The Princess and the Billionaire

by Barbara Bretton

  Isabelle blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Yes, I am,” she said, gesturing toward her bright teal jacket and white pants. “This outfit is highly inappropriate.”

  Honore chuckled. “My dear girl, you could not be inappropriate if you tried, but if it will ease your mind, we shall search out proper garb.”

  “I would suggest a search through my old wardrobe, but I fear nothing would fit in my current condition.”

  Honore was too much the gentleman to look down at her belly. “A new shop has opened in town. Celine is quite taken with it. Perhaps they can provide something suitable.”

  “I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “You are not too tired?”

  “I can’t bear the thought of going back into the castle, Honore. Yves was—” She shuddered. Between Yves and the bittersweet memories around every corner, she would just as soon never see the castle again. “A ride would be a welcome diversion.”

  * * *

  The jet landed at the small airport on the French side of the border. Daniel barely noticed the way it bounced across the tarmac like a runaway bumper car.

  An Interpol agent, a tall man with a bad attitude, was waiting for them. “You’re not going any farther,” the agent said without preamble. “The operation is under way.”

  “I’m going.”

  “I have the jurisdiction to stop you by force, if necessary.”

  “You’ll have to kill me,” Daniel said.

  “I will, if it comes to that.”

  Matty stepped forward. “We have a car waiting. You can’t stop us from getting in it and driving away.”

  “No, but I can stop you from crossing that border,” said the agent.

  Daniel looked at his father.

  His father looked at the Interpol agent. “You drive a hard bargain, pal.”

  The agent’s expression remained impassive.

  Daniel gauged the distance between himself and the agent’s car.

  Matty stepped back, smiled pleasantly at the agent, then delivered a right hook that sent the guy to the tarmac.

  Daniel jumped into the car, and he didn’t look back. He took the curves at full speed, not noticing any of the Disney World scenery. The only important thing was Isabelle.

  It seemed to take forever, but at last he reached the castle. The drive was clogged with cars. Interpol agents and local detectives swarmed the grounds. A cluster of suspects lay on the grass face down and handcuffed while a score of frightened employees stood at the edge of the path and watched in silence.

  Daniel screeched to a halt behind a van, then ran straight toward the action. He collared a man who had the look of Interpol all over him. “What’s happening? Did they find the princess?”

  The guy shook his head, obviously preoccupied.

  “Shit.” He scanned the area. Eric was cuffed and standing next to one of those nondescript-looking European cars that made Daniel think of Nazis and sirens in the night. He grabbed the bastard by the collar. “Where the hell is she?”

  The elegant young Malraux spat in his face.

  Daniel considered beating the living shit out of him, but the bastard wasn’t worth the effort. Only Isabelle mattered. Only their child.

  He headed for the castle.

  “Don’t waste your time,” someone yelled. “We’ve got the place cleared. There’s no one in there.”

  He ignored the guy. He couldn’t explain it, but something was calling him inside. The last time he’d seen the place it had been filled with music and candlelight and the laughter of wedding guests. Now it seemed like a royal ghost town. His footsteps echoed in the hallway. He knew the layout of the land around the castle from his spec sheets from the ski resort plans, but he knew only the basics about the castle.

  If he was looking for a hiding place, where would he go? The servants’ quarters? Isabelle’s suite of rooms? The dungeon, wherever the hell that might be?

  He laughed out loud. Those Interpol guys would never think of the dungeon. It was too obvious, too much a part of the old world for them to even notice. How did you get into a dungeon? There had to be a door or a staircase somewhere. Off the kitchens maybe? He ran full out through the ballroom, through the dining room, toward the back of the castle.

  A pot of water boiled on the stove. Dozens of cans and jars were piled high on the counter. Broken glass and red preserves littered the floor. He swung open a door, but it was only an empty pantry. He looked more closely. Could it be? He pulled out the shelves and pushed against the back wall. Nothing. He pressed along the outer edges, and the door swung inward. A series of stone steps led down into the bowels of the castle. The only light was what managed to filter down from the kitchen.

