The Princess and the Billionaire (11 page)

“You’re looking good, princess,” he said. “I like your hair big like that.”

“Don’t talk to me. And don’t insult my hair.”

He ignored her warnings the way he always did. “Were you telling the truth before?”

“Of course I was.”

“Juliana tossed you out?”

“As soon as the funeral was over.”

“What happened?”

“That, Mr. Bronson, is none of your business.”

“You’ll spill your guts on television, but you won’t tell me?”

“I don’t like you, Mr. Bronson, and you have made it abundantly clear on many occasions that you don’t like me, either.”

“I like you.”

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“I want to know what happened with your sister.”

“Then you can fly to Perreault and ask Juliana. That is something I will not talk about with anyone.”

“I bet it has something to do with that sleazeball you were in love with.”

“Shut up.”

“She get tired of sharing him with you?”

“Why do you find it necessary to attack me at every opportunity?”

“I’m not attacking you, princess, I’m—”

“Ten seconds, everybody!” barked the director as the other guests rushed back into the spotlights. “Four... three... two... we’re back!”

* * *

Her confrontation with Bronson during the commercial break had Isabelle’s temper flaring. Fortunately, she was able to turn her fire into something approximating sparkle. The audience seemed to love it. And they especially loved it whenever she and Bronson got into one of their heated discussions. The phone calls were witty and complimentary, especially the ones that inquired about her dress. Isabelle was happy to oblige with information about Ivan’s factory and her own talent with a needle. How it must infuriate Bronson to play second-fiddle to an article of clothing! There were an appalling number of questions about their relationship, but both Isabelle and Bronson stated in no uncertain terms that they were not involved with each other.

The hour was up too quickly.

“You were wonderful, Princess Isabelle.” Robert Silverstein, the producer, hesitated a moment as if unsure of protocol, then extended his hand. “The phone banks are lit up like Christmas trees. We’ve already had two hundred questions about your dress alone.”

“I had a simply marvelous time,” she said. Except for Daniel Bronson, she had. “I cannot remember when I last enjoyed myself so much. And you can tell anyone who asks that the dress is an original from Tres Chic.”

“You’re going to have your fifteen minutes and then some,” Bob Harris chimed in. “I have a number of projects in the works. You’d be a natural in a fashion segment. Give me your card, darling, and my people will call you.”

“I don’t have a card,” Isabelle said with a toss of her head, “but I’d be happy to write my number down for you if you’d like.”

“Oh, I’d like,” said Harris with a roguish wink. “You don’t know how much I like...”

Daniel watched the proceedings with disgust. They were slobbering all over her like a pack of dogs in heat. She’d hit upon exactly the right blend of brashness and naïveté that Americans loved, and by the time the show was over she’d had the audience ready to fly over to Perreault and take Juliana to task for casting such an adorable little princess into exile.

“Nice job, Mr. Bronson.” The director popped up at his elbow. “I liked that story about your father and the sailboat.”

“Too bad he wasn’t here to tell it.”

“Oh, you did just fine,” she continued, oblivious to his mood. “We only received a few phone calls of complaint.”

“Complaints?” He looked down at her. “Complaining about what?”

She stepped back. “Oh, nothing terribly important. A few people thought you were treating the princess with a lack of respect. But don’t worry: Everyone else thinks you two are having an affair!” With that she turned and hurried off to catch up with the salad dressing king.

An affair? Not too likely. They couldn’t say two words to each other without erupting into fireworks of a different kind. He watched as Isabelle dimpled for Bob Harris, little Sallie, and assorted members of the crew. Somewhere under all that bravado was a real live woman. Too bad he’d never get to meet her.

He wheeled and headed for the exit. He still had time to go to the office and knock off some work before jet lag kicked in big time.

“Mr. Bronson!”

No way was he going to turn around.

“Mr. Bronson!”

He pushed open the door and strode down the corridor. “For God’s sake, stop this instant and talk to me!” Petulant. Imperious. Pure Isabelle.

To his surprise, he stopped. “Okay, princess, spit it out. I’m not in the mood for more crap.”

