The Princess and the Billionaire (18 page)

This was Isabelle’s doing. She could feel it in her bones. Eric would never seek Isabelle out like this. There was nothing Isabelle could possibly offer him that was worth risking all that he already possessed. Yes, she was sure it was Isabelle who sought him out, trying to use her feminine wiles on him for some obscure purpose. Money, more than likely. The thought of her sister reduced to begging caused Juliana’s lips to curve in a smile.

But there was the future to think of. Honore had urged her to release Isabelle’s trust fund. Perhaps the time had come to heed his suggestion.

* * *

Telling Daniel about seeing Eric was a small moment in the fabric of their relationship, but it represented a turning point. Daniel wasn’t thrilled that Eric had shown up in New York and he was even less thrilled that Isabelle had gone to lunch with him.

“He’s a son of a bitch,” he said bluntly, “and his father’s a son of a bitch. You’re better off without either one of them.”

“Agreed,” Isabelle had said. “And I love it that you’re jealous.”

“Jealous? The hell I am.”

“You are, Bronson,” she’d said. “Nobody has ever been jealous over me before. I think it’s delightful.”

“I think it sucks, but I’m glad you told me.” He glared at her, and she loved it. “Just don’t think that changes the fact that I don’t want you to see him again.”

“I won’t see him again,” she retorted, “but that’s because I don’t wish to see him again. You’re the only man in my life, Bronson, like it or not.”

“I like it,” he snapped.

“Good,” she snapped back. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so happy.

* * *

The next few weeks passed in a blur of activity. Christmas in New York was a season unto itself. Isabelle embarked on a round of parties, interviews, and photo shoots. She was becoming quite well known in the city. Cabdrivers beeped their horns when they saw her. “Yo, Princess!” one shouted to her just the other day. “Give ’em hell on Letterman tonight!”

Ivan had read the advertising forecast and agreed that it made sound business sense for Isabelle to step into the shadows after the holidays, which made her trip to Japan with Daniel possible. A major ad campaign would begin with a vengeance in April, with Isabelle as spokesperson and model.

The only thing wrong with her life was the idiotic cold she’d caught during a photo shoot on the Staten Island ferry and the fatigue that wouldn’t quite go away. But those were small blotches on an otherwise wonderful landscape.

Two weeks before Christmas she was sipping her morning tea and thinking about her luncheon appointment with Daniel’s sister when the telephone rang.

“We need you to come in and sign some papers, Princess Isabelle,” said her banker. “Your trust fund was wired to the bank this morning.”

“My trust fund—I do not understand.”

“Apparently your sister had a change of heart and released the funds.”

Isabelle doubted if Juliana would have had a change of heart unless considerable pressure had been brought to bear. What pressure she couldn’t imagine, since the attorneys she’d hired had thus far seemed inept. “You are quite sure the funds have been received?”

“All that is required is your signature on some papers and the transaction will be official.”

“I’m shocked.”

The banker laughed out loud. “That is the exact response I expected.”

She glanced at the clock. “I can be there within the hour.”

“And that is the other response I expected.”

Isabelle made a face at the telephone as she hung up the receiver. She hated to be deemed predictable in any way, especially by someone as dull and boring as a banker.

But she was too excited to stay annoyed at anyone today. Her trust fund! She’d never expected to see it again. It wasn’t a fortune, but it would go a long way toward establishing her independence. When
Tante
Elysse returned in the spring, Isabelle would be able to find her own apartment, one large enough for a suite for Maxine and enough privacy that Daniel could spend the night.

All that wonderful money, and all she had to do was sign her name to a few papers.

Was it only a year ago when she’d been eagerly awaiting Christmas Day, pathetically certain that Eric would ask for her hand in marriage and lead her off into a life of bliss?

“Never again,” she vowed as she hurried toward the bedroom to get dressed. She would make her own decisions, chart her own course through life, and she would never, ever depend on a man for her happiness. Not even on Bronson.

“T
here’s one stipulation,” said the banker as Isabelle made to put pen to paper. “One that might make you reconsider.”

Isabelle, who had been happily spending her money in her mind, looked up at the serious young woman. “Does it include a pact with the devil?”

The woman stared at her blankly. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” said Isabelle. Was there a law against bankers with a sense of humor in this country? “And what is the stipulation?”

The banker looked at the ceiling, at the floor, everywhere but at Isabelle.

“For heaven’s sake, will you just tell me?” Isabelle asked in exasperation. “Short of giving up my firstborn, how terrible can it be?” Probably some ridiculous, outdated marriage clause or something equally antiquated.

“You are not to return to Perreault if you wish to keep the money.”

“Is that all?” Isabelle signed her name with a flourish. “I have no intentions of returning there as long as I live. This
simply
makes it official.” She smiled broadly at the banker. “Now do I get my money?”

“Miss—er, Princess Isabelle, certainly you don’t want me to hand you that sum of money in cash.”

“Well, I suppose not. Where will you put it?”

The banker launched into a long and detailed explanation of all the ways in which Isabelle’s money could grow even larger.

“Fine, fine,” said Isabelle in exasperation. “But do I get a checkbook?”

