The Princess and the Billionaire (16 page)

“That’s not my home, Matty. I don’t think it ever was.”

He patted her hand, and they sat together in silence, watching the play of sunlight on the gray-blue ocean and the way the seagulls darted beneath the whitecaps in search of food. What would it be like, she wondered, to be part of a family like Matty’s? To know you were loved no matter what, that home was there waiting for you, however far away you wandered.

* * *

As the day wore on, the house continued to fill with family and friends until Isabelle wondered if the crowd would spill out onto the deck and down to the beach. She helped set the enormous table in the dining room and the three additional tables in the foyer and kitchen. Apparently it was an American custom to seat the children at their own table, separate from the adults. Graduation to one of the adult tables was viewed as a welcome rite of passage. One of Daniel’s nephews, a handsome young man named Tony, was having his first holiday meal with the adults, and he didn’t hesitate to lord it over his siblings and cousins.

Sal and his wife Rose arrived
en famille
a little after three o’clock. Isabelle greeted the retired butcher with a warm hug.

“I told ya so,” Sal said, turning to grin at his wife. “I did meet the princess at the pool hall last night.”

“Oh, great,” said Rose, rolling her eyes in mock dismay. “As if he doesn’t already think who the hell he is.”

The Brooklyn contingent of Matty’s friends arrived in Bernie Pearlstein’s rented minivan while the rest of the Queens brigade came out on the Long Island Railroad.

Dinner was loud, raucous, filled with arguments about everything from sex to politics to religion. Sal argued energetically with his best friend Matty, a multimillionaire, about the stock market. Cathy, the psychologist, tried to mediate, but both her father and godfather told her to mind her own business because they were thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Everyone, it seemed, also had an opinion about Daniel’s business dealings in Japan. She listened as Daniel detailed the hotel-convention center he was building outside Tokyo. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, Danny,” said his father. “Better brush up on your Japanese. After New Year’s, you’re gonna be needing it because you can’t postpone the trip any longer.”

“I don’t see why you can’t send one of those fancy executives,” Connie grumbled. “You pay them enough. Can’t they make sure things get off to a good start?”

“This company was built with hands-on supervision,” Matty said with conviction, “and that’s the way we’re gonna continue.” The Bronson name stood for quality, and nobody cared more about keeping it that way than another Bronson. “Bad enough you’ve put this trip off as long as you have.”

January,
thought Isabelle, feeling a wave of sadness wash over her.
January is when it will end.

Daniel made them all laugh with his attempts to speak Japanese. Isabelle did her best to join in, but her heart simply was not in it. It was one thing to realize nothing lasted forever. Knowing when it would end—and how—was something else.

Cathy, the psychologist, tossed a piece of dinner roll in her brother’s direction. “Wouldn’t you love to be the poor sap stuck next to Danny on a fourteen-hour flight?”

“Claustrophobia?” Isabelle asked when the laughter died down.

“It’s not the space,” Daniel said, glaring at the rest of his family. “It’s the altitude.”

“You’re afraid of flying?”

He nodded. “Despite the best efforts of my psychologist sister.”

“I cannot imagine you being afraid of anything.”

“Yeah, well, we all have our Achilles’ heels. Mine kicks in about ten feet above sea level.”

“You must have hated Perreault,” she said with a shake of her head. “Especially the castle.”

“Let’s say I didn’t spend a lot of time looking out the window. When I get around to building my dream house, it won’t be five thousand feet up.”

After dinner, Isabelle volunteered to help with the cleanup, but Connie wouldn’t hear of it. “You’re our guest, honey. We put you to work this morning. That’s enough for one visit. Go! Have fun!” With that she placed her hands at the small of Isabelle’s back and gave her a gentle shove in Daniel’s general direction.

“I feel so useless,” she said to Daniel as they went for an after-dinner stroll on the beach. “Everyone is so accomplished, so productive. All of your sisters are doing something marvelous with their lives, raising families, helping people, running companies. I cannot think of one productive thing I have done in my entire life.”

“You put Ivan’s factory on the map.” Daniel stopped walking and drew her into his arms. “He’s made more money in the past two months than he has in his entire life. I’d say that’s being productive.”

A brisk wind was blowing off the water. She reached up to brush a lock of hair off his forehead, then looped her arms around his neck. “I haven’t seen much of you today, Bronson.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed. You and my old man were thick as thieves.”

“Jealous?”

He chuckled. “Should I be?”

“He’s a wonderful man,” she said in a teasing voice. “Warm and funny and quite attractive.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Almost as handsome as his son.”

“My whole family is taken with you, princess. Even Uncle Quinn who doesn’t like any of us.”

