The Princess and the Billionaire (14 page)

She shook her head. “No, Yves. You may go now.”

“Je suis votre serviteur.”
He bowed, then left the room.

It had not taken long for news of Isabelle’s escapades in America to reach the castle.
Tante
Elysse had fired off a blistering letter to Juliana, taking her to task for casting the poor child into the night without anything to call her own. Juliana had wanted to point out to the woman that she was writing her letter from her beach house in Bermuda and not from the poor child’s side, but she controlled the impulse. Her aunt’s opinion was of little interest to her. Elysse had turned away from Perreault long before Juliana was born. There was no reason to pay any attention to her ramblings at this late date.

She reached into the box and withdrew a sheaf of newspaper clippings. Isabelle on television. Isabelle coming out of a boutique, packages in hand. Isabelle at the Russian Tea Room, Lutece, and 21.

Juliana leaned forward, intrigued. Isabelle on the arm of Daniel Bronson? She should have known the slut would not remain without a man for long. Isabelle’s choice surprised her, however. Certainly she could have done better than be bedded by an American.

How gratifying to know that perhaps he was the best she could do. She wanted nothing but the worst for her beloved sister.

Last month Honore had suggested that Juliana free her sister’s trust fund. “It serves no purpose, dear child. Let the girl have her money. What she does with it cannot compromise your happiness in any way.”

Juliana had considered his suggestion then rejected it. It appeared that Isabelle had overcome her financial difficulties through an appalling bourgeois clothing venture. Juliana saw no need to help fund the undertaking.

“I will not reward treachery,” she said to her father-in-law. “Not for any reason.”

Neither she nor Honore mentioned Eric’s part in it. Honore understood his son’s shortcomings. Juliana was willing to overlook them. He was her husband. And, if the gods were with her, one day soon he would be the father of her son, the next ruler of Perreault.

The intercom on her desk buzzed. The nanny, a plain-faced Swede, informed her that Victoria had been bathed and awaited her mother’s good night.

“I am unavoidably detained,” Juliana said smoothly. “I shall see her in the morning for breakfast.”

The nanny began to protest, but Juliana cut her dead. It was growing harder and harder to find help who understood their place. Certainly she need not spend her time explaining herself to an employee. Victoria was four months old. It was highly unlikely she would know the difference between her mother and her nanny. If she did, she would learn to adjust the same as her mother had before her.

* * *

For the first few weeks, Daniel’s apartment on the forty-ninth floor was their refuge from the world. He gave Isabelle her own set of keys on their second night together. Both were equally surprised, but neither said anything about it. Isabelle was determined to maintain her own sense of herself despite the overwhelming urge to seek safety in Daniel’s arms. As for Daniel, he veered between admiration of her burgeoning independence and the strong male desire to own her.

Isabelle discovered that being profitably famous was a time-consuming venture, something Daniel could have told her if she had asked. Based on the incredible volume of orders for the “Princess dress,” Ivan had hired an advertising agency to put together a promo campaign featuring Isabelle, and she spent a goodly number of hours posing for a camera in a series of beautifully embroidered dresses. Ivan was a clever businessman, and he’d divided the line into ready-to-wear and custom made. In a moment of rash enthusiasm, Isabelle had agreed to personally embroider two dresses a month for women willing to pay the price. To her amazement, the price was enough to feed a family for a year.

Daniel had a few anxious moments in late October when it seemed as if the Japanese investors would back out of the deal with Bron-Co, but thanks to Matty’s shrewd business sense, the deal held firm. Unlike New York’s other real estate families, the Bronson’s fortune was built on a solid and wholly-owned foundation of already developed real estate properties that were bringing in steady profits.

Maxine, of course, knew all about Daniel, but Isabelle stubbornly refused to bring the two of them together. Introducing him to Maxine would make the whole affair seem much too important, much too permanent, and she kept coming up with lame excuses to keep them apart.

In mid-November, Daniel finally had enough of Isabelle’s reluctance and, over dinner at his apartment, he issued an ultimatum.

“Either you introduce me to Maxine in the next ten days, or it’s over between us.” He handed her a sizzling platter of shrimp scampi, then dished one up for himself.

