It should be me, she thought as a shaft of longing, hot and violent, pierced through her. This should be my wedding day. He should be my husband.... She turned away, unable to bear the sight, and her eye was caught by the unrelenting gaze of Daniel Bronson, the American businessman who had predicted that her fairy tale with Eric would never work out. You’re wrong, she thought, daring him to laugh in the face of her heartbreak. People make mistakes. Eric and I are meant to be together.
But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a smile. He simply watched her with a look in his eyes that came perilously dose to pity, and that look hurt more than his laughter ever could.
She let her own gaze drift. How many of those good people knew that her heart was breaking? She’d been so indiscreet, so eager to share her happiness with the world. Had she told each and every one of them that she loved Eric, that the future was theirs for the taking? Dear God, how could she face them? Their pity was almost palpable, reaching out to clutch at her soul.
She clutched her skirts and left the altar, heading for the door that led to the sacristy. The image of Juliana’s face, a pleat of concern marring her porcelain forehead, followed her. Let them wonder why she had bolted. Let them think she’d had too much to drink last night and was about to lose her breakfast. Anything was preferable to this public humiliation.
A buzz of conversation followed her, but she didn’t care. She needed to be alone, to gather her wits about her and rest a cloak of Dutch courage on her shoulders for what lay ahead.
She felt Maxine’s hand on her shoulder, but she refused to turn around. “Let him go, lovey. It’s over.”
“It’s not over,” she said, biting back her tears. “He doesn’t love her. He loves me.”
“’Tisn’t you he married, lovey. ’Tis your sister.”
She pulled away, then whirled about to face the older woman. “Leave me alone! You don’t understand. You don’t know how it feels.”
“I know a broken heart is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“They all know,” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the church. “I couldn’t stand it any longer. They were all watching me, feeling sorry for me....”
Maxine snapped her fingers. “As if it matters what they’d be thinking. Hold your head high, my girl, and take your place at your father’s side in the receiving line. The rest will fall into place.”
She caught a glimpse of herself in the shiny marble surface of a pillar, amazed that her heartache didn’t show. Only the glitter in her eyes gave her away.
“This won’t last, Maxi,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Eric loves me. He’ll come back to me.”
“They’re married, lovey.” Maxine’s voice caught, but Isabelle refused to acknowledge the emotion behind the words. “In the eyes of God, he belongs to her.”
“No,” said Isabelle. “He belongs to me.”
* * *
The little princess was out of control.
Even across the crowded cathedral Daniel had noted the wild fire in her dark eyes, recognized her pain. From the very beginning, he’d known that this was where she’d end up, standing there in her pretty yellow dress, watching while the man she loved claimed his future at her sister’s side.
Men like Eric Malraux didn’t waste their time on the second princess in line. Perreault might not amount to much in the economic scheme of things, but the Malraux family hadn’t gotten what they wanted by settling for second place.
You bastard, he thought as Honore said something to his plain little wife. He’d sold his zero of a son to the highest bidder, and now Perreault was his personal playground. He’d build his glitzy palaces where rich people with nothing to do met other rich people and compared notes and, in the process, he’d become wealthier than in his wildest dreams.
Daniel told himself he’d come to the wedding to make a last-ditch attempt to sway Bertrand over to his side. Through the years Monaco had become a joke, the very name a synonym for emptiness, and it would be a damned waste of potential if this picture-perfect country followed suit. The wedding was only a good excuse to fly across the pond and put his proposal to Bertrand one last time.
The music of the recessional flooded the cathedral. The bride and groom linked arms and began the long walk back up the aisle as man and wife. He had to admit Juliana was radiant. He’d never thought much about that word before but apparently even he knew it when he saw it. The happy groom, however, had the look of a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
A match made in heaven, like it said in the tabloids? Not very likely.
The pews cleared one by one as the guests streamed from the church. Daniel was about to take his place with the rest of them when he saw a lone figure appear to the side of the altar. A shaft of sunlight found her, gilding her thick tumble of dark hair and illuminating her skin. He felt an uncharacteristic tug of emotion.
She stood with her spine straight, chin held high, as gutsy as she was beautiful. He knew her heart was breaking and he found himself admiring the strength that enabled her to be there at all.
Then he remembered who she was, the spoiled little princess with the sharp tongue and fiery temper who’d told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with his opinion of her love life. She didn’t need his sympathy. Hell, she’d probably toss it back in his face without a backward glance.
“M’sieur?” The woman next to him touched his elbow then gestured toward the aisle. “S’il vous plait?”
He stepped out of the pew to let her pass. The church was just about empty. He looked back at the little princess who’d been joined by her nursemaid. The red-haired woman said something to the girl, but the princess said nothing. She gathered her skirts, lifted her chin, then glided up the aisle in her pretty yellow dress as if the celebration belonged to her.
If he’d been expecting to see heartbreak on her beautiful face, he was mistaken.
He saw defiance.
“Mr. Bronson,” she said as she swept past him on her way toward the vestibule. “Do save me a dance, won’t you?”
Her smile was dazzling, but not quite dazzling enough.
“Not bad, princess,” he said, falling into step with her, “but it still needs some work.”