She sailed out of the bank on a cloud of excitement, thinking about all the wonderful things she could do with that money—all the wonderful things she could buy. That beautiful cashmere set Maxine had been coveting, head-to-toe formalwear for Ivan, and for Daniel—

She stopped in her tracks. What for Daniel? She couldn’t think of a single thing that he might like. She’d found a Saint Christopher medal the other day in an antique store and, cleaned and polished, it made an attractive gift but certainly nothing spectacular. She knew Saint Christopher had fallen from vogue, but as the patron saint of travelers he seemed a perfect choice for her reluctant globetrotter. Still, that wasn’t enough. She wanted to find something smashing, so absolutely perfect for him that he would be left speechless. She might not know what the perfect gift was, but she knew who would.

An hour later, Isabelle rose to her feet as Cathy approached her table at La Cucina off Fifth Avenue.

Isabelle kissed the woman on both cheeks. “I am desperate for help.”

Cathy sat down opposite Isabelle and placed her purse on the empty chair next to her. “So much for small talk. What’s wrong?”

“I’m desperate,” Isabelle repeated as the waiter gave them each a menu. “Christmas is days away, and I have no idea what to buy for Daniel.”

Cathy laughed and reached for her glass of water. “What to buy for the man who wants nothing—the question that’s been plaguing the entire family for years. He’s impossible, isn’t he?”

“Dreadfully so. I was hoping you might have some suggestions.”

“Last year we settled on a fly-without-fear class at JFK. As soon as he heard the classes were held on a flight to Washington D.C., he backed out of it.”

It was Isabelle’s turn to laugh. “He’s not a collector, he doesn’t have hobbies, and he’s not a clothes horse.”

“Narrows the field, doesn’t it?”

Isabelle leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I am at my wits’ end.”

“You could buy him something for his truck.”

Isabelle made a face. “New tires are not terribly romantic.”

“God knows he could use something to dress up that monastic apartment of his.”

“I thought of having that beautiful oil painting framed, but he’d notice if it disappeared.”

Cathy shook her head in dismay. “He still hasn’t gotten around to it?”

“It’s leaning up against the wall. I was horrified.”

“My brother marches to his own drummer. I guess after thirty-four years he’s not about to change.”

“I don’t want him to change,” Isabelle said, “but I do wish he was easier to buy presents for.” She brightened. “A ski weekend in Vermont might be wonderful.”

“Danny on a mountaintop willingly? I’ve seen him turn green on the top rung of a stepladder. I don’t think he’d go up a mountain if it was a question of life or death.”

“That does tend to rule out skiing,” Isabelle said ruefully. “How does he feel about scuba diving? At least then he would be below sea level.”

The two women laughed out loud.

“So tell me,” Cathy said after they placed their orders, “are you ready for Japan?”

Isabelle arched a brow. “Daniel told you?”

“Let’s just say I figured it out. I didn’t think he’d be able to tear himself away from you for six months. Not after the way he kept postponing the date.”

“I thought he kept postponing the date because of other commitments.”

“You’re the other commitment, Isabelle. I thought you realized that.”

She hadn’t, but it was a wonderful thing to know. “Well, I’ll only be there a month or so,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly leave Maxine and Ivan in the lurch, not with the line about to launch.”

“How do you feel about long-distance romances?”

“A personal question, isn’t it, Cathy?”

“Sorry. Occupational hazard.” She grinned. “So how do you feel about long-distance romances?”

“That they’re a poor substitute for the real thing.” She toyed with her water glass. “And that if the man is as wonderful as Daniel, they are well worth the undertaking.”

“Have you ever considered going into my line of work?” Cathy asked. “Sounds like you have a pretty good grip on what’s important.” Isabelle sneezed. “Now if you could just do something about that cold...”

After lunch they strolled up Fifth Avenue admiring the shop windows and chatting about Christmas traditions in both the United States and Europe. Cathy determined that Isabelle should see one of New York’s favorite traditions, the huge Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza. Towering over the skating rink, the one-hundred-foot lighted tree was a breathtaking sight. The two women ordered hot chocolate and watched the figure skaters in their colorful costumes as they glided about the rink.

“Isn’t this foolish?” Isabelle blotted her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I’ve never been so sappily sentimental as I’ve been the past few weeks.”

“Love and Christmas,” said Cathy with a sigh. “You don’t need a Ph.D. to know it’s a lethal combination.”

Love?
thought Isabelle with a start. That couldn’t possibly be true. They were infatuated with each other. Certainly they lusted after each other. Sometimes they even liked each other. But love? That was something else entirely.

She considered saying all of that to Cathy in just so many words, but that seemed more effort than the subject warranted, and so she sneezed again instead.

* * *

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Isabelle sniffled into her handkerchief on Christmas Day. “How could this possibly happen to me? I haven’t had a cold in years.”

Bronson handed her a huge glass of orange juice and two aspirins. “You’ve got one now,” he said, watching while she swallowed the tablets. “Let’s hope it’s not the flu.”

“It wouldn’t dare be the flu,” she said. “We leave for Japan in seven days, and I have seven weeks’ worth of running around to do.”

