The Princess and the Billionaire (21 page)

When she finished crying, she felt better. She inspected each room, looked inside the closets, peeked under the beds, checked the view from every window, and tried the toilet and the sink. She was alone. For the first time in her life she had no one to rely upon for her day-to-day existence but herself—a scary enough proposition under normal circumstances, but with a baby growing inside her womb, it acquired monumental importance.

She’d kept her sonogram appointment before leaving for Ivan’s cabin. Lying there with the gel and the sensors and wires attached to her abdomen, she’d experienced a visceral connection to the baby within, a rash of emotion so strong that it dwarfed anything she’d felt before.
Be healthy,
she prayed as the technicians bustled around, twisting dials and making jokes.
Be healthy and strong....

“You’re beginning your fourth month,” Dr. McCaffree had said afterward. The due date was June twenty-eighth. The doctor volunteered to tell Isabelle the sex of her baby, but Isabelle refused the offer. It was enough to know the baby was healthy. Now it was up to Isabelle to make certain things stayed that way.

She squared her shoulders and marched into the kitchen, secure in the knowledge that if all else failed, she knew how to make great scrambled eggs.

* * *

“It’s the most amazing thing, Maxi,” Isabelle said a few weeks later. “I went to bed my normal self and when I woke up this morning I found I could no longer wear my own clothes!”

They were at a small shopping mall near East Stroudsburg where Isabelle was searching for stylish maternity clothes. Isabelle had convinced them that biweekly visits were frequent enough, but she’d been unable to convince either one of them that she could manage her own food shopping. Her refrigerator and freezer bulged with supplies. Isabelle found herself wondering if she’d have to invite everyone in a ten-mile radius to help her eat it all.

Maxine was being unusually quiet, at least for Maxine. Ivan had gone off to Sears to buy new tires for his Cadillac while they shopped for clothes.

“Look at this, Maxi.” She stopped in front of a very modern-looking store. “Red Hot Mammas.”

Maxine looked utterly horrified. “There is nothing for you in a store like that.”

“Oh, of course there is, Maxi. I want something with a little pizazz.”

“Pizzazz?”

“You know,” said Isabelle. “Flair. Style. Fun.”

Maxine’s lips were pursed tight with disapproval. “You were raised to have a sense of dignity,” she said as Isabelle led the way into the boutique.

“I was raised to be a princess,” Isabelle said, admiring a plaid woolen jumper and tights. “Times change, Maxi. It’s time we changed with them.”

“He called.”

Isabelle kept her focus on the plaid jumper. “When?”

“This morning. Just before we left.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were out, lovey, just as you told me to.”

“Good,” said Isabelle fiercely. “Let him wonder what I’m doing.” She paused a beat. “Did he say anything?”

“He inquired after my health.”

Isabelle bristled. “And did he inquire after my health? I was the one who was sick.”

Maxine reached into her capacious leather satchel and withdrew a piece of paper. “This is his number, lovey. Call him. Tell him about the child.”

“I wish you’d mind your own business, Maxine Neesom. If I want advice from you, I shall ask for it.”

“Stop putting me in the center of your business, missy, and maybe I’ll stop giving advice.”

Isabelle snatched the piece of paper from Maxine, then tucked it into the pocket of her trousers. Whether or not she called Bronson was nobody’s business but hers.

“If you dare tell Daniel about the baby, I’ll have you drawn and quartered.”

Maxine sniffed. “Somebody should be telling him about the baby before the child can do it himself.”

“I need this time alone, Maxi. I need time to think this through.”

“’Tis nothing to think about, if you ask me.”

“I want to do this on my own.”

“I wouldn’t be thinking you got this way on your own.”

“Damn it, Maxi! This is my baby, and she deserves a mother who knows how to take care of herself.” Not some pathetic little princess incapable of balancing a checkbook or boiling water.

From the look on Maxine’s face, the woman didn’t believe it was possible for her to learn.

A big snowstorm was expected, and so Maxine and Ivan left before dinner. Isabelle had planned to make omelettes and French fries and was disappointed when she lost her opportunity to display her culinary talents. The fact that both Maxi and Ivan looked relieved was not lost on her.