She looked like she wanted to introduce his face to her fist. “You owe me an apology.”

“The hell I do.”

“The way you talked to me back there was unconscionable.”

“It’s a free country. I thought that’s part of what you liked about America.”

“You were making fun of me, and I do not appreciate it.”

“I did exactly what you wanted me to do. I fed you the straight lines and you ran with them. You wanted to be famous, and now you’ve got your wish.”

“I want you to know that everything I said today was true.”

“Who said it wasn’t?” Why did she have to look so damn vulnerable when she was angry? If she cried, he’d be a goner.

“I can tell by your expression that you don’t believe me” Her dark eyes looked suspiciously wet.

“What difference does it make if I believe you or not?”

“Damn it, Bronson! Why do all New Yorkers answer a question with another question?”

“I don’t know,” he said, grinning. “Do you?”

Their eyes met.

The moment lengthened.

She didn’t blink or get teary or dimple at him. Her gaze was direct and uncompromising. Lethal. He’d been a pretty good sprinter in college. If he bolted for the door now, he could probably make it to Eighth Avenue before she got to the corner.

“Have time for a cup of coffee?” he asked against his better judgment. Everything that had happened so far today had been against his better judgment.

“I don’t drink coffee, but I should love a cup of tea.”

Then she smiled. A real smile that made the sad light in her dark eyes vanish and sent thirty-four years of defenses crumbling into a pile at his feet.

* * *

The coffee shop was located a block south of Columbus Avenue on the ground floor of a modest office building. A menu was pasted to the front window with a few items crossed out in black Magic Marker. A hand-lettered sign, “Baklava fresh daily,” was taped above it. Daniel held open the door for Isabelle, and she stepped inside. A faint haze of cigarette and kitchen smoke filmed the air. The blare of a radio competed with the cook’s muttered oaths as he cracked an egg onto the grill.

“Don’t sit at the counter,” a waitress tossed out as she hurried by balancing a trio of plates. “Nobody’s working the counter.”

Isabelle stopped and looked toward Daniel for instruction.

“Over there,” he said, pointing toward a booth near the rear.

“This is wonderful,” she said as she slid across the bench. “I’ve only seen places like this in films. I didn’t believe they really existed—” She stopped. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Every time you say something like that I think, ‘She’s got to be kidding.’ Then I remember who you are.”

“I doubt if you ever forget that, Mr. Bronson. You certainly remind me of the fact of my birth at every opportunity.”

The waitress stopped at their table and looked at them. “What’re you having?”

“Tea,” said Isabelle. “No cream. Lemon on the side. Served in a large mug not a cup. And honey if you have it.”

“We don’t have honey.”

“Raw sugar, then.”

The waitress looked toward Daniel as if he were an interpreter. “What’s raw sugar?”

“Brown sugar if you can’t provide raw,” Isabelle said, annoyed. “Thank you very much.”

“About the mug, I can’t make any promises.”

Isabelle waved her hand in the air. “I am certain you will do your best.”

Bronson placed his order. The waitress understood him perfectly.

“Is my accent that incomprehensible?” she asked as the waitress hurried away. “People are always giving me the strangest looks when I place an order.”

“It’s not what you order, princess, it’s the way you do it.”

He got up and shrugged out of his coat, then reached for her shawl. She watched him as he looked around for a coat rack. His chestnut hair was longer than the last time, streaked blond in places by the sun. It gave him an agreeably rakish quality that provided a counterpoint to his urbane choice of clothing. His eyes were the same vivid green that she’d remembered, a color so intense and vital that again she thought it couldn’t possibly be real.

He was bigger, though, than she’d remembered, his shoulders broader, his legs longer and more powerful. It was as if he was most himself in the city of his birth, drawing upon the power of the streets and avenues and making it his own. Although it didn’t make a jot of sense, she noticed her heart was pounding so hard inside her chest that she found it difficult to breathe.

He found a hook near the back wall and hung the coat and shawl. His walk was both elegant and athletic. How he managed the combination was beyond her. Why it should matter was even more of a mystery. The man meant nothing to her. Fate might see fit to throw them together time and again, but in the grand scheme of things, their lives could never mesh.

