The Princess and the Billionaire (15 page)

“My name is Katie. I wore a princess costume for Halloween. My mommy made it for me.”

“I’m sure you were a beautiful princess, Katie. Did you have a tiara?”

Katie popped a thumb in her mouth. “Wha’s that?”

Isabelle ruffled her hair with her fingers. “A crown,” she said. “A beautiful sparkling crown to show everyone you’re a princess.”

“Are you married to a king?” asked Katie.

“Katie!” Her mother’s warning voice rose above the crowd.

Isabelle smiled. “I’m not married to anyone,” she said easily.

“Do you want to be married?” Katie asked. “I do. I want to marry a handsome prince.”

“Don’t you remember what I told you, Katie?” Connie Bronson spoke up. “Uncle Danny and the princess are good friends.”

Katie digested that bit of information, then asked the inevitable question. “Are you and Uncle Danny going to get married?”

“I’m not going to get married for a very long time, Katie.” She stood up again. God only knew what the next question might be.

“Nice save,” muttered Daniel. “By this time tomorrow you’ll have it down to an art form.”

Isabelle quickly decided she would settle for remembering everyone’s names. The sheer number of relatives was daunting. Four sisters, two brothers, six spouses, and a slew of children, most of whom Isabelle wouldn’t meet until the morning. Blue jeans and T-shirts seemed to be the accepted uniform on both men and women alike. They were loud and friendly, and she had to keep reminding herself that each and every person in that room was a millionaire, for none of the obvious trappings of wealth were visible. For one thing, there wasn’t a servant in sight.

“Certainly your mother doesn’t care for this house herself,” she said as Daniel led her upstairs to the room they would be sharing. “A house this size should have a staff of at least five.”

“Mom has help,” Daniel said, ushering her into a large, L-shaped room at the far end of the hall, “but she and Dad don’t believe in asking anyone to work on holidays.”

It was more than Isabelle could comprehend. “At home it is considered an honor to serve. Especially at times of celebration.”

“Here it’s considered a job.”

The difference defined all that separated her experience from Daniel’s. “There is much I don’t understand.” She sank onto the edge of the bed. “There are times I feel as if I had been dropped into your country from another planet entirely.”

He sat down next to her. “My family can be overwhelming. Want me to ask them to back off?”

She shook her head. “It isn’t them, Daniel. I suppose I am tired, that’s all.” She had spent most of the day posing for a magazine cover and granting radio interviews. “The same questions over and over, as if there is nothing more fascinating in this world than to live in a castle and have people bow to you.”

“You have to admit it looks pretty glamorous from the outside.”

“You have no idea, Bronson. Simply no idea.”

He watched as she rose from the bed to unpack her clothing. It was the closest she’d come to talking about her life in Perreault since the day she’d told him about her sister’s treachery. He found himself wanting to know more, wanting to discover what had caused that look of sadness in her dark eyes. She gave her body to him but she withheld her soul, and he knew that the time was near when that would no longer be enough to satisfy him.

* * *

Breakfast on Thanksgiving morning was Isabelle’s first crisis.

“Everyone shifts for themselves around here,” said Matty when she and Daniel entered the bustling kitchen. “Eggs, pancakes, bagels—make whatever you like.”

Connie and one of her daughters were busy stuffing the turkey Isabelle and Daniel had picked up from the pool hall. Two of her other daughters were standing at the island counter, preparing vegetables and laughing together. One lovely red-haired woman sat in a rocking chair near the window, nursing an infant. Through the window Isabelle could see Daniel’s brothers and brothers-in-law cutting and stacking wood near the end of the patio.

The room was a whirlpool of activity, and Isabelle froze in place.

“C’mon, princess. How does an omelette sound to you?”

“It sounds wonderful,” she said, “but who is going to prepare it?”

“No servants on holidays,” he reminded her, the slightest edge to his voice. “You’re going to have to pitch in.”

“There’s one slight problem,” she said as her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. “I’ve never cooked a breakfast before.”

“You’re joking.” He looked at her more closely. “You’re not joking? You don’t know how to cook?”

“Don’t seem so surprised,” she snapped, lifting her chin. “It is not on the list of necessary skills for a princess.”

