The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  Juliana did not look away. This would make the next month or two rather messy, but she was glad her sister finally knew. She’d waited a long time to savor her triumph to its fullest. “I’d wondered when you would realize.”

  “Your stupid little sister finally knows the truth.”

  “It was never a secret,” Juliana said. “Certainly everyone else realized it long ago.”

  Isabelle looked down, struggling with tears. Juliana noted the action, recognized the meaning, but Isabelle’s pain meant nothing to her.

  “It’s better this way,” she said as Isabelle’s shoulders heaved with her sobs. “Eric was quite embarrassed by the way you have been throwing yourself at him. Perhaps now you can get on with your life. Aunt Elysse would so love to have you visit her in New York. You might—” Isabelle withdrew something else from her pocket, something round and golden, and held it up to the light. “Wh-what is that?”

  “Your husband’s wedding ring.” She tossed it to Juliana, but it hit the edge of the bar and rolled across the floor. “You might ask yourself how it came to be in my possession.”

  “You’ll pay for that,” Juliana said, her voice low with menace. “I promise you, you’ll pay for that.”

  “I already have,” Isabelle said as she turned toward the door. “I loved him first, didn’t I?”

  * * *

  “No fish!” Juliana’s voice pierced the silence of the breakfast room the next morning. She tossed the menu plan at Yves. “How many times have I told you I absolutely abhor fish and will not tolerate it at my table?”

  “Many times, madam,” said Yves. Both his tone and his expression were carefully neutral. He had seen to it that the detritus of last night’s disruption had been cleaned up, but had not alluded to the incident in any way. “I shall convey your displeasure to the cook.”

  “And convey the message that the cook’s services are no longer required. He is terminated as of now.”

  “But, madam, we—”

  “Now!”

  Yves bowed stiffly. “As you wish, madam.” He backed out of the room then disappeared down the corridor.

  Pompous fool. As if anyone cared what he thought about the subject. There were times when Yves acted as if he ruled the house and the rest of them were his loyal servants.

  She pushed back her chair and waited a full ten seconds before a red-faced footman raced into the dining room to help her. Certainly her father had never endured such an indignity.

  “Has my father returned yet from his walk?”

  The footman shook his head. “N-no, your highness. The prince took the dogs from their kennels and left before seven.”

  “That will be all.”

  The footman bowed, then backed out of the room with the same obsequious agility that was Yves’s hallmark. There were people who found that type of behavior a horrifying throwback to the Middle Ages. Juliana unabashedly enjoyed it and, she suspected, so would most people if they were the object of such slavish servility. Honore understood. She smiled as she thought of her father-in-law. Somehow she never had to explain herself to him. Honore knew that she was everything Isabelle was not, and he seemed glad of it.

  If only it were that easy with his son.

  She walked slowly from the dining room, aware of the dark pain in the small of her back. She hadn’t slept a wink last night: That nasty bit of excitement in the library had sent her adrenaline flowing, and she’d found it impossible to close her eyes. The adrenaline, she suspected, was also to blame for the twinges of pain she’d felt intermittently deep in her belly. Unfortunately there were still three long weeks to go until she delivered her son.

  And it had to be a son. Power in Perreault, such as it was, passed directly to the first male child, regardless of the royal rank of the child’s parent. Indeed, if her aunt Elysse had borne a son, Juliana would not be in a position of power today. She shivered at the thought of how close she might have come to losing all that she held dear.

  A parlormaid dropped a quick curtsy as Juliana passed her in the hallway. Juliana nodded in acknowledgment and continued walking. Like her father, she thought best when she walked, even if the process was more difficult now than it should be. Last night she had come close to allowing emotion to override her common sense. Men were weak creatures. She understood full well why Eric would seek out the company of a mindless piece of fluff like Mireille Dubois. Isabelle, however, was another story. She’d rather see her husband dead than in the arms of that duplicitous bitch.