  “Isabelle!” His voice rang out. “Princess, if you’re here, say something!” Anything. If this was a dungeon, he understood why people chose to fight to the death. Being trapped here would be a living hell.

  “Isabelle!”

  Nothing. No sound. No movement.

  He moved deeper into the room. His right foot hit something soft, human. Terror grabbed him by the balls.

  “M’sieur...” The voice was low, indistinct. Definitely not Malraux’s.

  Daniel crouched down. “Who are you?”

  The man’s breathing was labored. Waiting for him to form his words was agony. The fact that he spoke them in French added to the difficulty. The sickly sweet smell of blood was everywhere.

  “Yves...” The man coughed hoarsely. “The chalet... she didn’t believe—”

  “Who didn’t believe?”

  “The princess... and Honore—”

  That’s all he needed to hear. “I’ll get help for you,” he said, stripping off his suit jacket and pillowing it under the wounded man’s head. “Don’t worry, Yves. I’ll make sure a doctor sees you.”

  Another hoarse cough. “Je suis votre servi—” His voice faded as Daniel charged up the steps.

  * * *

  “This isn’t the way into town,” Isabelle said as Honore guided the Bentley up a narrow, curving path. “Where are we going?”

  “Trust me, dear girl.” He smiled as he negotiated a sharp right-hand turn. “We’ll tend to your wardrobe.”

  “I would rather go into town,” she said, trying to ignore the insistent pain in her back.

  “We wouldn’t wish to attract attention now, would we?”

  “I have no need to hide.”

  “I think only of you,” Honore said smoothly. “There has been a great deal of—talk since you left.”

  She laughed out loud. “There was a great deal of talk when I was here. I have always been good for idle gossip.”

  “There are some strange stories circulating about your condition. I should hate to see you made uncomfortable.”

  “I am unmarried,” she said, “but I am also unashamed.”

  He patted her hand. “As well you should be. Bearing a child is an act of God made visible.”

  The words were uttered with great conviction and obvious sincerity. She wondered why her skin crawled as he said them.

  “We’re heading toward Papa’s chalet,” she said as they continued to climb the side of the mountain. “What are you thinking, Honore?”

  “There is a closet off the master bedroom that is filled with women’s clothing. I know you will find something suitable.”

  “What on earth would my father have done with a closetful of women’s clothing?” Bertrand had had an active social life, it was true, but his women had always provided their own attire.

  “Your mother’s clothing, dear girl. Bertrand was a sentimental man.”

  “Turn around now, Honore,” she ordered. “I do not find any of this amusing.”

  “You know so little of your mother,” he said, ignoring her statement, “and there are so many things you need to hear.”

  There was something uncomfortably familiar about the conversation. If only she could put her finger on what it was. “There is nothing more I need to know a
bout my family. I have a new family now, and they are all that I need.” Bronson and the baby, Maxi and Ivan, Matty and Connie’s wonderfully enormous brood.

  “Blood is all, darling child. You must understand that—especially now.”

  Her back muscles cramped, or was it her belly? “It isn’t always enough, Honore. Juliana and I were fine examples of that.”

  “But love triumphed,” he said as the Bentley climbed a steep incline. “In the end that is all that matters.”

  A cold sweat broke out at the back of her neck. “Juliana was a suicide. I hardly see how that constitutes a triumph for love.”

  “A tragedy,” Honore said, sounding chillingly unconvincing. “But from the sorrow comes something wonderful.”

  “I—I do not understand.”

  “You and my son, darling Isabelle, and the child you are carrying.” He swung left onto the road that led to Bertrand’s chalet. “My grandson.”

  Chapter

  Twenty

  Honore’s words seemed to hover in the air between them. Had the whole country gone mad? “I must be mistaken. You did not say ‘grandson,’ did you?”