“Didn’t they teach you anything in that fancy boarding school you went to?”

“They taught me to be a snob.”

He grinned. “I have a feeling you didn’t need many lessons, princess. It seems to come naturally.”

She couldn’t help it. She started to laugh, and that started Daniel laughing and before she knew it, the entire kitchen echoed with the sound. Her embarrassment and discomfort evaporated as if it had never existed.

“She doesn’t know how to cook,” Daniel announced to the throng. “Any suggestions where to start?”

“Scrambled eggs,” Matty called out from behind his newspaper. “Easiest way to learn.”

Connie, elbow deep in turkey, made a face. “Nothing is easier than a fried egg, sunny side up.”

Katie tugged at the sleeve of Isabelle’s cashmere sweater. “I can make scrambled eggs.”

Isabelle looked at Daniel. “Tell me that isn’t true.”

Pat, Katie’s mother, looked up from the carrots she was slicing. “Progressive day care,” she said with a friendly smile. “Katie can cook scrambled eggs, toast, and squeeze fresh orange juice.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes comically. “Is there some way I can enroll in this progressive day care school?”

If there had been any lingering doubts about their royal visitor, that remark dispelled them. As friendly as they had all been before, the atmosphere changed as she threw herself wholeheartedly into the challenging business of scrambling an egg.

“Now I know why Daniel is such a wonderful chef,” she said to Connie as she moved the eggs around in the pan. “He comes from a family of wonderful chefs.”

“I’m not so sure wonderful is the right word,” Connie said, “but I always say if you like to eat, learn to cook.”

“I wonder why I never thought of that.”

“Because you’re a princess,” Daniel said, buttering some toasted slices of rye bread.

“But your family is rich,” she persisted, lowering her voice. “Nobody has to do any of this. Why do they bother when it could all be done for them?”

He didn’t say anything for a long time, long enough for her to worry that she had said the wrong thing.

“Daniel,” she whispered as they carried their plates to the table. “If I’ve said anything untoward, I apologize. I just want to understand.” Normal everyday life was so far beyond her experience that she found it difficult to grasp.

“I don’t know what to tell you, princess,” he said, holding her chair for her. “Maybe it has to do with being a family.”

She looked around the huge, sunny kitchen. Connie and her daughters. Cathy nursing her baby. Little Katie sitting on her grandfather’s lap while he read to her from the newspaper’s comic strips. Three generations under one roof, gathered together to thank God for the blessings of the past year.

Daniel touched her arm. “The eggs are great. Give them a try.”

She nodded. In truth she wasn’t sure she could swallow around the huge lump knotted in her throat.
You’re a rich man, Bronson,
she thought.
Richer than you’ll ever know.

* * *

After breakfast Daniel loaded the dishwasher, then went outside to lend a hand stacking the woodpile. Isabelle offered her help with the vegetables, and Connie handed her a knife and a pile of potatoes. Isabelle stared at them for a long moment, then began to scrape away at the skins the way she’d seen the kitchen maids at the castle do. She scraped away as much potato as she did skin, but nobody uttered so much as a peep of criticism. From potatoes she moved on to cauliflower, breaking apart the snowy white heads into florettes. She rinsed the florettes beneath cold water as Connie instructed, then piled them high in the basket of an enormous steamer.

“This is quite enjoyable,” she said, drying her hands on a linen dishtowel. “It’s really a very satisfying endeavor.”

The women laughed, but there was nothing mean-spirited about their laughter. “Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t,” said Cathy, a psychologist and new mother. “It’s the one household chore, however, that I won’t turn over to someone else.”

“Cooking is love,” said Connie. “Plain and simple.”

“I had never thought of it as anything more than nourishment,” said Isabelle. She stopped for a second and smiled. “Except when Maxine would smuggle Sacher tortes and warm milk upstairs when I was home from boarding school.”

“Oreos and cold milk,” said Pat with a sigh. “Best snack in the world.”

“Oreos?” asked Isabelle. “Is that a sweet?”

“She doesn’t know Oreos!” Cathy leaped to her feet. “Ma, you do have some, don’t you?”

“With this crowd?” Connie rolled her eyes skyward. “Pantry. Second shelf from the top, right-hand side.”