“Whatever you say.” Isabelle breathed deeply of the wonderful aroma. “You, Mr. Bronson, are the world’s most wonderful chef. These shrimp smell divine!”

“To hell with the shrimp,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “Did you hear what I said?”

She popped a shrimp into her mouth and sighed with rapture. “Food of the gods! Handsome, rich, and a wonder in the kitchen. I—”

He grabbed her plate and yanked it away from her. “No answers, no food.”

“How dare you!”

“Can the royal outrage, princess. It won’t work this time. I want to meet Maxine.”

“Good heavens,” she said with an amused laugh. “Why all the fuss? Of course you can meet Maxine.” Even if the thought did send flutters up her spine. “Perhaps around Christmas.”

“Perhaps next week.”

“Next week she’ll be in Florida with Ivan at a trade show.”

“Thanksgiving at the latest.”

“When is Thanksgiving?” she asked.

“Fourth Thursday in November.”

“It’s an important American holiday, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “You’re avoiding the question, princess.”

“My shrimps are getting cold.”

“Screw your shrimps.”

“Bronson! Your language is appalling.”

“And it’ll get a hell of a lot worse if you don’t answer me.”

“This is quite unfair,” she said, bristling with indignation. “All of this fuss about meeting Maxine while you have kept your family hidden from me as if they were figments of your imagination.”

“My family’s an open book,” he said. “Pick up any newspaper or magazine, and you’ll find something about one of us.”

“I know. I spent an afternoon in the library last week.” Her grin was sheepish. “There are certainly a lot of Bronsons.”

“And you want to meet them?”

She nodded. “It only seems fair.” Perfect, she thought. He’d made it quite plain that he wanted to keep his family and his affair with Isabelle separate. Now perhaps he would forget this obsession with meeting Maxine.

“I’ll pick you up four o’clock the day before Thanksgiving.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“You want to meet my family. They want to meet you. They throw a big bash out at the house in Montauk on Thanksgiving and they asked me to invite you. I didn’t think you’d be interested.” His look sharpened. “Ask Maxine, too, if she’s not doing anything.”

She was so surprised that she dropped her fork. It clattered against her plate, then slid to the floor at her feet. “I don’t know—I mean, that’s such—” She stopped. “I don’t know what I mean.”

“Yes or no, princess? Meeting my family isn’t that big a deal.”

But it was, and they both knew it.

* * *

Maxine Neesom was a handsome woman in her mid-fifties. Her hair was a deep red, graying slightly at the temples, and she carried herself with an air that could only be described as regal. Daniel Bronson wondered if she came by it naturally or through osmosis.

The moment she opened her mouth, however, he knew. Maxine was as real, as solid, as his parents. And every bit as blunt.

“So, Mr. Bronson,” she said, opening the door and ushering him inside. “I’m thinking it’s time we met.”

He extended his hand, and they shook. Her grip was every bit as firm as he’d expected. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, Ms. Neesom.”

He followed her into the living room, a comfortably elegant mix of antiques and starkly modern pieces that he found agreeable.

“My girl isn’t here yet,” Maxine said as she motioned for him to sit on the sofa, “but she said for you not to be worryin’. She’ll be here any time.”

Daniel nodded. At the moment he was more interested in getting to know Maxine.

She crossed to the bar. I’d be offering you something fancy, but Elysse only keeps the basics.”

“The basics are fine with me, Ms. Neesom.”

“Whiskey?”

“Straight up.”

Her broad face was transformed by her smile. “A fine choice, Mr. Bronson. A fine choice.”

“My name’s Daniel.”

She considered him for a long moment. “Maxine to all who know me.”

She poured them each a tumbler of whiskey.

Daniel lifted his glass. “To Bertrand.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “God rest his dear soul.”

They each took a long swallow.

Maxine lifted her glass
.
“To my darling girl.”

“To the princess.”

They sat together for a few minutes in companionable silence. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. “Are you really her governess?”

“I suppose you’d be askin’ because I look too young, but I’ve cared for the child since the day she drew her first breath.”

“You love her, don’t you?”

“Like she was my very own flesh and blood.”

