She wheeled around to face him again, and for a second he saw the woman behind the beautiful mask. “I’m not a fool,” she said, her husky voice etched with pain. “I know what my father and Honore are about with this match. Eric had no choice. He’s not to blame for what’s happened.”
“And what about your sister?”
He heard her intake of breath. Now he was getting somewhere. “She has always done what was expected of her.”
“Even sleep with the man you love?”
Isabelle reacted purely from instinct. He understood that. He even welcomed it. All of her rage, all of her heartache came together as the crack of her palm against his cheekbone rang out in the still night air.
He winced and moved his jaw back and forth with comic deliberation. “Not bad,” he said, touching the curve of his jaw.
“Not half good enough,” she retorted. “I only wish I’d helped you part company with your teeth.”
“I’m not the one you hate,” he said quietly. “I’m just the one who’s around.”
* * *
She wanted to hate him. With every fiber in her being she wanted to despise the air he breathed, the ground he trod upon. Only Maxine had ever talked to her the way Bronson had, with so little concern for who she was and her station in life.
Or with so much honesty, a voice inside her added.
Her eyes filled with another appalling flood of tears, and she held them back with the sheer force of her will.
She turned her empty crystal flute upside down on the marble bench. “I need more champagne.”
‘What’s wrong? Reality rearing its ugly head?”
“That’s exactly what’s wrong,” she said with an attempt at gaiety. “This is a wedding. Everyone knows that weddings and champagne go hand in hand.”
“You’ve had enough.”
“My dear Mr. Bronson, I have yet to begin.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at him. “Gianni Vitelli was only too happy to fetch more champagne for me.”
“I just saw him dance by with Margot Hofmaier. Want me to whistle for him?”
“The only thing I want is for you to disappear from the face of the earth.”
“Will you settle for me disappearing from Perreault?”
“With pleasure.”
He had started to say something when Maxine, in her best dress, appeared in the doorway.
“You’ve lost your mind, is it, lovey? Your father has been looking for you, and I’ve exhausted my excuses.” Maxine glanced over at Bronson, who’d stepped further back into the shadows. “You needn’t try to hide, Mr. Bronson,” said Maxine. “Everyone knows you’re out here with my girl.”
Isabelle’s spirits lifted. “Everyone?”
Maxine looked from Isabelle to Bronson, then back again. “’Tis a romance in the making to those who wouldn’t be knowing the truth.”
A chance to make Eric jealous! It was all too perfect. She met Bronson’s eyes. “You owe me a dance.”
He didn’t say anything at all. The moment stretched like an overused elastic band. Maxine coughed politely, but still he said nothing. Isabelle knew he was capable of just about anything. He could refuse her as easily as not, but she knew somehow deep in her soul that this time he would come to her rescue.
* * *
Daniel told himself he was doing it strictly for the shock value, but he couldn’t make himself believe it. There was something about walking into a glittering ballroom in an ancient castle with a beautiful, dark-eyed princess on your arm that could turn the most hard-headed Yankee into a believer.
Every eye in the place was focused on the two of them as they made their way to the center of the dance floor. Prince Bertrand, his brow furrowed, watched from the corner of the room where he’d been engaged in conversation with Honore Malraux and the minister of finance, a laughable title, considering the economic situation.
With a courtly bow, Bronson swept the dark-haired princess into his arms. She favored him with an enticing smile. The exuberant strains of a Strauss Waltz swelled all around them as they began to move together to the music. Her color was unnaturally high, her laughter brittle. The sparkle in her eyes could only be described as dangerous.
“He’ll never make you happy,” Daniel said as they spun past the hapless Eric and Juliana.
“And to think I had believed you to be a clever man,” she said in her sweetly accented English.
“You’ve got a lot going for you, princess. A hell of a lot more than you think.”
“There’s no reason to be nasty.”
He laughed. “You’re so damn used to being second that you don’t have any idea what you could do if you put your mind to it.”
“I know what I want,” she said, her gaze straying toward the bridegroom.
You’re too strong for him, princess. You’ll chew him up and spit out the bones.
But Daniel said nothing. Somehow it seemed like the least he could do.
* * *
Although it galled Isabelle to admit it, Bronson was a marvelous dancer. He held her close, but not too close, leading her through some tricky footwork with agility and a positively wicked sense of rhythm. His body was big and uncommonly broad. The fact that his wide shoulders were a gift of nature and not a clever tailor was not lost on her. She felt almost guilty noticing such things about another man, but the facts were impossible to ignore. It was enough to make her reconsider her opinion of stodgy, puritanical American businessmen.
They didn’t talk, which was probably a blessing, since talk between them always gave way to arguments. She found it quite enough to be seen in his arms, looking for all the world as if that was the only place on earth she wanted to be.
She glanced up at Bronson through her dark lashes. If only he were more flirtatious, more openly predatory the way he’d been the first time they’d met. She was slightly disgruntled that he’d chosen this moment to abandon his pursuit. How wonderful it would have been to see Eric defending her honor as the American kissed her soundly.
“If you think I’m going to kiss you, you’re wrong.”