After they left, she made a cheese omelette and toast for herself, then ate the meal in front of the television in the living room. It made her feel terribly American and she hated to admit, terribly homesick for Daniel. She wasn’t sure if you could be homesick for a person and not a place, but that was the best word to describe the deep longing she felt for his company.

She found herself growing weepy during a comedy show about a boisterous American family who seemed to enjoy each other’s company as much as the Bronsons enjoyed each other.

Why on earth did every thought bring her back to Daniel?

“Goose,” she chided herself as she loaded the dishwasher and pressed the button to start the cycle. If he appeared right now in the kitchen, they would no doubt be arguing with each other before the dishes were clean. They were a dreadful match. They had been from the first moment they laid eyes on each other at the Tricentennial Ball. The sexual chemistry was there, but everyone knew that wasn’t enough. A man and a woman had to be able to talk to each other and, up until now, they hadn’t been able to manage it.

The piece of paper with the telephone number rested on the end table near the sofa. She circled it as if it were a coiled snake ready to strike. Sooner or later she was going to have to talk to him, even if she didn’t tell him about the baby right this minute. Why not break the ice now?

She had no idea what time it was in Tokyo, but she decided it didn’t matter. If he was groggy with sleep, she’d have him at a disadvantage—a notion that gave her great pleasure.

She dialed the country code then the number. An English-speaking clerk answered the telephone, and Isabelle asked for Daniel’s room. A pause. A series of clicks. The sound of a phone ringing.

“Bronson here.”

He sounded not only wide awake, but as argumentative as ever. To her dismay, her nerve was rapidly disappearing.
Hang up!
urged the coward inside her.
You don’t have to talk to him at all if you don’t want to.

“If you have something to say, say it,” Bronson commanded, “or I’m saying
sayonara.
”

“You’re certainly in a terrible mood.”

A pause. She wondered if he was surprised to hear her voice. “It’s five in the morning, princess. I’m always in a terrible mood before the sun comes up.” He didn’t sound very surprised. Or very happy, for that matter.

Silence. A long, drawn-out silence. She had the feeling that silence could last a lifetime if they allowed it to.

“Well,” she said with false cheer, “Maxine said you called.”

“Did I leave my onyx cufflinks at your apartment Christmas Day?”

“You called to find out about your cufflinks?”

“Sentimental value. Did I leave them there?”

“I certainly haven’t seen them.” Onyx cufflinks? Who on earth would call from Tokyo about onyx cufflinks? Onyx wasn’t even a precious stone.

“I put them down on your nightstand before you lobbed that juice pitcher at my head. Would you take a look?”

“They’re not there.”

“Maybe they rolled under the bed.”

“They’re not under the bed.”

“Take a look, damn it, princess. I want those cufflinks.”

“Take a look yourself,” she snapped back. “I’m not in the apartment.”

“What do you mean, you’re not in the apartment?”

“You certainly do have trouble with declarative sentences, Bronson. I am living elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“That’s not your concern.”

He muttered something profane that made her smile and cradle the telephone closer. “Is Maxine with you?”

“Not that it is any of your business, but no. Maxine is at
Tante
Elysse’s.”

“What the hell’s going on? Why aren’t you at the apartment?”

“I needed a change.”

“Are you in the hospital? Did that flu turn into pneumonia?”

“No, it didn’t.” She paused for effect. “And how kind of you to enquire after my health.”

“Who’s with you, princess?”

She placed her hand against her belly. “I’m alone.” In a manner of speaking. “Things have been quite hectic the past few weeks, and I needed time to gather myself together.”

“A hotel,” he said, sounding insufferably smug. “The old Helmsley Palace. I hear the room service is great.”

“A cottage,” she said, sounding equally smug. “No room service.”

“A princess living like the common folk? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Never more serious, Bronson. I owe you a debt of gratitude for teaching me the art of the scrambled egg.”

“Where is this cottage?” he asked. “The corner of Fifth and Fifty-seventh?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“I’ll ask Maxine.”

“I told her not to give you that information.”

“I can be very persuasive, princess.”

“And I can be very, very royal.” She paused. “Or have you forgotten that?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything.” His voice was different, lower, the tone more mellow. “Not one single thing.”

“I should be ringing off now,” she said. “It’s time for bed.”

“Give me your phone number.”

“I think not.”

“How can I call you if I don’t have your number?”

