The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  She knew that wasn’t true, that she had existed in the shadows of her father’s life. To break someone’s heart meant that you had held a place within it, and Isabelle knew she never had.

  “Pack everything,” she’d instructed Maxine, “because I will never return.”

  “Rash statements are the most often regretted,” Maxine had said. “This is the place of your birth. One day you’ll return.”

  But Isabelle was beyond reason. Perreault had been a dream to her, a distant vision of something that could never be. In a way there was a certain relief in knowing that it was over.

  Paris, however, proved a disaster. The Hotel George V was very pricey, something she had never thought about before. Two weeks into their stay, the manager had appeared at their suite with the embarrassing news that the castle had refused payment and would mademoiselle please make other arrangements.

  Unfortunately, mademoiselle hadn’t given much thought to things like hotel bills. Those mundane details had always been taken care of by the anonymous accountants laboring away in the castle offices.

  She and Maxine had moved on to London where Isabelle and her friend Gemma quickly discovered that they were too old to be roommates again. Isabelle embroidered some flashy designs on a plain silk dress and left it behind as a thank-you gift, although she suspected just seeing her departure might have been gift enough.

  “I have a brother in Dublin,” Maxine had offered. “He might be willing to let us stay with him for a spell.”

  But Isabelle had had other ideas. How many times had Aunt Elysse said Isabelle would love New York City? Maybe the time had come to find out for herself.

  “Well, you certainly found out, didn’t you?” Isabelle said as she looked out the window at the street below. New York was louder, dirtier, and faster than she’d ever imagined. It was also more expensive, more dangerous, and more exciting than in her wildest dreams. Just walking three blocks to Trump Tower was an adventure. But she had counted on having her aunt there to guide her through the maze that was the Big Apple. And, she must admit, to be there to pay the bills.

  Maxine had checked the pantry and freezer and clucked that the supplies wouldn’t last forever, and they’d best be thinking about the future. The last time Isabelle had given serious thought to her future, she’d believed marriage would be at the heart of it. Now, whenever she turned her thoughts toward that particular road, all she saw was darkness.

  * * *

  Phyllis burst into Daniel’s office, waving a copy of the New York Post. “She’s in town! Page six says she’s living right near Trump Tower.”

  Daniel leaned forward and switched off the tape recorder. “Don’t you ever knock, Phyl? I’m trying to practice my Japanese.”

  “Forget your Japanese,” his assistant said, shoving the newspaper under his nose. “The princess is in town.”

  “I don’t have time for this today. I’m leaving for Tokyo next week and I still haven’t got past domo arrigato.”

  Damn it. He didn’t want to look. He’d done a pretty good job of keeping the princess tucked away in some far corner of his brain and intended to keep her there.

  “I’m not going to leave until you look at it.”

  He knew Phyllis well enough to realize she meant business. “Okay,” he said, reaching for the newspaper. “If that’s what it takes to shut you up.” He glanced down at the photo. “What the hell—?” Her hair was piled atop her head, diamonds dangled from her ears—and she was carrying a bag from Gristede’s? He looked up at Phyllis. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  “No joke, boss. That’s hot off the presses. I couldn’t believe it, myself.” Phyllis leaned across the desk. “You should call her, Daniel. Invite her to lunch.” She grinned. “Invite me to lunch with the two of you.”

  “Forget it.”

  “She’s all alone in the city,” Phyllis urged. “She could use a friend.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “So make friends with her. You danced with her at her sister’s wedding, didn’t you?” Her expression grew sly. “You need a social life, Dan-o.”

  He skimmed the story that accompanied the picture. “Sounds like she’s doing okay without me. Lunch at Le Cirque and dinner at 21. She could give lessons.”

  Phyllis yanked the paper away from him. Rolling it into a tube, she tapped it against her hand. “God, how I’d love to hit you in the head with this.”

  He couldn’t help laughing. “What is it about me that makes women want to hit?” The little princess had threatened him repeatedly, and once he’d even let her connect.

  “Figure it out,” Phyllis snarled, then stomped back out to her desk.

  “If you’re so damn interested, why don’t you call her?” he said as the door slammed shut behind her. “Like we’d have a chance,” he muttered, staring out the window at the traffic on Park Avenue. She was royal and she was beautiful, which made her as useless as two left shoes. She also had a bad temper, no visible talents, and lousy taste in men—and she didn’t like him any more than he liked her. He and his ex-wife had had more than that going for them, and they’d ended up in divorce court, bickering over the china service.

  No doubt about it: He and the princess were a match made in romantic hell, and the sooner he got that through to his libido, the better off he’d be.

  He didn’t need her. He didn’t want her. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to call her.

  New York was a big city. There had to be room enough for both of them.

  * * *

  By the first week of October, Isabelle had decided that New York City was nothing more than a collection of small towns loosely linked by a common language—or at least what approximated a common language. She’d never imagined English could be spoken in so many different ways, but one month in Manhattan had shown her how wrong she was.