Was the man a mindreader? “The last thing on earth I want is to be kissed by you.” She sounded quite convincing.
“I suppose that’s why you were staring at my mouth.”
“You flatter yourself.”
“Sometimes, but this isn’t one of them.”
“I know you find me attractive.”
“Not half as attractive as you find yourself.”
“If I’m so terrible, why did you kiss me the last time we met?”
That predatory gleam in his eyes reappeared. “Good memory, princess.”
This wasn’t going at all the way it was supposed to. “Another man would be flattered by my attentions.”
“I’ve just never much liked being used—not even by a beautiful woman.”
She tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let her.
“If you want something, princess, just ask for it.”
What a horrible man he was. “You remind me why I prefer European men to Americans.”
“You can push European men around. No secret there.”
She almost snorted with laughter. “A European man understands the subtext of a conversation.”
“I understand the subtext better than you think, princess.”
“Meaning?”
“If you want me to kiss you, just ask me. I’d be happy to oblige.”
She tossed her head. “I’d rather kiss a garden snake.”
He looked toward Eric and laughed. His meaning was all too clear.
“Say it, Mr. Bronson, and I shall see to it that you spend the night in jail.”
“You’re trying to make him jealous, and I’m the lucky guy you’ve found to help you out. I can handle that.”
She stopped. “I no longer wish to dance with you.”
“What if I told you lover boy was on his way over here?” Bronson spun her into a wide arc, cleverly masking her misstep. “Don’t
worry about it, princess. I’ll stake my claim and turn him away.”
“Turn him away? If you so much as—”
“Relax,” Bronson said with a shake of his head. “I’ll take a hike as soon as he taps me on the shoulder.”
He was as good as his word.
“You look beautiful, Isabelle.” Eric swept her into his arms, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears and embarrassing them both.
“Oh, Eric—” Her voice caught on his beloved name. “I wish—”
He stopped her with a look of such tender concern that her heart seemed to turn over in her chest. “Trust me, darling girl. Nothing can come between us. I promise you that.”
She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, her tears turning the fabric of his jacket even darker. “It hurts so much,” she whispered. “Every time I think of you and Juli, I—”
“Don’t think about it,” he said, his lips grazing her hair. “I promise you we’ll be together. You have my word.”
But there was still tonight. Eric and Juliana alone in a room with a four-poster bed and candles and the good wishes of everyone who wanted a happily-ever-after ending to their love story. The thought of them together, limbs tangled, made Isabelle feel wild with despair.
If he truly loved her, he’d never do something like that, no matter what promises they’d made before God and man.
“Eric.” Her voice was low. Urgent. “Swear to me that you won’t—”
“Don’t speak of it,” he said. “You must trust me, darling girl. This is what our fathers want, not what I want. You must believe that.”
She looked at Honore Malraux who was watching them from the archway. “We should talk to your father,” she said as desperation mounted. “I know he holds great affection for me. We’ll tell him that we’re in love—that we want to spend our lives together. I know he’ll understand, Eric. I’m sure he will.”
She wanted him to pledge his eternal devotion, swear that he would never touch another woman, not even Juliana. Her eyes sought his.
But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at her sister.
His wife.
* * *
The new bride wore a going-away suit of winter white silk with matching hose and pumps. The groom wore a dark suit, striped tie, and a smudge of crimson lipstick just beneath his left ear. No one thought anything of it. It was a wedding, after all, and weddings meant kissing and being kissed by damsel and dowager alike.
“Please, everybody! One more time!” The photographer gathered the family into a tight knot beneath the porte cochere.
Click. Bertrand with the happy couple.
Click. Honore and the happy couple.
Click. The happy couple kissing sweetly for the camera to the delight of the crowd of well-wishers.
“Now the two princesses, if you please.” The photographer hunkered down to get the best shot. “Mesdames, s’il vous plait.”
Isabelle had not spoken a word to her older sister since that horrific night when her world fell apart. Standing arm in arm, her pain captured for all eternity on film, was more than she could fathom. “I cannot possibly—” She stopped. The silence around her was deafening. Maxine looked as if she were poised at the edge of a cliff. Eric refused to meet her gaze. Juliana was looking down at her tiny, perfectly manicured hands. She deliberately avoided looking over at Bronson. She could only imagine the look of smug satisfaction on his face.
She wanted to turn away from them all and run back into the castle. She’d done nothing wrong, committed no crime, and yet she felt as if she was being punished. Don’t make me do this, she pleaded silently. I hurt so much I can scarcely breathe. She met her father’s eyes and saw the sharp edge of indifference just beneath the paternal glow.
She moved into position next to Juliana.
“Closer,” the photographer urged. “Ahh, yes. So lovely. The dark and the light....” He snapped the shutter three times in quick succession. He motioned toward Eric who stood quietly next to Prince Bertrand. “And now the new husband joins them.”
Isabelle stiffened with apprehension. She couldn’t catch her breath. She felt as if all of her emotions were trapped inside her throat, choking off the air. To his credit, Eric looked as if he were being sent to the guillotine. He stepped between the two sisters, Isabelle wondered if anyone in the entire country missed the irony.