“You can’t.” She smiled. “If you need to speak to me, leave a message with Maxine.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s the way it’s going to be, Bronson.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“American men,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “Such a romantic race. Now say good night, Daniel, because I’m going to ring off and go to bed now.”

“Hey, princess, I have one question: What are you wearing?”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

She looked down at her oversized pink-checked flannel nightgown and thick white socks. “Nothing,” she said with a saucy grin. “Absolutely nothing.”

She hung up on him.

Just like that.

She’d dropped that enticing bombshell in his ear, then clicked off as if she’d said good-bye and good luck.

Daniel reeled off a series of pungent oaths as he replaced the receiver in the cradle.
Nothing—absolutely nothing.
He didn’t have to try very hard to conjure up a picture of how she looked.

And she knew it. That was the hell of it. There’d never been any doubt the power she had over him. One look, one touch, and he was seventeen again, all hormones and enthusiasm.

He reeled off another series of oaths, punctuated by a scowl in the general direction of New York City.

But she wasn’t in Manhattan, was she? She’d picked up and moved to some godforsaken cottage, and he didn’t even know what state she was in.

His onyx and gold cufflinks winked at him from the top of his dresser. Pretty lame excuse for a telephone call. What he should have done was told her to put her royal butt on a plane bound for Tokyo where they could talk this whole goddamn mess out face to face. He should have told her that he’d rather exchange barbs with her than drink champagne from the slipper of the most beautiful—and sweet-tempered—woman in the world.

He should have said a lot of things but now he couldn’t say any of them. All he could do was sit there and stare at the telephone and wait for her to call again.

If she called again.

S
he called again five days later.

“You’re getting better, princess,” he said, cradling the receiver between his shoulder and ear. “At least the sun’s already up this time.”

Her throaty chuckle did amazing things to his blood flow. “You know me, Bronson,” she said airily. “Always thinking of others.”

“So how’s life in your little cottage in the middle of nowhere?”

“Absolutely splendid. I made my first spaghetti dinner yesterday, and it was an unqualified success.”

He laughed. “Somehow I can’t picture you slaving over the sauce.”

“I’m evolving, Bronson. Why, I venture to say you wouldn’t recognize the new me.”

“So what are you wearing today, princess?” It was early in the morning for this kind of torture, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Nothing terribly interesting.”

“A dress?”

“Not exactly.”

“One of your embroidered tops?”

“No.” A long pause. “An ivory lace teddy with spaghetti straps.”

Amazing how fast a man could get ready for action. “Any—anything else?”

“Do ivory stockings count?”

He swallowed hard. “Stockings or pantyhose?” He hated pantyhose.

“Stockings,” she said. “And a garter belt.”

The kind a man could rip off with his teeth. “This is how you dress in a rose-covered cottage?”

“I dress for myself, Bronson, not for the building I’m living in.”

“I’m having a hard time reconciling the Happy Housekeeper with the Playboy bunny wardrobe.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I, however, am having no trouble with the concept.”

“You’re trying to drive me crazy, aren’t you, princess?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“The garter belt was a pretty good clue.”

He felt her laugh deep in his gut, in his chest where his heart pounded double time.

“It was wonderful talking to you, Bronson, but I must go now.”

“Expecting company?”

“No,” she said. “‘Moonlighting’ reruns are about to come on.”

It was his turn to laugh. “You’re becoming a real little American, princess. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” she said in her most regal tone of voice. “I now also have a working knowledge of ‘Laverne & Shirley,’ ‘Happy Days,’ and ‘Cheers.’ It occurred to me that we had little in common, so I decided to catch up on my popular culture.” She paused. “An historic record of American life.”

“I’m flattered.” It was hard to imagine the glamorous Isabelle as a couch potato.

“You should be. Some of these shows are quite odd, Bronson.”

“You should try watching them in Japanese.”

“That must be interesting.”

“You could find out for yourself.”

“You’ll videotape them for me?” she asked, all innocence. “How kind of you.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Tell me.”

“That plane ticket is still valid. Tokyo’s a fascinating city. I’d like to show it to you.”

“I would advise you to get your money back, Bronson. Right now I believe we’re better off with half a world between us.”

“Because we can’t stop fighting with each other?”