  She paused for breath in the enormous center hallway, leaning against a pillar for support. If only she were in charge now, she would send Isabelle away post haste and Maxine with her. She would see to it that Eric had a title, the first step toward bolstering his fragile male ego. And she would welcome her father-in-law’s new ideas with open arms.

  “Madam?” Yves made his way across the hall. “The cook has asked me to beg your forgiveness.”

  Her expression remained impassive, and she watched, fascinated, as Yves seemed to grow smaller before her eyes.

  Yves cleared his throat. “He asks you to look upon him with generosity and accept his apologies for his grievous mistake.” All said with a French accent that would have done Charles de Gaulle proud.

  Juliana, cool and collected, met his eyes. “Am I to assume the cook also wishes that I restore him to his position on the staff?”

  Yves nodded. “That is indeed his wish, madam.”

  “His wish is denied.” A surge of adrenaline flooded through her veins at the look of disbelief on the man’s narrow face. This was power, and she found she loved it. “One month’s salary and the usual references.”

  “But, madam—”

  “That is all, Yves.” Unless you wish to join the cook on his search for a new position. “And you are not to trouble my father with this matter. He gave me full authority over household matters, and I will not be challenged. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, madam.”

  She turned and headed for the main door. “I am going for a walk in the garden. If my husband telephones, please ask him to leave a number where he can be reached.”

  “As you wish, madam.”

  So quick. So easy. With a word she could cast a person into oblivion or make his fondest dream come true. How was it she’d never realized all that was within her grasp?

  That taste of power had been intoxicating. The only thing in her life that came close to the sensation was making love with her husband. Perhaps the two sensations were more intertwined than one might think at first observation. Once again it occurred to her that the acquisition of more power could ensure Eric’s place by her side.

  In the distance she heard the strident yipping of her father’s infernal Corgis. She despised those horrid little dogs, all haunches and teeth and bad dispositions. Oh, yes, there would be many changes when she acceded to the throne, and it would start with those canine ferrets.

  She wrinkled her nose at the slightly blowsy look of the roses. They were past their peak, petals wide open to the sun with the faded look of a once-beautiful woman lifting her face toward the light. She preferred the controlled beauty of the privet hedges, predictable angles and lines with a purpose beyond the ornamental.

  The garden was neatly bordered with a stone fence punctuated by a gate at the far end. She pushed open the gate and continued walking. The dogs were making an unconscionable amount of noise. A faint hint of alarm mingled with her curiosity as she followed the well-worn footpath into the woods.

  “Ridiculous,” she said out loud as the cathedral of leaves overhead rustled in the summer wind. This odd sense of approaching destiny was more than likely the result of her advanced state of pregnancy, nothing more. The barking of the dogs grew louder as she plunged more deeply into the forest. “Papa!” she called out. “It’s Juliana.”

  No response save for the barking of the dogs.

  Her heart beat more rapidly in earnest. “Papa!” she called, more loudly
this time. “Where are you?”

  She jumped as she felt something brush against her ankle. Looking down, she saw one of her father’s dogs, leaping about as if possessed.

  “What on earth—?”

  The small dog growled ominously, and she took a step back, but then the animal ran forward a few yards, as if trying to tell her something. She supposed the little horror wanted her to follow it into the woods where it would turn her into a human sacrifice.

  “Papa!” Her voice rang out. “Please come and fetch your dog before it bites me!”

  Still no response.

  “All right,” she said to the dog.. “I’ll do as you say.” She followed the animal through some brush ripe with berries then into a clearing.

  She glanced about, her hands linked across her belly, then saw a knot of Corgis clustered around her father’s prone form. She was at his side as quickly as her bulk would allow.

  “... pain... my jaw... shoulder...” His words were slow and indistinct. “I need...” His eyes closed, and she watched, fascinated and horrified, as beads of sweat broke out along his brow.

  She felt useless standing there while he writhed in pain, but her belly was so large she couldn’t bend over to wipe his forehead.

  “Help,” he said, clutching at his left shoulder. “The doctor... quickly....”

  “Of course, Papa,” she said. “Immediately.”

