* * *
Afterward they didn’t talk about what had happened between them. They had said all that needed to be said without words, which suited them both. Words always got them into trouble, pushing them apart when they longed to be together.
They picnicked on the floor of his office. Isabelle spread her coat facedown on the thick carpeting, then set out the sandwiches and pickles on paper plates she found in the supply cabinet adjacent to Daniel’s office.
“It isn’t cooking,” said Isabelle as she settled herself down next to Bronson, “but you must admit I assemble quite a nice meal.”
He grinned at her over his pastrami. “You’re a regular Julia Child, princess. I’m impressed.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you making a joke at my expense?”
“I never joke about pastrami on rye.”
He opened her bottle of cream soda for her, then laughed as she got up to search the supply closet for a glass.
“You could drink it straight from the bottle,” he suggested.
She shuddered melodramatically. “Heaven forbid!”
“Once a princess—”
She tossed a paper cup at his head. “I’m well on my way to becoming an independent working woman, Daniel Bronson, and I should thank you to remember that.”
“That reminds me,” he said, gesturing toward his cluttered desk. “I have the prelim advertising forecast Ivan wanted.”
She leaned forward. “And—?”
“Things look great.” He reeled off a few specifics. “Right product, right market, right spokesperson. It doesn’t get much better than that, princess, not first time around.”
“Oh, thank God!” she whispered. It was really going to happen. They were on their way to even greater success.
“The only thing you have to worry about is overexposure.”
Her eyes widened. “The dresses are too short?”
He started to laugh. “Don’t touch those hemlines. Overexposure means you’re getting too famous too fast, princess. It’s time to scale back until the line debuts, then you hit ’em with both barrels.”
The metaphor was a bit fuzzy, but Isabelle understood the meaning. “What should I do?” she asked, pouring some cream soda into a cup. “Find myself some mountain hideaway and stay there until next spring?”
He met her eyes. “You could come to Japan with me.”
She stopped pouring cream soda. “Would you repeat that?”
“You heard me, princess. I’m asking you to come to Japan with me.”
She stared at him, her thoughts leaping in a hundred different directions. “Japan! I never—I mean, I’m so—” She started to laugh. “Are you sure?”
“Now who’s answering a question with a question?”
“I know, but I never expected this.”
“Neither did I. When push came to shove, I couldn’t imagine being without you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Yeah, but you’re still not answering me.”
“Six months is a long time, Bronson. I have responsibilities now. Maxine and Ivan rely on me.”
“If you don’t want to—”
She scooted closer to him. “I do want to,” she said, reaching for his hand. “More than anything in the world. It’s just—”
“Five and a half months.”
She grinned. “Two months.”
“Four and a half.”
“Two and a half.”
“Four.”
She made a show of figuring out the dates. “Three and a half.”
He scowled, but she could see the twinkle in his eyes. “How about you just bring your cute little ass over there as soon as possible, then go home whenever you want to?”
“I’d never want to leave you, Bronson,” she said quietly, “but I cannot abandon Maxi and Ivan.”
“You’re changing, princess.”
“Disappointed?”
“No,” he said. “I think I like it.”
Tell him, lovey. She heard Maxine’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room with them. ’Tisn’t good to keep secrets, no matter how innocent.
She took a deep, steadying breath. “Bronson,” she said, meeting his eyes, “I bumped into someone today....”
* * *
Ten days after Juliana met with Marchand in his London office, a courier arrived at the castle with a sealed envelope. Juliana retreated to her private suite, locked the door behind her, then opened the envelope with the pointed blade of a sterling silver Georgian meat skewer that she used as a letter opener.
Her hands shook as she removed the packet of photographs. She could scarcely read the note attached, even though it was typed and in clear, concise English. She sank onto the edge of her bed and, drawing a deep breath, looked at the first photograph. Blood thundered in her ears, making it hard to think. Eric, clearly enjoying himself, was dancing hip-to-hip with a beautiful young woman whose dress was more imagination than fabric. The fact that his hand rested on the woman’s derriere was not lost on his wife.
It was nothing more than she’d expected, and for that she was grateful. Honore had done his best to help Juliana to understand the way it was with a man, but in her heart she rejected his explanation. Reflexively her hand caressed her burgeoning belly. This pregnancy was as distasteful as the last, but there was no escaping the necessity of bearing a male child.
Her father-in-law had also been painfully blunt in his explanation of the arcane laws governing accession in Perreault. The possibility that Isabelle might bear a male child before she did made Juliana feel physically ill.
That a child of that bitch in heat would ever rank above the issue of Juliana and Eric’s marriage—it was simply unthinkable.
She looked at the second and third photographs, but they were variations on the same theme. She began to relax as she flipped through a dozen more, then found another note, this one handwritten, attached to the last batch. “New York City,” it read. The date was a few days earlier.
New York? Eric had said he was going to Buenos Aires. She supposed it was possible that there had been a layover in New York, but the thought did not console her. She tossed the note down on the bed then turned to the photos.
Her sister, dark hair flowing loosely about her shoulders, faced the camera. She looked aloof, a trifle bored, very beautiful. Eric leaned across the table, deep in conversation. She couldn’t see the expression on his face and for that she was grateful.
“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself, repeating it like a mantra. Eric belonged to her in every way in which a man could belong to a woman. As long as she held the reins of power in her hands, he would continue to belong to her. His father had made that promise to her on her wedding day, and Honore would never let her down.
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.
Chapter
Fourteen
“There’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.
The Princess and the Billionaire (Billionaire Lovers - Book #2) Page 18