  “Of course I did, darling child. You did not believe you could keep the wonderful secret forever, did you?”

  “I do not know what on earth you’re talking about.”

  Honore sighed. “Please. We are alone. We are friends—family, or soon to be so. Now is the time for truth.” He met her eyes. “Eric told me the child is his, as Juliana had feared it to be.”

  Her belly cramped violently as if in protest. “I do not understand what this is all about, but I can tell you with certainty that Eric is not the father of my child.”

  “Your circumspection was understandable while your sister was alive, but she is gone now, darling child. You are free to shout your happiness to the world. A son is the culmination of a man’s dream. A grandson is the beginning of new dreams.” He patted her hand. “You have made me a happy man, Isabelle, and I reward those who make me happy.”

  “I do not wish to be rewarded. I want you to understand me when I say this child is not Eric’s.” She rubbed her belly as much to soothe herself as the child. “And there is no way on earth that you could know the sex of my baby.”

  Honore told Isabelle of Juliana’s investigation. He hinted that the chance meeting with Eric in New York might not have been an act of chance at all. Eric had neatly tied it in with Juliana’s own suspicions, and this was the horrifying result.

  “This grows tiresome, Isabelle. We have a copy of your sonogram. The fetus is a male.” He glanced at her as the car climbed higher up the side of Mont Vollard. “And he is a Malraux.”

  * * *

  The side of a mountain—the damn chalet was built in the side of a mountain.

  Rivers of sweat ran down Daniel’s back as he pushed the car faster along the sharply curving incline. How high up was he now? Four thousand feet? Maybe five? He half expected a plane to go by and tip a wing in salute.

  The air was getting thinner. No doubt about it. He struggled to get more oxygen into his burning lungs. There were no guard rails on these roads. A few inches too far to the right and he’d plunge down into that picture-perfect valley, smashing into a mass of twisted steel and bone.

  “Hang on,” he told himself. “It can’t be much longer now.” Or much higher. He’d find the cabin and he’d find Isabelle inside, safe and sound. There was no other way it could be.

  * * *

  Her belly cramped with anxiety as she considered her options. Honore was driving more slowly than usual, and she debated the wisdom of throwing herself from the car as a means of escape, but she feared the baby might not survive. That was the only thing that was important to her. The truth she’d been trying to avoid for the past two hours hit her square in the chest. She was in labor.

  The sporadic back pains had become more regular, joined by a deep, powerful cramping in her belly, the rhythmic contractions of her womb as the baby prepared to be born.

  Please, God, she prayed, not like this. Daniel should be by her side, sharing the miracle of birth as he had shared the miracle of creation. She took a deep breath and counted down slowly from ten. The pain eased, and she exhaled a long shuddering sigh.

  “Darling child, is something wrong?”

  “I am fine,” she lied. “It is just a terrible shame that the situation is such that it is.”

  Honore relaxed. “The situation is even more complicated than you realize. I am a man of many complex businesses, Isabelle, and some of them are not understood by the common throng.” She listened, struggling to mask her mounting horror, as he told her that the gendarmes had been on their way to arrest him when he and Isabelle climbed into the Bentley not forty minutes ago. “This is not something with which I care to burden you—these misunderstandings are commonplace—but we must remain at the chalet until I receive word that we can return in peace.” He patted her hand. “I will protect you and your infant with my life, darling child. I have waited a long time for a second chance.”

  “A second chance? Do you mean now that Juliana is gone?”

  He nodded. “Juliana had become difficult. We did what was necessary to facilitate the proceedings. In the end I am sure it was a blessing for all concerned.” His smile returned. “Still, we must thank her for discovering you were pregnant. Eric was elated, as was I. We understood full well that your sister had made it impossible for you to share the truth with us at the time.”

  I’m not really hearing any of this. I’ve known these people all of my life. Things like this simply do not happen.