  She looked down at him for a long moment, memorizing the furrows and planes of his face, then turned and slowly walked back toward the castle.

  * * *

  The New York Times broke the story about Bertrand’s death on one of the inside pages—three column inches of text accompanied by a small picture of Juliana and Eric standing, grief-stricken, at the gravesite. Matty saw it first. He called Daniel to pass on the news.

  “Damn glad you didn’t get involved with them,” Matty said. “Malraux will have that place tied up in red ribbons before the grass grows over the grave.”

  “You have a way with words, Pop,” Daniel said, thinking about the charming silver-haired prince he’d met just a few months ago. “I wonder—” He stopped.

  “You’re wondering about the other princess.”

  “She’s going to have it rough,” Daniel said, wishing his father wasn’t so good at finishing his sentences for him. “She was the odd one out when Bertrand was alive. It’s only going to get worse.” A lot worse, if his gut feeling about Juliana was on target.

  “They’ll work it out fine without you,” said Matty. His words were punctuated by puffs on a cigar. “That’s one thing about royalty, Danny: It’s a job for life. They take care of their own.”

  You’re wrong, Pop, thought Daniel. The memory of the way they’d all closed ranks at Juliana’s wedding, as if Isabelle didn’t exist, lingered with him. So did the depth of her loneliness.

  They spent a few minutes talking about a real estate deal on the Upper West Side, then broke the connection. Daniel buzzed for Phyllis, who popped up seconds later in the doorway.

  “You rang, boss?”

  “Send some flowers or whatever to Prince Bertrand’s family in Perreault.”

  Phyllis jotted something in her ever-present notepad. “Birth? Anniversary? Wedding?”

  “Death. The prince, a few days ago.”

  “His poor daughter,” Phyllis said, looking genuinely concerned. “Just married, about to have a baby, and now she’s inherited the throne. I wouldn’t want to be her for a million dollars. Her freedom is gone before she even had a chance to enjoy it.”

  “This from the raging royalist of Queens?”

  “I’m not stupid, Daniel. I want the perks, not the pressures.”

  “So what do you think’ll happen to the other sister?” He managed to sound only mildly curious.

  “Judging from what I’ve been reading, she’ll probably marry one of those rich Euro-types she’s been partying with.”

  He scowled. “What do you mean, partying?”

  “Honey, if half the stuff they’re printing about her is true, this girl has a track record Carl Lewis would envy.” She paused. “For heaven’s sake, Daniel, don’t look at me like that. You asked, and I told. It’s just an opinion.”

  “Too goddamn much gossip,” Daniel muttered, crumpling up a piece of paper and aiming it for the wastebasket across the room. “What the hell ever happened to privacy?”

  Phyllis stalked out of his office, mumbling something about tyrants under her breath. Knowing Phyllis, Daniel guessed she was probably wondering why all the interest in Isabelle.

  He really didn’t give a damn what happened to the little princess. She wasn’t his responsibility. Hell, they barely knew each other.

  Still, the thought of her in the arms of one of those professional boyfriend-types he’d seen roaming through Europe made his gut knot up. Despite her interlude with Eric Malraux, the dark-haired princess still had the fires of righteous innocence burning in her heart. Even Daniel, who wasn’t particularly good at navigating emotional landscapes, could see that she still believed in a love that would last a lifetime. All it would take was two or three more mistakes on the scale of Malraux and she’d turn into one of those hollow-eyed women who relied on cabana boys for their self-esteem.

  But hell. It wasn’t his problem. Any last, lingering hope for a deal with the principality had died with Bertrand, and now that Daniel was negotiating hot and heavy with the Japanese, the odds were he’d never cross paths with any of them again.

  Chapter

  Eight

  New York

  Elysse, sister of the late Prince Bertrand and ex-wife of too many men—both noble and otherwise—to count, checked the last of the wardrobe trunks lined up in her foyer, then nodded toward the doorman and his assistant. “If you would, gentlemen, I’ll be forever in your debt. The nice man in the big black limousine will help you load them in the boot.”