“And you want to know if I’m a decent, upstanding citizen.”

“’Tis easy enough to find out about you, Daniel Bronson. That big fine Irish family of yours is known to everyone in this city. What you are to Isabelle is what would be turnin’ my hair gray.”

“You don’t have to worry, Maxine. We have an open and honest relationship. No game-playing.”

Maxine sniffed. “When a man and a woman come together, game-playing is unavoidable.” She frowned at him. “You’re old enough to know that.”

“The princess isn’t much of a game-player, Maxine.” He took a gulp of whiskey. “She’s set the rules between us.”

“And you’d be going along with them?”

“With a few exceptions.” He leaned forward, balancing the whiskey glass on his knee. “Are you going to ask me my intentions?”

Maxine shook her head. “I wouldn’t be needin’ to, Daniel Bronson. One look at your face tells the tale.”

“A
truck?” Isabelle asked. “You drive a truck?”

Daniel inserted his key into the lock of the shiny black vehicle. “What did you think I drove?”

“I don’t know,” she said, amazed. “A Porsche. Maserati. Something—smaller.”

“Welcome to New York, princess. If you’re going to travel our roads, a truck’s the best way to do it.”

Four-wheel drive. Extra-heavy-duty shocks and suspension. Antilock brakes. She had no idea what he was talking about, but it all sounded quite exotic and terribly impressive.

She gauged the distance between the ground and the body of the truck. “I don’t think I can do this without a stepladder.”

“I had the running board removed a few weeks ago. Come on, I’ll give you a boost.”

He gripped her around the waist and lifted her into the air, swinging her up and into the passenger seat.

“Buckle up,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat.

She did as she was told.

“This is marvelous, Bronson,” she said as he pulled away from the curb and moved into the heavy city traffic. “The view is splendid from up here.”

“It was this or a tank,” he said as they neared the Queensboro Bridge. “Anything smaller is fair game in this city.”

“Listen to you. There are times it sounds as if you hate this city.”

“Sometimes I do. There’s so damn much wrong with it and so much that isn’t being done to make it right.”

“Perhaps you should consider running for office.” She grinned at him. “Mayor Daniel Bronson has a nice ring to it, has it not?”

“Forget it. Bureaucratic red tape brings out the worst in me.”

She thought about the homeless people she’d seen sleeping on benches and in the doorways of expensive boutiques. “The first thing I would do is make certain everyone had a place to live.”

He shot her a quick, curious glance. “That’s what we’re working on, princess. It takes time.” Bron-Co was involved in a number of inner-city renovations designed to help house the homeless and disadvantaged in safety and comfort.

“So tell me, Bronson: What did you and Maxine talk about while you waited?” She’d begged the photographer to let her go early, but he had flatly refused. The thought of Maxine and Bronson alone together had sent her imagination down some frightening paths.

He looked over at her. “Nothing much.”

“Surely you talked about something.”

“Nothing you’d be interested in, princess.”

“She must have told you stories about me.”

“Why do you think we talked about you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m the only thing you two have in common.”

He laughed out loud. “She loves you like a daughter.”

Isabelle relaxed—at least a little. “She orders me about as if I were her daughter. She can be a most infuriating woman.”

“I liked her.” He grinned. “And I think she liked me.”

Isabelle wasn’t entirely certain what she thought of that turn of events, so she kept silent. Maxine certainly knew enough embarrassing stories about Isabelle to fill a book.

He pointed out the sights as they bounced across the rutted road called Queens Boulevard. His family owned an amazing number of office and apartment buildings. They even owned a pool hall and a night spot that boasted flashing lights and a crowd of oddly dressed young people waiting on line to get inside.

“We’re stopping here?” Isabelle asked as Daniel angled the truck into a parking spot.

“For a minute,” Daniel said, setting the brake. “Sal and Rose aren’t coming out until tomorrow afternoon, and my mother needs the turkey in the morning.”

“I’m utterly confused.”

“Great,” said Daniel with a grin. “That’s the best way to approach Thanksgiving with my family.”

He helped her from the truck and headed toward the Golden Cue.