He sat down opposite her.

“So tell me, princess, did she kick you out for sleeping with her husband?”

She bristled. “He wasn’t her husband when I was sleeping with him.”

“Small distinction when you’re the wounded wife.”

“I don’t care to talk about this, Mr. Bronson.”

“I think you do.”

“How could you possibly know what I want to talk about?”

“Call it a lucky guess.”

She refused to acknowledge the fact that he was right. Or the terrifying suspicion that they were inching toward uncharted territory. He had no business knowing her so well when he really didn’t know her at all.

“She stole Eric away from me.” Her words tumbled together in her haste to be rid of them. “She slept with Eric while he and I were involved. She was pregnant when they got married.”

“When did you find this out?”

“The night before Papa died.” Quickly, sparing no one, not even herself, she laid the whole ugly story out on the table before them. “If he hadn’t forgotten to keep the phony due date straight, I would have slept with him that night at the chalet. I had believed—I had convinced myself that he loved me and that after the baby was born, he would leave Juliana and marry me.”

“He’ll never leave her, princess, and it has nothing to do with you.”

“I know,” she said, looking down at the paper place mat on the tabletop. “Eric is a coward.”

“He’s also his father’s pawn. When he married your sister, he married her for life. His old man’s not about to let go of the keys to the kingdom. Not for something as unimportant as happiness.”

“I fear it isn’t much of a kingdom.” She loved her homeland, but she wasn’t blind to its shortcomings.

“Wait’ll Malraux puts up his casinos. You won’t recognize the place when he’s finished.”

She shuddered. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Can’t say I blame you.”

A flash of memory returned. “Didn’t you have some plans for Perreault, as well?”

“Could’ve made a big difference to your economy.”

“And to yours as well.”

“It’s a dead issue now, princess. I just came back from Japan a few hours ago.”

“Were you on holiday?”

“Business. I’m going back at the beginning of the year to oversee the project.”

“You certainly don’t waste time on regrets, do you, Mr. Bronson?”

“Not if I can help it.” That piratical grin slashed across his face.

The waitress appeared next to them. “Okay, coffee regular and tea, lemon on the side, with some kind of fancy sugar. Anything else?” They both shook their heads. She slapped their check facedown on the table. “Have a nice day, folks.”

Isabelle watched as he lifted his cup of coffee and brought it to his mouth. A powerful image of herself in his arms, his lips hot against hers, seared her brain, and she shook her head to be rid of it.

He put down the cup. His hands were large, the fingers tapering. They were beautiful hands, capable hands. Hands that would know how to gentle a woman, how to give her pleasure.

An odd sensation of destiny was building inside her chest, and she knew the only way she could deal with it was to run for her life. She stood up. “This has been delightful, Mr. Bronson, but I must dash.” She would put distance and time between them, anything that would make this strange feeling disappear.

He grabbed her wrist. His fingers encircled it with room to spare. “Not yet.”

She made to pull away, but he held her fast. “There’s really nothing else to say.”

“Have dinner with me.”

“No.”

“We need to talk.”

“We don’t talk, Bronson,” she said, a wild laugh escaping her lips. “We argue, and I’m sick unto death of arguing.”

“My name is Daniel.”

Oh God.
“Dinner would be a dreadful mistake. We can’t spend five minutes with each other without getting into a row.”

“The problem isn’t that we don’t like each other, princess. The problem is that we want each other.”

Her body flamed with sudden heat. “Speak for yourself.” Dear Lord, she sounded soft, yielding—eager. “I’m not looking for a man. I don’t want anything except to be left alone to live my life.”

“When I thought you were still sleeping with that bastard, I wanted to kill him.” His voice was low, filled with dark promise.

“You’re scaring me, Bronson.”

“I’m scaring myself. Everything about this is wrong, but I don’t give a damn.”

He released his grip on her wrist. She didn’t move away. “Tell me I’m crazy, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“You’re crazy,” Her voice was a whisper.

“I’m not going to leave you alone.”

“And you’re a liar.” Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “I’m glad.”