I can’t do this, she thought wildly. Pathetic, that’s what she was. Second best in everything, even when it came to the man she’d loved. Standing there with the happy couple, she looked exactly like what she was: the sister who’d been left behind. If only—
“Wait a minute!” All eyes turned toward Daniel Bronson as he stepped forward. “I should be in this picture, too.” He strode toward Isabella and took his place beside her. Juliana and Eric stared at the two of them in disbelief, and Isabelle realized it was now or never. She tossed back her hair, lifted her chin, and flashed Bronson her most dazzling smile.
“Of course, darling,” she said, motioning for him to stand next to her. “How could we have taken a picture without you?”
The photographer went wild with excitement. He murmured things about symmetry and beauty as Isabelle and Daniel posed with the bridal couple. Bronson’s bold gesture had changed everything. She could just imagine the whispers, the speculation, the absolute envy of the women who’d thrown themselves at the handsome and brash American. She glanced toward Eric. He met her eyes, his expression openly curious and obviously pained. She simply widened her smile and linked her arm with Bronson’s.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Bronson as the photographer began to snap his pictures.
“You owe me, princess,” he said.
“Whatever you want, Bronson. A donation to your favorite charity.”
“No,” he said, grinning. “I can think of something better.” He lowered his head.
She lifted her chin. “You wouldn’t.”
“Damn right I would.”
“With everyone looking on?”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?”
‘Mr. Bronson, I—”
His kiss was fierce and swift. All around them people laughed delightedly and called for more.
“Smile for the camera, princess,” he said as he broke the kiss. “Let’s give ’em what they want.”
If only she could remember what that was.
Chapter
Seven
He wasn’t going to think about her again.
That’s what Daniel told himself when he left Perreault a few hours after the wedding. He’d helped the little princess out of an embarrassing situation, and she’d introduced him to the millionaire from Kyoto who was looking to back a Japanese-American development deal outside the city.
Isabelle had made it through the wedding with her pride intact, and Daniel boarded his plane with entrée to a business opportunity that would make his plans for Perreault look like small potatoes. It was almost enough to make him forget how much he hated flying.
Back in New York, he threw himself into his work with renewed enthusiasm. The Kyoto millionaire faxed him the specs for a planned-community that combined the best of both cultures, and Daniel was off and running. He barely noticed when winter melted into spring. Meetings. Midnight brainstorming sessions. Endless talks with government officials over the advisability of the deal.
Spring slid into summer, one of those hot, muggy New York summers that made the concept of hell a little easier to understand. Daniel returned from a preliminary trip to Japan where he met with Toshiro Umeki and Umeki’s partners in the speculative venture. He’d taken a crash course on Japanese sensibilities and had managed to get through seven days of excruciatingly polite business meetings without embarrassing himself. One of the businessmen had suggested taking a mountain hike, and Daniel had blanched at the thought. There wasn’t much in life that scared him at ground level. Raise the altitude, and it was a different story entirely.
He found
himself thinking about Isabelle at odd moments and wondering if she’d finally come to terms with her sister’s marriage. He’d heard through the international grapevine that Juliana was pregnant. A fact like that would make reality hard to ignore, even for the stubborn little princess.
“Looks like the marriage is working,” his father had said to him over a game of pool at the Golden Cue. “Nothing like a baby to cement family ties.”
“Kids don’t solve every problem,” Daniel had pointed out as he ran the table.
“Your sister Cathy is pregnant again.”
“Terrific.”
“Her baby is due next month.”
“Great.”
“And your cousin Steve—”
“Don’t tell me,” said Daniel as he reracked the balls. “He’s pregnant, too.”
“You’re a wiseass, Danny,” Matty had commented with a shake of his head. “Life’s passing you by, and you’re too busy making with the one-liners to give a damn.”
“Not everyone’s itching to join the diaper brigade, Pop. There are enough rug rats in this family to go around.”
“One day you’ll find out what it’s all about, Danny. Family’s everything in life. Everything else is a distant second.”
A couple of times he’d seen Isabelle’s picture in one of the gossip rags his assistant Phyllis was so crazy about. “Princess Isabelle Leads Royal Brat Pack,” one headline had screamed when Isabelle and Stephanie of Monaco cohosted a gala in Monte Carlo. She’d been seen at one time or another on the arm of an Italian industrialist, a Russian expatriate poet, and a low-ranking member of the British royal family. He wondered if she’d slept with any of them and then he cursed himself for giving a damn.
There was a loneliness in him these days that nothing could reach, a bone-deep need for something he couldn’t define. He felt as if he’d lost some essential part of himself and didn’t know where to look in order to recover it.
The truth was, anyone with eyes could see that something was bothering Daniel. His sisters continued to speculate over the problem, but by tacit agreement they refrained from asking any questions. His brothers chalked up Daniel’s mood to too much time playing desk jockey, while his parents assumed he’d had his heart broken by the Ford model he’d been seen squiring around Manhattan last year.
The Princess and the Billionaire (Billionaire Lovers - Book #2) Page 7