she smiled.

“I know of one who wouldn’t be letting you best him,” said Maxine, her expression sly. “Daniel Bronson.”

She couldn’t possibly know anything, Isabelle told herself. The trick was to stay calm and act natural. “What a ridiculous thing to say. You know perfectly well that Mr. Bronson and I are not fond of each other.”

“I know what I saw today on the telly, and a picture is worth a thousand words.”

“She’s right, Izzy. I saw it, too.”

“Ivan, please! Mr. Bronson and I don’t even like each other.”

Ivan shrugged his shoulders. “So when does like have anything to do with love? I know sparks when I see them, and you two had sparks.”

“You could do worse, lovey,” said Maxine. “I’d feel better if I knew that when I die I could leave you in his hands.”

Isabelle was still laughing an hour later when she said good night. Maxine would die right on the spot if she knew that was exactly where Isabelle had spent the day: in Daniel Bronson’s hands.

A
pparently Maxine and Ivan weren’t the only ones who thought Bronson and Isabelle had chemistry.

The
New York Daily News,
the
Post,
and
Newsday
all said that they were a real-life Sam and Diane, whoever they were, and gave their battle-of-the-sexes exchange on “The Morning Show” a collective thumbs-up. The general consensus was that if Isabelle and Daniel weren’t having an affair, it was simply a matter of time.

Even Isabelle had to admit that the still photos from “The Morning Show” were provocative. There was no mistaking the body language or the intensity. They were tuned in to each other, to the exclusion of everyone else in the studio. Her face flamed with the realization that what had been so obvious to everyone watching the show had taken both of them by surprise a few hours later.

Maxine left for work a little before eight o’clock just as the telephones began to ring with more requests and invitations and offers for Isabelle. When the intercom buzzed a half-hour later, Isabelle was juggling two phones and the beginning of a headache.

“Delivery for you, ma’am,” said the doorman. “I’m sending Barney up with it.”

“Roses!” she exclaimed when she opened the door. She quickly put her phone call on hold. “How lovely!”

“Better clear off a table, ma’am,” said Barney as he handed her a bouquet of bloodred American Beauties. “Somebody musta bought out the entire florist’s shop.”

Barney didn’t exaggerate. White roses, pink roses, yellow roses by the dozens, followed by an enormous live bush of pink tea roses for the terrace. A tiny rhinestone tiara peeked out from among the blooms. The card was signed simply, “Daniel.” She smiled as she held the card in her hand before slipping it into the pocket of her trousers.

He called a little before nine-thirty. “Your phone’s been busy, princess.”

She leaned against the edge of the desk and pressed the phone closer to her ear. Her headache immediately disappeared. “Everything has gone crazy here since yesterday, Daniel.” She told him about the dress orders, her needlework, and Ivan. “And now the apartment is filled with the most beautiful roses in the world.”

“Not half as beautiful as you.”

She laughed. “I’m not accustomed to being complimented by you. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you won’t leave like that next time. I would’ve liked waking up to see your face.”

“Two compliments in a row.” How could she tell him she’d left because she needed to know that she could. “Does this mean we’re actually beginning to like each other?”

“Anything’s possible.”

She thought about the things they’d done the day before, the things they’d said. “This is certainly not a normal love affair, is it?”

“Not by a long shot. Maybe that’s why we were so damn good together.”

She hugged the phone more tightly. “We were, weren’t we?” she asked. “Very good together.”

“I want to see you tonight.”

“I want to see you, too, Bronson.”

“I thought you were calling me Daniel.”

“I’m a creature of habit. Besides, you don’t call me by my Christian name.”

“Does that bother you, princess?”

“Not a whit. Does it bother you, Bronson?”

“Not if you...” His request was simply put and quite thrilling.

She found herself smiling broadly. “I’ll consider it.”

“Eight o’clock,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at your aunt’s place.”

“No! I mean, you don’t have to do that. I can find my way around the city.”

He wouldn’t hear of it. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind meeting that nanny of yours.”