“No,” she said with a soft laugh. “Because when we’re together we can’t stop making love long enough to find out if we can ever make friends.”

The moment she hung up the telephone she wanted to dial him back and tell him that she was wrong, that she wanted to be with him in Tokyo, that she missed the sound of his voice, the feel of his skin, the look in his eyes when they made love. Talking to him had awakened a storm of emotions inside her heart, a wild rush of longing that stole her breath away.

But she’d done the right thing. Sex was wonderful, but there had to be more, especially with a child on the way.

She rose from her chair, her movements a bit more awkward than they’d been the week before. She was on her way into the kitchen to make a pot of tea when she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the television screen. Her hair was scraped back into a scruffy ponytail. Her face was devoid of makeup. Instead of a sexy confection of lace and ribbons, she wore a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up, navy blue maternity slacks, and a pair of slippers. Her belly was definitely rounded. In profile it was finally becoming obvious that she was pregnant and not fat, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful.

“Would you like me this way, Bronson?” she asked her reflection. No glamour. No garter belts or slinky stockings. Not a princess, but a woman. And a pregnant one at that.

Placing her hands on her belly, she admired her reflection. She was well into her fourth month and she—wait a minute. She held her breath and pressed her palms more closely against her belly. A slight rippling motion deep inside—more a quickening than anything else. Her imagination perhaps, or could it be something more wonderful, more amazing, more thrilling even than the act that had made it possible?

“Oh, Bronson,” she whispered, tears welling. “We’re having a baby.”

* * *

A miserable February rain sliced across the crowded London street as Juliana cautiously made her way to the door of Patrick Marchand’s offices. She was at that stage in her pregnancy when walking was a triumph of will over gravity.

Wouldn’t you think the man could afford an office with a lift, she thought as she slowly climbed the steps. With what she’d been paying him these past months, surely he could do better than this dilapidated building. She consoled herself with the fact that it no longer mattered. After today Marchand would no longer be in her employ, and he could situate his offices in the middle of Piccadilly for all it mattered to her.

“Princess Juliana, I am pleased to see you.” Marchand nodded his thanks to the receptionist who had ushered Juliana inside. “You are looking quite well.”

He drew up a chair for her and, with great solicitude, helped her to sit down. She removed her soft cashmere scarf, folded it into an oblong, then rested it on her lap next to her purse and leather gloves.

“I am here to settle accounts, Mr. Marchand,” she said without preamble. She wanted no paper trail to link her with the investigation, a simple and clean transaction in cash.

His thick brows drew together in a look of concern. “You are displeased with our work?”

“On the contrary. I am no longer in need of further information.” She opened the clasp of her Chanel bag and removed an envelope. “I believe this settles all debts.” She slid the ivory vellum across the desk toward Marchand, who proved to be quite a gentleman. Arching a brow, she said, “I am surprised to find you a trusting man, Mr. Marchand, considering the business you are in.”

He smiled and placed the envelope in his desk drawer. “My profession has made me an expert judge of character, Princess Juliana. You would not cheat me out of my fee. It is in other areas that I should keep careful watch on you.”

Juliana nodded and gathered up her belongings. “A wise man, Mr. Marchand, and another reason why it is time to terminate our association.”

He swiveled around in his chair and plucked a folder from a hanging file. “I have some additional information you might be interested in. It is in rough form, but it may be of interest.”

She hesitated. She already knew as much as she cared to about her husband’s wandering eye. “I think not.”

He slid the folder across the desk toward her. “There are no other copies on file, Princess Juliana. I would prefer if you disposed of this material as you see fit.”

She had no intention of reading the material, but she tucked it under her arm and left. She would simply file it all away and forget it.

Curiosity, however, was a potent emotion, and by the time she arrived back at the castle, she found it impossible to ignore the folder. Eric was off somewhere with his parents, Honore and Celine, to some family function that Juliana had begged off on, claiming the discomfort of pregnancy as her excuse.

“I’ll take a light supper in the library,” she said to Yves as he took her coat and scarf in the front hall.

“As you wish, madam.” He bowed and hurried off to do her bidding.

A fire danced merrily in the hearth, welcoming her. The library had always been her favorite room in the castle. Sometimes she thought she caught the aroma of Papa’s pipe, the rich bouquet of his cognac.