Oreos were a success as were Fig Newtons and graham crackers. Isabelle was less than impressed with packaged chocolate chip cookies and cheese-filled pretzel nuggets. Twinkies, however, were the hands-down favorite.

“Junk food,” said Isabelle, savoring the words as much as the taste. “I fear I will not have room for dinner.”

Matty, who had just popped back into the kitchen to look for his glasses, heard her. “You need a long brisk walk along the beach,” he stated in a tone that brooked no argument. He glanced at her attire. “Those little shoes aren’t going to cut it.”

“I have some Reeboks upstairs,” Cathy said. “I think we’re about the same size.”

“And a heavy jacket,” Matty advised. “The winds can be pretty brutal.”

Five minutes later Isabelle, bundled in borrowed clothing, set off across the back lawn with Daniel’s father. Daniel, who was playing football with his brothers and brothers-in-law, started to join her, but Matty waved him off. Daniel met Isabelle’s eyes, but she smiled and gestured for him to continue playing. There was something familiar about Matty Bronson, even though she had met him less than twenty-four hours earlier. He emanated a sense of solidity, of strength, that she found herself drawn to, much as she was drawn to those same qualities in his son.

She followed Matty down a steep wooden staircase.

“We lost a lot of beachfront a few years ago during the nor’easter,” Matty said as they crossed the sand. “A lot of the newer houses got washed out to sea.”

He pointed out one of the rebuilt houses, precariously perched on stilts that tempted Mother Nature to lash out and prove her power over mankind’s follies. How typically American to believe in a future so bright that not even the untamed forces of nature could dampen your optimism. It was a far cry from the stone castles and brick estates of her own upbringing, where homes were built to withstand not only the forces of nature but the onslaught of man as well.

They talked idly as they walked along. Matty told her about the lighthouse at the tip of the island. “I suppose two hundred years of history doesn’t sound like much to you,” he said with a shake of his head. “Around here it borders on antiquity.”

“One of the boarding schools I attended was built during the reign of Queen Elizabeth.” She paused, then laughed. “The first one, that is.”

“A lot of history within the walls of your own castle, Isabelle. I only wish I’d made it back to Perreault for the Tricentennial. It would’ve been great to see Bertrand one more time.”

Isabelle looked out toward the water, focusing on a fishing boat cutting across the choppy waves.

Matty put his arm around her shoulder and gave a quick, awkward squeeze. “Didn’t mean to bring up a sad subject, Isabelle. I apologize.”

“You need not apologize for a thing,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I know my father thought highly of you. Now I understand why.”

“One thing I never did understand was what your old man saw in Honore Malraux.”

Isabelle stiffened slightly. “Honore is a lovely man, Matty. He’s been very good to my family.”

“The only family Malraux is good to is his own,” Matty said. “That conniving son of a bitch has left a trail across Europe you wouldn’t believe.”

“I have heard the talk,” Isabelle conceded, “but the man I know is different indeed.”

“Glad you’re out of there,” Matty said. “You’re better off over here, making a fresh start.”

Isabelle smiled. “Fresh starts, as you put it, can be frightening.”

“Not for you,” Matty said with a grin much like Daniel’s. “I’ve got a feeling you’re going to do just fine on this side of the Atlantic.”

They sat down on an overturned rowboat near the water’s edge. Isabelle drew her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms about her legs.

“Do you miss Perreault?” Matty asked, zipping up the front of his jacket as high as it would go.

She considered his question. “Not very. In truth I never spent all that much time there.”

“You and your sister were in boarding schools.”

She shook her head. “Only I was,” she said quietly. “Juliana was tutored at home.”

“Nothing wrong with being homesick. Danny had a beaut of a case when he went off to college. He called so much I threatened to get a WATS line installed in his dorm.”

“But you still took his calls.”

His expression was puzzled. “He’s my son. My flesh and blood. You don’t turn away from family.”

“But there are times when family turns away from you.”

“I know what happened,” he said, his gruff voice sounding oddly gentle. “It won’t last, Isabelle. You and your sister will get back together. Blood tells.”

“I’ll never go back there.” The vehemence in her tone shocked even Isabelle. “I no longer care what happens to any of them.”

“You feel that way now, but it’ll change. Home is the one place you can’t escape.”