  Isabelle watched the proceedings with alarm. “Aunt Elysse! How can you do this to me?”

  “Quite easily, my dear.” Elysse checked her makeup in the mirror of her gold compact. “I am more than willing to put a roof over your head and food in your stomach, but I simply cannot live with you. And certainly not during August in New York. You are demanding, foolish—although not unintelligent—and altogether too loud and too young for my aging tastes. I shall simply remand myself to my home in Bermuda as is my custom and wait for the storm to pass. I will see you again in the spring, by which time I hope you will have found your own residence.”

  “I can’t live here by myself.”

  “You won’t be living here by yourself,” Elysse pointed out. “You have Maxine.”

  “But Maxine doesn’t know anything more about New York than I do!”

  “And think of the fun you two will have learning all about it.”

  “You simply cannot do this to me.”

  “I can and I must,” Elysse said, sliding on her gloves. “I am old, I am tired, and I need time and space for myself. My banker will take care of the apartment’s carrying charges and the utilities. There is food in the pantry and a well-stocked freezer. After that, my dear, I’m sure you’ll find a way to fend for yourself.”

  “But who will clean up after me?”

  Elysse rolled her blue eyes in despair. “How I thank God that I left Perreault when I did and learned to be an independent woman. I shudder to think that there was a time when I believed the world owed me a living.”

  Isabelle brushed away her words with a wave of her hand. “Yes, but who will do the cleaning?”

  “A service will come in every Friday, my dear, but you are on your own the rest of the time.” Elysse pointed to her cheek. “Now if you will kiss your aunt good-bye, I must be on my way.”

  Isabelle did as she was asked. Her aunt smelled of Chanel No. 5 and impatience. “Why on earth did you invite me to live with you if you weren’t going to be here?”

  “My dear, you had an abysmal interlude in Paris, and we both agree you were far
ing equally badly in London. What choice was there? I couldn’t bear to see you thrown to the wolves. You’re quite a delectable little morsel, and they would have devoured you in one bite.” She shrugged her narrow, elegant shoulders. “We are family, but that does not mean we must live together under the same roof. Need I say more?”

  “No,” said Isabelle, “I would rather you didn’t. You make me sound like an undisciplined ogre, unfit for human company.”

  Elysse’s laugh rang out. “Au contraire, my darling. You’re a most amusing and beautiful child, and it is my fondest hope that one day you will become a quite satisfactory woman. But I see no need to share that journey with you. Au revoir, Isabelle. I will see you again in April.”

  Isabelle stormed back into the kitchen where Maxine sat nursing a pot of tea and reading the newspaper.

  “Well, the traitor has run out on me,” she announced, slumping into a chair opposite Maxine. “Once again my own flesh and blood has seen fit to desert me.”

  Maxine looked up at her. “’Twould seem you have been left with more than you deserve, lovey, considering the way you’ve been acting.”

  “Please do not start with your criticisms again, Maxi. I am simply not in the mood.”

  “This is the life you’ve been given, and it is high time you made your peace with it.”

  Isabelle shot Maxine a perfectly foul look. “If you’re so dreadfully unhappy with me, Maxine Neesom, why don’t you go back to Perreault and play nursemaid to Juliana’s child?”

  “You know the answer to that as well as I do, lovey. When I chose you, I broke my ties forever.” Maxine resumed reading her newspapers.

  Isabelle swiped a chocolate donut from the platter in the center of the table and stalked back into the living room. In the two months since her father’s death, Isabelle had bounced from place to place, trying to find somewhere she could put down roots, even temporarily.

  One week after Bertrand’s funeral, Isabelle had found herself expelled from her homeland with nothing more than her wardrobe trunks and Maxine by her side. Juliana had maintained her icy silence where Isabelle was concerned, empowering Yves to deliver the nasty bit of news. There was little doubt that the man enjoyed it. Somehow Juliana had managed to turn public opinion against Isabelle, and that extended to the castle staff. “Her wild ways took their toll on her father,” went the whispers. “She broke his heart in two.”