“A billiard parlor, Bronson?” Isabelle stopped dead in her tracks. “I don’t think—”

“Not good enough for you, princess?”

She hesitated. “I’ve seen American billiard parlors in movies. I hardly think they’re the kind of place where...” She allowed her voice to trail off delicately.

Bronson laughed and swung open the door. “After you, princess.”

Isabelle lifted her chin and stepped inside. The room was loud, smoky, and dim lit. A pair of elderly men sat near the plateglass window arguing heatedly about something called the Mets. A middle-aged woman in a pair of gold Spandex stretch pants leaned over a jukebox, a cigarette dangling from her lips. A young guy clad in black leather winked at her over his pool cue.

Isabelle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Bronson,” she said, looking up at him, “this is making me terribly apprehensive.” This was the type of place that bred gunfights the way ponds bred mosquitoes.

“Hold on, princess,” he said. “It’s about to get interesting.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Yo, Sal! Get your butt down here with that turkey before I raise the rent!”

Isabelle watched in utter shock as the room came to life.

The woman at the jukebox spun around at the sound of Daniel’s voice. Her heavily made-up eyes widened in surprise, then she launched herself across the room with her arms spread wide. “Danny! Where you been keepin’ yourself anyway?”

Daniel staggered under her onslaught then planted a kiss on her cheek. “Good to see you, Helen. How’s the grandkids?”

“Four of ’em now,” Helen said, casting a curious glance at Isabelle. “And my youngest daughter is expecting her first in May.”

“Better watch out,” called one of the old men near the window. “Pretty soon she’s gonna catch up with you Bronsons.”

The young guy in leather approached them. Isabelle had to swallow down the urge to hide behind Bronson.

“Hey, Dan.” The two men slapped hands together in a very odd fashion. “How’s it goin’?”

“Not bad, Frankie. You coming tomorrow?”

Frankie nodded. “The old man says it might be his last Thanksgiving, and the whole family’s gotta be together.”

To Isabelle’s horror, the two men burst into laughter.

“That’s disgraceful!” Isabelle snapped. “How dare you make light of another’s impending doom?”

Daniel placed his arm around Isabelle’s shoulder. “Sal’s been saying the same thing since I was five years old, princess. He’s healthy as a horse.”

“My old man’ll live to be a hundred,” said Frankie, “and he’ll be buggin’ me on the day he dies.”

“Damn straight,” said a voice from the doorway. A gray-haired man stepped into the room. “Now will one of you bozos help me with this goddamn turkey before I bust an artery?”

* * *

By the time she and Daniel left the Golden Cue, Isabelle’s head was spinning. Daniel loaded the enormous fowl into the rear of the truck, then helped her into the passenger seat.

“Bet you never thought you’d be sharing a ride with a twenty-six-pound bird,” he said as they eased back into traffic.

“I should say that’s a fair statement.”

“You’re looking a little shell-shocked.”

“I’m feeling shell-shocked.”

He laughed. “Sal isn’t always that hyper. He was excited to meet a real live princess.”

“He thought I was from Peru,” Isabelle said with a shake of her head.

“Sal’s short on pronunciation but long on heart.”

“Where on earth do you know him from?”

“He’s my dad’s best friend.” He shot her a sidelong glance at a traffic light. “They went to school together.”

“And your father still keeps up with him?”

“My old man’s not about to let a few million dollars get in the way of a good friendship.”

“Sal said your family owns half of New York City,” she said as they drove past the sports restaurant Daniel’s father had built years ago near the site of the World’s Fair.

“We’re working on it.”

“How does it feel to be so wealthy?”

“How does it feel to be a princess? If it’s all you’ve ever known you have nothing to compare it to.”

She thought of the stories she’d heard about Matty’s rise to wealth. “I thought your father was a self-made man.”

“He is, but by the time I came along, he was on his way. Trust me, princess. My childhood was anything but deprived.”

“Will all of your brothers and sisters be at your parents’ house?”

“Getting cold feet?”

“You must admit you do have an uncommonly large family, Bronson.”

“What can I say? We’re Catholic.”

He had her laughing out loud as he described each of his siblings in trenchant detail. By the time he launched into capsule portraits of their spouses, Isabelle was holding her sides.