She shook her head, trying to banish the unwanted memories. It hurt too much to think of him. He came to her sometimes in her dreams. That haunted look in his eyes, the deep furrows and lines of his face, the Corgis yapping about him as he lay on the cold, cold ground—

“Madam.”

She spun around to see Yves standing in the doorway. Was she imagining the look of disappointment on his face?

“Perhaps a cup of tea would be advisable while cook prepares supper.” Correct—always so correct.

She nodded, moving toward the window while he set up the service on the sideboard, then quietly left the room.

She sat down on a straight-backed chair near the hearth and opened the file. How boring. Much of it was a rehash of the same business Marchand had reported earlier. She trailed her finger down a column of addresses; all purportedly represented foreign offices of Malraux International but were of questionable intent.

“Foolishness,” she said, flipping quickly through a stack of photographs of Eric. It didn’t matter where he’d been or with whom. He belonged to her and always would, if only because his father willed it.

A son,
she thought as the daughter in her womb kicked violently against her rib.
A son would tie the Malraux family to the throne into the next century and beyond.

She slid the photograph into the locked file she kept in the bottom drawer of her father’s desk. She flipped quickly through the rest of the papers: scraps of foolscap, index cards, note paper. A fax transmission from a New York City phone number. The handwriting was large and scrawling, very American and difficult to read, the ink fading on the thermal paper.

It was dated mid-January, just a few weeks ago.

“I don’t want to see this,” she said, her hands beginning to tremble. “I don’t want to know any more.”

But she couldn’t look away. She saw her sister’s name. The address of a Dr. Joan McCaffree. And one simple sentence that changed her world: “Sonogram verified princess’s pregnancy—it’s a boy.”

* * *

“It was the strangest thing, Maxi,” said Isabelle as she carried the platter of toasted cheese sandwiches to the table. “I have dreamed of Mama every night for the past two weeks.”

Maxine’s blue eyes filled with tears. “’Tisn’t surprising, considering your condition. Most young women turn to their mothers in times like this.”

Isabelle walked over to the window and tapped against the glass with her knuckles to summon Ivan and his son-in-law for lunch.

“Now, that’s exactly what’s so strange about the dream,” she said as she opened the refrigerator and withdrew a carton of skim milk and a big bottle of cream soda. “I am but a child in the dream, no more than five years old. Mama is sitting at her dressing table, and I’m watching as she pulls the stopper from a bottle of Bal a Versailles and touches the crystal to the base of her throat.”

“How often I saw Sonia do exactly that,” said Maxine, her voice rich with sadness. “I would stand in the doorway and watch as she coiled that thick dark hair into a chignon... that foolish, beautiful girl.”

“Honore once told me she loved to dance, that she would whirl from partner to partner and never grow tired.”

“Your mother was a woman of great charm. All who met Sonia fell under her spell.”

“But she wasn’t a good mother, was she?”

Maxine met her eyes. “Is that what Honore told you?”

Isabelle shook her head. “No, but when I combined his memories with my own, it was not difficult to arrive at that conclusion.” She sat down across the table from Maxine and reached for the woman’s hand. “Tell me, please, Maxi. I find myself thinking about Mama all the time, wondering if I will find a way to keep from making her mistakes.”

“The fact that you would be askin’ me that question tells me you will be a good mother to that babe you’re carrying.”

“And Mama?” Her voice was a whisper.

“Sonia was not meant for the life of wife and mother, lovey. She lived for sensation.” A bright comet arcing across the sky, then vanishing in a burst of light and heat. “You mustn’t condemn her.”

“Did she have an affair with Honore?”

“Where on earth would you be getting an idea like that one?”

“I don’t know,” Isabelle said slowly. “A hunch... a feeling. There was something about the way Honore talked about Mama. It was in his voice.”

“Honore Malraux is a good businessman, but he is not a friend, lovey. Not to any of us.”

“Maxine! I’ve never heard you say something against Honore before.”

“Like father, like son,” Maxine continued. “It’s Honore who’d be pulling Eric’s strings, make no mistake about that. He was as much responsible for Juliana’s marriage as your own dear father was.”

“He called again, didn’t he?”

Maxine nodded. “Mark my words, the man is up to mischief. You are seeing a very important man, lovey. That fact would not be lost on Honore.”