  Bertrand’s chalet was situated halfway up Mont Vollard. Clever architects had carved out a parcel of land that extended out over the valley, providing a panoramic view from almost every window. Honore swung into the gravel drive, then leaped from the car to help Isabelle.

  “Lean on me.” He put his arm about her shoulders. “The path is steep.”

  His touch caused bile to rise into her throat, but she forced herself to accept it with grace. Everything depended upon how well she was able to carry out the charade. The gendarmes would find them—they had to. Perreault was a small country. Sooner or later, they would be discovered. She prayed that would happen before her baby was born.

  * * *

  Daniel saw the chalet a thousand feet above him, jutting out into space. He didn’t know what architectural magic had made it possible to build a house in midair, but the illusion was amazing. He was parked off the road, hidden by the cover of the woods. He thought he heard the echo of Honore’s car door slamming shut.

  He was only going to get one chance and he had to get it right the first time. The only thing he had going for him was the element of surprise.

  His gut twisted as he looked up at the steep, densely wooded slope. “You gotta do it, Danny,” he said out loud. “If you love her, this is the way it’s gotta be.”

  The first hundred feet weren’t so bad. He went from foothold to foothold with relative ease. He was feeling more secure, less convinced he was going to drop off the side of the mountain, when his right foot lost its purchase and he grabbed for an outcropping of rock, his fingers trying to penetrate the stone. Damn it to hell. Leather soles weren’t made for rock climbing.

  Reeboks, he thought as he regrouped and tried again. Nikes. Baseball cleats. He ran through the list of alternative footwear in an attempt to distract himself. He made it another two hundred feet then lost his grip and fell ten feet onto a large and prickly bush. His left cheek hit the sharp edge of a rock, and he tasted blood inside his mouth. The knees of his pants were blown out, the shoulder seams on his jacket were ripped, and the sleeves hung by a thread.

  He got to his feet and attacked the side of the mountain yet again.

  * * *

  The inside of the chalet was sparsely furnished. The warmly cluttered room she remembered had been replaced by a sleek, functional decor that felt coldly impersonal. She ran a hand across the lacquered surface of a t
abletop. Of course there was no dust.

  “Even your gestures are like Sonia’s,” Honore said. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

  He approached her, and she took an involuntary step backward. Juliana’s wedding, she thought suddenly. That long and intimate conversation in the library. At the time she’d thought his memories of her mother were remarkable in their detail, but she’d never questioned why.

  “My mother’s clothes,” she said, hiding her trembling hands behind her back and praying another contraction wouldn’t choose that moment to strike. “Are they really here?”

  “Carefully stored,” he said. “After you deliver, you might enjoy modeling some of them. French Vogue, I am certain, would welcome you once again.” He smiled. “Perhaps with your new husband.”

  Dear God, don’t let me be sick. She took a seat near the window as a contraction started. “I never knew my father to be so sentimental.”

  “It was not Bertrand,” said Honore. “I stored them against the day her beautiful daughter would wear them for me.”

  She dug her fingernails into the arms of the chair as the pain subsided. “That is not funny, Honore.”

  “It was not meant to be.” He knelt down before her and placed his hand on her belly. She struggled not to recoil from his touch. “Sonia destroyed my child, but now, through you and Eric, that child has come back to me.”

  She tried to stand, but the force of the contraction made that impossible. “This child is mine,” she said. “Mine and—” She stopped, horrified by what she had come so close to saying.

  Honore rose and moved toward her slowly, steadily, with the same deliberate movements a trainer used to gentle a skittish pony. “There is much you do not know, Isabelle, about how your mother and I were lovers that last year—about the way she aborted my child as if it were nothing more to her than an old sweater to be discarded. Family is everything to me,” he said, his words a twisted parody of a beautiful sentiment. “She had to pay for that crime, for taking my child away from me.”

  That rainswept night—a hairpin curve—a Maserati with faulty brakes that spun out over the edge of a cliff and into oblivion, taking the Princess Sonia with it—