  The tiny blurb that had appeared in the newspaper a few weeks ago had been the start of her introduction into the social whirl of the city. All it had taken was one sharp-eyed photographer, and her phone began to ring off the hook with invitations to gallery openings and galas and lunches. Royalty was a valuable commodity in New York City, and she found herself doted upon in a most agreeable manner.

  Even her needlework engendered comment. Juliana had not only held up her trust fund, but also she had seen to it that Isabelle’s wardrobe had yet to arrive. Isabelle, hungry for pretty clothes, had dressed up some plain garments with beadwork and fancy stitchery, and overnight the well-dressed ladies who lunched were oohing and ahhing as if they were vintage Diors.

  “Americans certainly do eat a lot of lunches,” she said one morning as she poured herself a cup of tea and joined Maxine at the breakfast table. “I have a noon luncheon engagement tomorrow and a one-thirty on Wednesday.”

  Maxine scowled in her direction. “And wouldn’t I be wishing I could spend my days eating fancy food off china plates.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Maxi!” Isabelle buttered a piece of toast and reached for the marmalade. “Nobody told you to get that idiotic job. We’re doing just fine.” Maxine had taken a clerical job at a Seventh Avenue dress factory called Tres Chic.

  “‘Just fine’ isn’t good enough,” Maxine said. “One rainy day, and we’re in trouble.”

  “You sound like one of those worrying women in the ladies’ magazines.” She bit into the toast, then added another layer of marmalade.

  “’Twould be nice if I wasn’t the only one doing the worrying.”

  “We have nothing to worry about, Maxi, can’t you understand? Any day Aunt Elysse’s lawyer will get my trust fund released and have it deposited at a local bank. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Too much time, if you ask me,” Maxine sniffed.

  “Well, no one is asking you.”

  “You’d be asking me to do everything else around here.”

  “Is it my fault no one thought to teach me how to cook?” Or iron a blouse. Or balance a checkbook. The list was en
dless. “I’m getting quite tired of hearing about my shortcomings.” She added yet another layer of marmalade to her toast. “I’m certain there is something I’d be good at, and sooner or later I shall discover what it is.”

  Maxine watched as she took a bite of toast. “We can’t be buyin’ new clothes on our budget, missy.”

  Isabelle’s eyebrows lifted dangerously. “Are you implying something, Maxine?”

  Maxine’s face remained impassive. “’Twould be a shame for those lovely clothes to go to waste.”

  “You think I’m getting fat.”

  “I wouldn’t be saying that.”

  “Then what would you be saying?” She mimicked Maxine’s particular rhythm with wicked precision.

  “That there might be something better to be doing with your time than eating fancy meals with useless people.”

  Isabelle leaped to her feet and ran to the refrigerator. She flung open the door then pointed at the contents inside. “Leftovers, the Americans call them,” she announced to Maxine and anyone else who might be in earshot. “My fancy luncheons and dinners are providing sustenance for us both.”

  Maxine made a dreadful face. “Food that isn’t fit for a rabbit.”

  “We don’t all require potatoes, Maxine.”

  “Don’t you be turning your sharp tongue against me, missy. I’m gainfully employed and I have half a mind to find myself my own little place closer to the shop. There are times when a body needs some peace and quiet.”

  “That’s what Tante Elysse said.”

  “And what would that be tellin’ you, lovey?”

  “That you’ve become bloody impossible since you started working at that factory,” Isabelle snapped. “That Igor must be a dreadful employer.”

  “His name is Ivan, and he is fair-minded and generous.” Maxine paused a beat. “Which is more than can be said for some.”

  Isabelle tossed her hair back with a quick, sharp gesture. “If Igor’s so wonderful, why don’t you go and live with him?”

  “And don’t be thinking I haven’t considered such a thing.”

  “Maxi!” Isabelle was stricken with horror at the thought that Maxine would actually leave her. “You wouldn’t—would you?”

  Maxine’s smile was too sly for Isabelle’s taste. “You’ll be makin’ your own dinner tonight, lovey. I have a date.”

  Isabelle’s jaw dropped open. “With Igor?”

  “Ivan. And I won’t be tellin’ you that a third time.” Maxine placed her napkin on the table and rose from her chair. “Now, if you’ll be excusin’ me, lovey, I am off to work.”

  “Good,” said Isabelle as the door slammed shut behind Maxine. “I am quite tired of your company as it is.”

  A fitting retort, but somehow it didn’t satisfy the way it would have a few short months ago. Since her father died, there had been too many changes for Isabelle’s comfort. Leaving Perreault forever hadn’t hurt half as much as leaving behind her dreams of a happy future shared with the people she loved and who loved her. If it weren’t for Maxine’s steady presence, there were times when Isabelle feared she would cease to exist with no one in the world to notice or care.

  A pang of conscience gnawed at Isabelle as she thought of Maxine slaving away at that dress factory. The woman had left behind a life of relative ease in order to follow Isabelle into exile, and how had Isabelle shown her gratitude? She hadn’t, that was how. She had accepted Maxine’s loyalty as her due, then watched as the woman ventured out into the hostile world in search of employment. Lately all Maxine did was talk about this Ivan person. He seemed nice enough. After all, he had sent over a stack of samples, plain silk shirts and dresses in classic styles that would soon bear more famous labels. Still, Isabelle was of a mind to march over to Seventh Avenue and take a look at this man who suddenly figured so prominently in their lives.