“And there must be nieces and nephews,” she prodded, eager to know more.

“Eleven of them.” He chuckled. “Katie’s going to go crazy when she meets you. She wants to be a princess when she grows up.”

Sudden tears burned behind her lids. “I think she can do better than that.” In truth, little Katie already had. Katie had a family who loved her.

* * *

The princess didn’t think he noticed, but Daniel had a sixth sense when it came to a woman’s tears. All that talk about family coming so close on the heels of her father’s death had obviously triggered a rush of emotion. Her face was turned toward the window as she pretended to be fascinated by the lights of Nassau County as the truck zoomed past. Once again he was acutely aware of the differences between them, not just in experience but in expectations.

He accepted the idea of happiness as a matter of course. The princess didn’t quite believe it existed, and he wondered if she ever would.

* * *

Isabelle dozed for a while, her face pressed against the window of the truck. She woke up at the Patchogue-Shirley exit where Daniel found a McDonald’s and introduced her to her first Big Mac with fries. Daniel laughed at the way she gawked at the cardboard carrying case for the sodas and the hamburgers wrapped in paper. It was all quite overwhelming.

“American cuisine not up to your standards?”

She nibbled at a French fry. “American cuisine is wonderful,” she said with forced brightness. “It seems I’m simply not as hungry as I thought.”

The truth was that Isabelle was fighting a dreadful attack of nerves that had her stomach too tied up in knots to eat. The closer they got to Montauk, the more apprehensive she became. His family was so big, and it sounded as if they all actually liked each other. She had no idea how they would feel about her coming into their close-knit world—not that she was likely to be a permanent part of that world. Both she and Daniel knew the likelihood of that occurrence was too tiny to merit thought.

* * *

“The princess is here! The princess is here!”

Isabelle stopped dead in her tracks in the driveway. “What on earth—?”

Bronson put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “That sounds like Katie. She’s six years old. She’s the one who wants to be a princess when she grows up.”

She glanced down at her corduroy trousers and woolen cape. “I hope she won’t be disappointed. This is hardly Cinderella’s ball gown.”

“Don’t sweat it, princess. You couldn’t disappoint her if you tried.”

Isabelle plunged her hands into the pockets of her trousers so no one would see them tremble. The last time she’d been this nervous was the day her father asked her to present his thirty-minute speech to the Perreault Agricultural Collective on the benefits of compost to a group of disgruntled farmers.

The driveway was crowded with automobiles. Daniel’s truck was parked between two other similar-looking vehicles. The Bronsons obviously enjoyed their trucks. A Mercedes nudged a Volvo while a Porsche was half in, half out of the garage. There were other cars, as well, but she wasn’t close enough to see their make. Not a limousine or Rolls-Royce in the assortment.

She could hear the ocean beyond the house. The crisp air carried with it the wonderful smell of salt water, and she wondered if she’d get the opportunity to see the light of the full moon dance across the waves.

The house itself was huge and rambling with four wide steps that led up to a spacious porch. She and Daniel had no sooner reached the top step when the front door swung open, and she found herself swept into the foyer on a sea of Bronsons.

“Forgive us if we don’t know the right protocol,” said a comfortably round, dark-haired woman who introduced herself as Daniel’s mother, Connie. “But we want you to know that any friend of Danny’s is a welcome guest in our house.” Connie then proceeded to execute an off-balance curtsy, hanging onto her husband’s arm for balance.

Matty Bronson pumped Isabelle’s hand. “A pleasure, Princess Isabelle. I knew your father and respected him. It’s a great loss.”

She looked into his green eyes—now she knew where Daniel got them—and saw nothing but sincerity. “Thank you, Mr. Bronson. I shall always miss him.”

“Enough with the Mister business,” said Matty gruffly. “The name is Matty.”

“Please call me Isabelle,” she said. She felt a tugging at her sleeve and looked down into the blue eyes of the most adorable little blond girl she’d ever seen.

“Are you really a princess?” asked the child. She wore a bright-blue nightshirt and huge slippers in the shape of bunny rabbits.

Isabelle crouched down. “I’m really a princess.”