“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t think she’ll like me?”

“It’s not that.” Frantically she cast about for an excuse. “Maxine goes to bed early.”

“Eight o’clock?”

“I mean, she’s been working late.”

“Princess, are you sure there is a Maxine?”

“Of course there is a Maxine, and you’ll meet her very soon, Bronson. I promise.”

* * *

Either television talk shows were more popular than he’d thought, or everyone Daniel knew had a hell of a lot of time on their hands. Whatever the reason, it seemed as if everyone in New York City had caught “The Morning Show” yesterday.

Cabdrivers, the guy who sold newspapers at the corner kiosk, his mother who swore she never watched anything except “Guiding Light,” everyone had seen his appearance on the talk show and everyone had an opinion. “Say hi to the princess!” the guy buffing the lobby floor had called out as Daniel entered the Bron-Co building. “I’d give up democracy any day for someone like that.”

Poor guy didn’t know how close he came to losing his teeth.

Get a grip on yourself,
he chided as he stepped onto the elevator.
Stay cool.

The elevator operator was a new guy. He glanced at Daniel when he entered the car, then glanced at him again. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”

“You might,” said Daniel. “I own the company.”

“No, that’s not it,” said the guy. “Someplace else.”

Gimme a break. Not that goddamn TV show.

The guy smacked his forehead. “You were on TV yesterday! ‘The Morning Show’—all about big shots, right?”

“Yeah,” said Daniel, thinking fondly of automation. “Big shots.”

“You and that duchess—”

“Princess.”

“Yeah, the way you and that princess were going at it, I figured you had to be an item.”

“We’re not an item.”

“Yeah?” The guy didn’t look convinced.

“You heard it here.”

The car shimmied to a stop, the doors opened, and Daniel exploded into his office.

“Say one more word about the television show, Phyl, and you’re dead meat,” he announced as he tossed his coat on the rack in the anteroom.

Phyllis had always been fearless. “‘Hollywood casting directors, take note,’” she read from the
Wall Street Journal.
“‘Handsome millionaire and beautiful princess are—’”

Daniel grabbed the paper and crumpled it into the wastebasket on his way into his office. “You’re hanging by a thread, DeRosa. Don’t push me.”

“You can’t fool me with that grouchy act,” she called after him. “You love this! You and a princess on national television!”

He loomed in the doorway. “National? What are you talking about, national?”

“They’re syndicated, boss. Didn’t anybody tell you?”

“Son of a bitch!” He slammed the door shut behind him. He and Isabelle had a snowball’s chance in hell of maintaining their privacy. His intercom buzzed.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone, Phyllis.”

“It’s your sister, the doctor.”

“Especially my sister the doctor.”

“She says it’s an emergency.”

“She always says it’s an emergency. Tell her I’ll call back.”

A second later the intercom buzzed again. “She said she won’t hang up until you talk to her.”

“Great. I hope her phone bill goes through the roof.”

“I’m going to put her through,” said Phyllis. “I don’t need this aggravation.”

“This’d better be good,” he warned before Cathy had a chance to say a word. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Hello to you, too,” said Cathy, her tone huffy. “And here I am, just calling to tell you I understand.”

“Understand what?” He sounded suspicious and with good reason.

“Why you’ve been keeping such a low profile the last few months. A princess, Danny! I’m impressed.”

“It’s not what you think.” At least, it hadn’t been until yesterday.

“Feeling protective, are we? That’s one of the first signs. Mom is already talking about silver patterns.”

“Tell Mom to cancel her order,” Daniel snapped. “There’s no wedding on the horizon.”

“You know Mom. She sees everything in terms of happy endings. Seriously, though, she’s thrilled that you’re seeing someone.”

“Who in hell said I was seeing anyone? I was on a TV show, for God’s sake.”

“I saw the way you were looking at her, Danny. We all saw the way you were looking at her. You’d have to be blind to miss the signs. You can’t tell me you don’t feel something for her, because I won’t buy it.”