He detected a flash of fire in her dark eyes, but the smile never faltered. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bronson?”
“The poker face. It gives you away every time.”
“What a wonderful imagination you Americans have,” she said, a bite hidden in her sugar-coated words. “No wonder you’ve given the world so many cultural treasures.”
“I wouldn’t know about treasures,” said Daniel, grinning. “I’ve always been a pop culture kind of guy.”
“How surprising,” she drawled. “And here I imagined you were haunting the latest exhibition at the Louvre.”
“Forget the Louvre, but if you want someone to tell you how Gilligan managed to get off his island, I’m your guy.”
She looked away, but not quickly enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do,” he said, positive he’d seen her smile actually reach her eyes. “Europeans talk a good show when it comes to culture, but you gobble up our TV shows like they’re ‘Masterpiece Theatre.’”
“You certainly do think well of yourself, don’t you, Mr. Bronson?” She paused a few yards from the doors to the cathedral.
“Give me an hour, princess, and I’ll show you why.”
She shuddered theatrically. “You’re much worse than I’d feared.”
“But a hell of a lot better than you think.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I doubt that, Mr. Bronson.” She turned to leave the church.
“He’s not worth the heartache, Isabelle,” he said to her retreating back. “None of us are.”
He wasn’t at all surprised when she didn’t stop to answer him.
Chapter
Six
“Champagne!” Isabelle spun away from the ar
ms of an Italian auto baron and placed her hands on her hips. “My kingdom for more champagne!”
Gianni Vitelli, twice married and looking for wife number three, threw back his head and laughed. “Cara, you surprise me. Surely your kingdom is worth more than a glass of wine.”
“Such insolence!” Isabelle pretended to strike him an invisible blow. “Champagne or it’s off with your head.”
Vitelli was rich, but Isabelle was royal. Fortunately, those things still mattered to some people. He scurried away to do her bidding while Isabelle, laughing, swayed to the music.
The other dancers on the floor laughed along with her, as Isabelle had known they would. There were unwritten rules attached to mingling with royalty. Enjoying their jokes, however feeble they might be, was one of them. Isabelle could have placed her hands under her arms and clucked like a chicken, and within a heartbeat the titled and untitled alike would be clucking right along with her.
Everyone, that is, except for that annoying American, Bronson. It wasn’t that he did anything untoward. He was far too clever for that. No, he danced with the ladies and chatted up the men, but the whole time Isabelle knew he was laughing up his sleeve at the lot of them.
The orchestra segued from a fox trot into a sedate waltz. She watched as Margot Hofmaier, of the Liechtenstein Hofmaiers, batted her false eyelashes in Bronson’s direction and was rewarded with an invitation to dance. Margot had the subtlety of a cow in heat, and wasn’t it just like a man to respond to such a blatant overture.
It occurred to her that they needed to be brought down a peg and, with a toss of her head, she set out to do exactly that.
Dancing up to the couple, she tapped Margot on her plump white shoulder. “Be a darling, won’t you, Margot—I’m simply longing to dance with Mr. Bronson.”
“Next dance,” Bronson said, meeting her eyes over Margot’s hennaed head.
Margot cast a quick, satisfied look in Isabelle’s direction.
“I adore waltzes,” Isabelle said, shadowing their movements with sure and graceful steps.
Margot’s shoulders and cheeks reddened to match her hair, and she stumbled but quickly regained her composure. “I prefer fox trots,” she began. “Perhaps—”
“I’m sure the princess won’t mind waiting her turn.” The look the American gave her was enough to make Isabelle’s blue blood boil. She wanted to slap his face. She chose, however, to ignore him and press her advantage with Margot.
“Thank you ever so much, darling Margot.” Isabelle neatly replaced the middle-aged woman in the American’s arms. “I’ll return him to you just the moment the dance is over.”
“Nice trick,” Bronson said as she looked up at him. “Too bad it didn’t work.”
“Of course it worked,” she said, unable to mask her delight. “We’re dancing, aren’t we?”
“Not anymore.” With a mock bow, he released her, then turned to head toward the French doors leading out to the terrace.
Murderous rage filled Isabelle’s breast, and she started after him.
“Cara.” Gianni Vitelli appeared at her side, bearing a flute of Dom Perignon. “I live to serve.”
She took the glass, blew him a kiss, then continued toward the French doors. She’d make it up to the handsome Italian later. Right now all she could think about was giving the obnoxious American businessman a piece of her mind.
The raw beauty of the night stopped her in her tracks. The stars overhead were shattered crystal against a moonless sky, and the only sound was the low rumble of the heaters, positioned at discreet intervals along the perimeter of the terrace. She drew in a long breath, cold air mingled with the scent of pine and the sharp smell of an approaching snowstorm.
It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the absence of light as she searched for Bronson. There! Over in the far corner she saw the red glimmer of a glowing cigarette. A cheap American brand, no doubt.
She gulped some champagne then stalked over to where he stood, looking out into the blackness. She stopped mere inches away from him, demanding his full and utter attention with the force of her will.
“I should throw this champagne in your arrogant face.”