  But it was dreadfully hot out, and the air conditioning inside the apartment was so comfortable that Isabelle sat in front of the television for the next two hours letting herself float on a sea of surreal entertainment. American television was the most amazing thing. Twenty-four hours a day she could flip on a channel and find someone waiting to entertain her in a wonderfully mindless fashion.

  After lunch she thumbed through the stack of mail that had been accumulating in her basket, stacking invitations in one pile and bills in another. There was an odd request from a man named Silverstein who claimed to be a producer of something called “The Morning Show.” She couldn’t imagine what he could possibly want with her. Gemma had sent an amusing note about her latest conquest, and Isabelle smiled as she read it. Gemma certainly hadn’t done much smiling while Isabelle and Maxine were in residence. Isabelle considered jotting off a quick response, but a fascinating chat show had just begun on a cable station, and she found herself staring, mesmerized, at the flickering screen.

  “Our topic today is fractured families,” said the serious young star of the show. “Why they break apart... how to put them back together.” Three real-life families sat right there on the stage, willing and eager to spill their deepest secrets before the television camera.

  Another chat show followed with a different serious young star. “Famous people, infamous lives. Join us as some of your favorite movie stars tell about the sorrow behind the glamour.”

  Andy Warhol had said everyone in America would be famous for fifteen minutes, and Isabelle sat up straight in her chair as she finally understood what he’d meant by that.

  She glanced toward the stack of magazines piled on the table next to her. Whole issues were devoted to the cult of celebrity, and it seemed those celebrities were getting rich simply for being famous. She couldn’t cook or clean or type or do any of the other things average people did to earn a living, but there was one asset that she’d possessed since the day she was born: She was a princess with a story to tell, and American television was the place to tell it.

  She plucked Silverstein’s note from the stack and kissed it. Unless she missed her guess, “The Morning Show” would be the start of something wonderful.

  Chapter

  Nine

  Dressing room one at the ABC studios was a ten-by-twelve-foot rat hole of a place, crowded with garment racks, rickety stools, and more pots, jars, and bottles of makeup than Daniel had seen in one place in his entire life.

  “C’mon, Mr. Bronson.” The makeup artist motioned him toward a stool. “It’s almost showtime.”

  Daniel took a seat, keeping one foot on the ground for balance.

  “Number two,” the woman mumbled. “Maybe a three base. We’ll talk about the eye cover later.”

  Daniel stood up. “We’d better talk about it now. I thought you were going to comb my hair.”

  The woman gave him the once-over. “I’m not a magician, honey. You need yourself a haircut.”

  He looked at his reflection in the mirror. “You might be right.” He looked back at her. “What’s all that stuff about number two?”

  “Makeup, honey. Gotta even up that skin tone for the camera.”

  “I like my skin tone the way it is.”

  “Well, sure you do, but you’re gonna look like day-old toast to the viewers.”

  “Sorry,” Daniel said. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Your choice,” said the makeup artist with a shrug. “Your father never gives me any trouble.” Matty Bronson was a frequent guest on many of the local television and radio shows.

  “Believe me when I say I wish my father was here right now.” Matty had been scheduled to appear on “The Morning Show” for a segment on people who were born rich versus people who worked their way up from the bottom. An unexpected bout of flu had caused Matty to back out and Daniel to be pushed into the spotlight in his father’s place, despite the fact that he had just stepped off a plane from Japan two hours ago and was facing terminal jet lag.

  He reluctantly submitted to a brief encounter with a puff of powder.

  “Such great raw material,” the red
-haired woman said with a sigh. “I could have done wonders with you.” She tossed the cotton puff into a wastebasket. “Tell Matty that Sheila was asking for him.”

  “Will do.” He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “Any idea who else is on this show?”

  She rolled her eyes. “A former child star, a man who made millions in salad dressing, and—”

  “Two minutes!” A fresh-faced intern raced down the hall. He skidded to a stop in front of Daniel. “You Bronson?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Your spot’s up next. Come on.”

  Daniel followed the kid down a long, drab corridor, picking his way across a maze of thick cable, skinny wires, and discarded paper cups. He recognized some of the famous names on the doors, noting with amusement that the glamorous world of show business looked anything but glamorous from this side of the footlights.

  “So what can I expect?” Daniel asked as the intern pushed open the heavy red door that led into the studio itself.

  The kid cast a look over his shoulder. “Didja do a preinterview?”

  He shook his head.

  “Great,” mumbled the kid. “Okay, it’s like this: This guy named Bob Harris is subbing for the host. He does all that celebrity shit in syndication. Anyway, he’ll set up the whole segment, they bring you out, you do two minutes of shtick, the rest do their thing, and they take a few phone calls. Piece of cake.”

  “Shtick? What the hell do you mean, shtick? I’m not a comedian, I’m a businessman.”

  The kid shot him a look. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

  * * *

  “Sweetheart, you look like a million bucks!” The hairdresser turned Isabelle’s chair toward the mirror. “Whaddya think?”