“What the hell is wrong with the bunch of you?” he exploded. “Doesn’t anybody in this damn family think of anything except my marital status?”

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

“Can you blame me?” he shot back. “I’m thirty-four years old, Cathy. I made my first million before I turned twenty-one. Believe it or not, I can take care of my own goddamn love life without any help from you.”

He slammed the phone down in its cradle and looked around for something to punch. That’s what was wrong with his office. Nothing to punch. He made a mental note to have maintenance install a speed bag in the corner especially for times like this. With a family like his, times like this came with regularity.

He pushed back his chair and stood up. Tension was coiled inside his chest and winding tighter. He paced the length of his office, trying to work off his anger. He and the princess had enough things working against them. If they added public opinion to the mix, they might as well call it quits now.

Damn it, he didn’t like waking up to find a note pinned to his pillow. He’d wanted to see her beautiful face, hear the sound of her gentle breathing, feel the softness of her breasts against his chest. What the hell was wrong with her, disappearing like that without even saying good-bye?

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she wouldn’t let him pick her up at her aunt’s apartment. She was busy setting boundaries, building fences between them that he found himself wanting to blast his way through. He’d never met a softer woman with a harder edge in his life. Hell, for all he knew she was still in love with her sister’s husband. If he had half a brain left in his head, he’d keep that in mind.

She was too complex a bundle of woman for his taste. She was young, strangely naive about some things, and yet, she possessed that European sophistication that made him feel backward and gauche. They didn’t speak the same language or want the same things from life; and no matter how long she lived in the United States, she’d always be royalty, and he’d be a guy whose relatives crossed the ocean in steerage. The gulf between them was wider than the Atlantic, and nothing he could say or do would ever change that.

Still there was something else going on between them, something deeper and stronger, more powerful than anything he’d ever known before, and that something had been there from the very first time they met. They understood each other on a level that went beyond words. Too bad the words they managed to find kept getting in the way. Yesterday, with her naked in his arms, he’d found himself thinking about next week and next month, projecting the two of them into a future his family had always told him he would want.

“Well, the joke’s on me, folks.” He stood by the window and looked down at the traffic moving slowly down Park Avenue. The little princess said she didn’t want a commitment. She wasn’t looking for anything more than a pleasurable interlude. Most women wanted the night before to slide into the morning after. He woke up to find the bed empty and the scent of her perfume in the air. She didn’t want what he couldn’t give, and he wished he could be happier about that fact than he was.

* * *

Honore had said the groundbreaking for the casino would happen before the first snows. A site had been chosen that fronted the lake, and Juliana had been quite impressed by the architect’s rendering. Her lingering doubts about the advisability of courting the gambling trade had been replaced by a modest optimism.

It was now late October, however, and still the ground remained unbroken. Juliana had questioned her father-in-law about it the day before yesterday, only to have him kiss her cheek and tell her not to worry.

As if that were possible, given the state of Perreault’s financial affairs. Despite the delay over the groundbreaking, Honore had been a godsend. Why he chose to stand beside her and offer his support was a question she dared not ask. She only knew that she blessed him every time she sat down with the Minister of Finance and considered the disaster her father had left behind upon his death. “What on earth is this?” she had asked Honore, her eyes brimming with tears. “Where did these debts come from? My God, Honore, we owe you millions of francs!”

In a tender voice Honore had explained that her father had been a wonderful ruler but a dreadful businessman. He had offered to forgive the debts, but Juliana would not hear of it. Putting aside her reservations, she had granted him the right to build his casino complex with her full cooperation. It was the least she could do. If Honore called in the debts, the entire principality would be in ruin.

Under the circumstances, how could she possibly complain when Malraux family business kept her husband traveling much of the time?

“Madam, the periodicals you requested have arrived.”

Juliana looked up from her correspondence to see Yves standing in the doorway. “Thank you, Yves. You may bring them in.”

Moments later he reappeared with a box filled with newspapers and magazine clippings arranged in date order.

“Will there be anything else, madam?”