“I don’t think you’re going to be doing much running around, princess. Not in that condition.”

“I refuse to stay in this condition,” she said, her voice a miserable shadow of itself. “I can’t stay in this condition. Damn it, Bronson, it’s Christmas Day!”

“And we’re spending it together just like we planned.”

“You needn’t be sarcastic.”

“I’m not being sarcastic. It’s a statement: Today is Christmas, and we’re together.”

“I look dreadful,” she said, touching her red nose. “And I sound even worse.”

He grinned. “We’re together, but I didn’t say we were having fun.”

“I’d throw my pillow at you, but I don’t want you to catch my germs.”

“I appreciate that,” he said dryly, “If I postpone that trip one more time, there’ll be an international incident.”

She sank down into her germ-riddled pillows, feeling dreadfully sorry for herself. How could he even talk about that stupid trip when she was feeling so miserable? Nothing seemed normal. Not her fingers or toes, not the thoughts inside her head. She felt as if she’d been taken over by an invading army and her defending troops had fled. “You should be with your family, Bronson, not cooped up with me in this awful apartment.”

He shot a look at the clock across the room. “You’re right. If I leave now I could be there by dinner.”

“Fine,” she snapped. He’d obviously been making an attempt at humor, but she refused to respond. “Leave me alone. Why should you be any different? Maxine deserted me, and now you’re planning your escape.”

“Maxine didn’t desert you. You told her to go.”

“Yes, but I never thought she would take me up on it.” Maxine and Ivan went to his daughter’s for dinner. Maxine had cooked an authentic Chanukah meal for Ivan and his family the previous week, and now Natalie was returning the favor with a Christmas feast.

“Don’t offer what you can’t deliver, princess. That’s the first rule of doing business.”

“I’m not in business,” she retorted, reaching for a fresh handkerchief.

“Jeez, you’re tough to take when you’re sick.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “See! You are angry. I knew it. Your entire family is probably angry with me.”

He sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s one of the good things about having a big family: Nobody notices if someone’s missing.”

She waved her lace-trimmed handkerchief in the general direction of the living room. “I’ve done all the shopping. The packages are wrapped. And now there’s no one to give them to.” She burst into tears.

“Damn it, princess, quit crying.” Daniel hated the way he felt when she cried, all clumsy and uselessly male. “You’ll be better in a day or two, and we’ll drive the presents out to Montauk.”

“Y-you would do that for me?”

“Sure,” he said. He’d walk the presents out to Montauk if she would stop her crying. “If you want to deliver your presents in person, you’ll deliver your presents in person.”

“Oh, Bronson...” She dissolved into another bout of weeping that had him pulling his hair out in frustration. The past few days she’d been like a human roller coaster, all towering highs and staggering lows. Talking to her was the equivalent of riding the Cyclone at Coney Island without a seat belt.

“What?” he asked, pacing the room. “What’s wrong? I know getting sick for Christmas is a bummer, but it’s not the end of the world.”

She cried even louder.

“I’m calling a doctor,” he said, heading for the phone. “You must have one hell of a fever.” That was the only explanation he could come up with. Either that or insanity ran in her family.

“Damn it, Bronson, don’t call the doctor.” She punctuated her words with a sneeze. “I’m crying because I took ill before I could find a suitable present. I’d searched and searched for something big and wonderful. I even asked Cathy for ideas. I thought I’d have a few more days to look for the perfect gift, but then I took ill and...” She trailed her hand in the air as her words faded away.

He looked down at the medal hanging around his neck from a silver chain. “I always thought they gave Saint Christopher a raw deal. I had one of these when I was in high school. It’s good to have him back on the job.”

“He’s the patron saint of travelers.”

“I know.” Actually, he loved the medal. It meant more to him than any fancy sweater or leather briefcase she might have found in some pricey, impersonal shop. Too bad she didn’t realize it.

“I thought it might help you with your problem.”

“According to my travel agent, you’d need Saint Jude for that.”

Isabelle frowned. “Saint Jude?”

“Patron saint of hopeless cases.”

“I’m fearless,” she said between sneezes. “I’d fly in anything. The Concorde—a Piper Cub—a helicopter—” The sneezes outnumbered her words, and she fell back against the pillows, grabbing for tissues.

“Thanks, princess,” he said. “You’re great for the ego.”

She looked up at him. “You must have done a good deal of shopping for Christmas, what with the size of your family and all.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a shopping fool.”

She waited, her foot tapping impatiently beneath the covers. He looked at her, his expression bland.

“If you’re trying to torture me, Bronson, it’s working quite well.”

He slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Damn! You’re looking for a present.”

She glared at him. “That might be nice, considering you forgot my birthday last month.”

“I didn’t forget it, princess. I didn’t even know it was your birthday until you told me.”

She hated logic. Especially male logic. “If you don’t have a present for me, why don’t you just say it? I won’t be angry.”

They could have heard his hoot of laughter back home in Perreault. “You don’t fool me, princess,” he said, still laughing. “You’re thinking dungeons right now, aren’t you?”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m thinking guillotines.”