He didn’t even have the decency to meet her eyes. “I wouldn’t try it.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Didn’t you once tell me you would hit a woman?”
“If she pulled a stunt like that, damn straight I would.”
“How perfectly Neanderthal of you.”
“I’m funny like that, princess. Hit me, and I’m damn likely to hit you back.”
“A real man wouldn’t behave like that.”
“Yeah? Well, a real woman wouldn’t embarrass another woman the way you did back there.”
Isabelle dismissed his criticism with a wave of her hand. “Margot knows there was nothing personal about the exchange.”
“You’re probably right,” he said. “Most of the people around here seem to accept lousy behavior as the norm.”
“I’m so sorry if we’ve offended you. How could I have forgotten America is the last bastion of polite society on earth.”
“Hell of a lot more polite than anything I’ve seen here tonight.”
“Then why don’t you go home, Mr. Bronson, where the atmosphere suits your sensibilities?”
He looked at his watch. “My plane leaves in ten hours and eleven minutes.”
“And I suggest you be on it.”
“Don’t worry about it, princess.” The look he gave her was anything but flattering. “There isn’t anything here to keep me.”
There was something about his words—or maybe it was the way he said them, or maybe it was the feeling that there was no one on earth who understood one blessed thing about her. Whatever it was, the tears she’d been holding back all day burst forth with a vengeance, and she sank down onto a bench and began to sob.
* * *
“Jesus Christ,” Daniel muttered under his breath. “Don’t cry.”
He came from a long line of men who were lousy at dealing with crying women, and from an equally long line of women who knew exactly how to use that to advantage. He was the worst of the lot. The sight of a woman dissolved in tears usually reduced him to a useless blob of testosterone.
He stood there staring down at her while she sobbed into the hem of her fancy ballgown, and felt an alarming rush of something too close to affection for his own comfort. This wasn’t some poor kid with a broken heart. This was a rich brat, born on the right side of the royal sheets and determined to make sure everyone on the planet knew about it. She was the kind of woman he disliked on sight. She was arrogant, self-centered, and—damn it—crying as if her heart would break.
“For Christ’s sake,” he said, grabbing her hands in his for a moment. “You can’t keep crying into your dress.”
She didn’t even look at him, just grabbed hold of his jacket and buried her face in its dark folds. Her tears were hot, quickly saturating his shirt and warming his skin. So many tears....
He looked down at her, mesmerized by the way her dark hair fell across her face, the way it shimmered in the starlight. If this was an act designed to tug on his heartstrings, she deserved an Oscar. He wanted to gather her up into his arms, kiss away the tears, then make love to her right there on the terrace.
The fact that she’d probably have him sent to the guillotine if he tried it wasn’t enough to dissuade him, but the fact that she’d already been hurt enough was.
He groped through his pockets for a handkerchief.
“Here.” He pulled one from his inside breast pocket with a flourish. “This beats using a St. Laurent for a tissue.”
She reached for the square of linen gratefully. “It’s—it’s n-not St. Laurent,” she said between sobs. “It’s a Ch—Christian Lacroix.”
He couldn’t hold back a grin. “I never was very good at playing Name-the-Designer.”
She waved her hand in the air with the gesture he’d come to know. “You can g-go
now.”
“You’re finished with me?” He should have known better than to feel sorry for her.
She nodded. She didn’t know him well enough to recognize the menace in his words. “I want to be alone now.”
“A minute ago you wanted to throw your champagne in my face.” And a minute ago he’d wanted to kiss away her tears. Thank God he’d stopped short of making a total ass of himself.
“That was before. Now I wish to be left to myself.”
“We don’t always get what we want.” His glance strayed toward the glittering ballroom where the happy bride and groom commanded the dance floor. His meaning was unmistakable.
Her teary dark eyes suddenly flashed with fire. “Don’t you dare say anything!”
“I could have said, ‘I told you so.’”
“An admirable display of restraint on your part.”
“Wish I could say the same about you. Dancing on the tabletop was hardly your shining moment, princess. Your old man should’ve locked you in your room and thrown away the key.”
“I’m high-spirited,” she said with a toss of her head. “It’s expected of me.”
“No,” he said slowly, “what’s expected of you is that you take a backseat to your sister.”
“You don’t understand how it is.”
“Maybe not, but lover boy out there sure as hell does.”
She rose to her feet, her slender frame visibly shaking with anger. “Don’t you dare say anything bad about Eric!”
“I wasn’t about to, princess. On the contrary, I was going to pay him a compliment.”
Even in the darkness of the terrace he saw the look of suspicion on her face. “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Bronson.”
“He’s a lot smarter than I’d figured. If you’re going to dally with the prince’s daughter, why not dally with the one who’ll inherit the throne?”
She turned away from him, and for a moment he almost regretted the harshness of his words. But just for a moment. Someone had to tell her the way the game was being played.
“I could spell it all out for you,” he said, his tone a bit softer, “but somehow I don’t think you’d believe me.” Unpaid debts, broken promises, and cold-blooded family mergers were hardly the stuff of dreams.
The Princess and the Billionaire (Billionaire Lovers - Book #2) Page 6