“I’m taken with them—even Uncle Quinn.”

“They want you to come back for Christmas.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I want you to be with me for Christmas,” he said bluntly. “The rest of it is negotiable.”

Her heart seemed to turn over in her chest from the sheer force of the emotions his words evoked.
Nothing lasts,
a small voice warned.
Especially not anything as wonderful as this.
The specter of Daniel’s trip to Japan threw a long shadow.

They made love that night in the big bed near the window, bathed by the light from the full moon. Once again he took her to a level of passion that bordered on the mystical, and she found herself crying softly against his shoulder after she climaxed.

She couldn’t explain it when he asked, couldn’t find the words to describe the bittersweet mélange of joy and sadness that filled her heart as she lay there in his arms. She knew that in this world nothing lasted forever, but would it be tempting the fates if she asked that the wonder they’d found together last a little bit longer?

T
he offices of Patrick Marchand were situated a few blocks from Harrod’s in an office building that had never quite recovered from the blitz.

Juliana, wearing dark glasses and with her pale hair hidden by a Hermes scarf, waited for the driver to open the door of her limousine.

“You will wait for me here,” she instructed the driver as she stepped from the car. “I do not know how long I shall be, but I expect you to be here for me.”

The driver tipped his hat. “Right you are, miss. You look out the window and you’ll see Clarence waiting here just like you asked.”

She wrinkled her nose at the clumsy attempt at familiarity. How odd it felt to venture forth without the protective trappings of her position. It made her feel vulnerable, a feeling for which she had little patience.

But it simply couldn’t be helped. She needed secrecy, someone who understood the necessity for discretion. Certainly she could never have turned to anyone at home. Indeed, not even in Paris could she have been guaranteed the confidentiality necessary for the task. The Malraux name was even more famous than her own, at least within certain cosmopolitan circles.

Quickly she made her way through the crowd of pedestrians that clogged the sidewalk, hurrying about on their sad little chores. It was hard to imagine what they did with their time. She rarely gave much thought to how other people lived their lives. She found the problems of others to be of paramount disinterest, and never more so than now when her own life teetered on the verge of ruin.

Marchand’s office was on the second floor. Juliana stepped carefully over some cigarette butts and disgusting wads of chewing gum scattered like confetti on the stairs. She hated disorder; dirt was incomprehensible. If the man hadn’t come so highly recommended, she would turn on her heel and flee.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into the anteroom. The walls were lacquered a restful shade of icy gray with the slightest blue undertone. The fitted carpet was the same hue but in a darker tone.

His receptionist, a slim young woman with a sleek cap of honey-blond hair, smiled up at her. It was obvious the receptionist recognized Juliana, but she gave no indication of undue curiosity. “I’ll let Mr. Marchand know you have arrived.”

Moments later, Marchand stepped into the anteroom. He was a tall, good-looking man of about fifty who understood the proper way to treat a woman of Juliana’s position. Instantly she felt as if there might be hope.

He ushered her into his office, then offered her a chair. She removed her sunglasses and unwrapped the scarf, folding it into a neat square and placing it in her lap.

“May I offer you some tea, Princess Juliana?”

She shook her head. “I should like to proceed.”

“As you wish.” He looked down at a foolscap pad positioned in the center of his desk blotter. “You say your husband has been straying...”

* * *

After a weekend in Montauk coping with his family’s brand of controlled chaos, Daniel usually was glad to return to Manhattan. The city’s insanity seemed tame compared to a few days spent in close proximity to the rest of the Bronson clan. More often than not, he was glad to say good-bye to the woman who had accompanied him. He was a loner by nature. Sharing space didn’t come easily. Solitude was as important to him as companionship was for someone else.

Adding Isabelle to the mix changed everything. Watching her laugh with his family, making love to her by the light of the full moon, and catching another glimpse of the real woman behind the smile awakened in him a longing that went far beyond sex. He found himself wishing the weekend didn’t have to end and that they didn’t have to say good-bye now that it had.

He parked the truck two blocks away from her apartment, then walked her to her door.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said, kissing the underside of his jaw as they clung together in the foyer.

“You don’t have to,” he said, holding her close. “The truck’s parked in a legal spot for a change. I’ll spend the night.”

He sensed a slight pulling away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Had enough of me?”
Cool it, Danny. You sound like a kid.

She kissed him again. “That isn’t possible. It wouldn’t be fair to Maxine. She’s a very old-fashioned, traditional woman. Besides, she thinks of me as her daughter.”

Normally he would have accepted her explanation. Tonight he pushed a little harder. “I have a big, empty apartment, princess. Come home with me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so or you don’t want to?”

“You’re sounding angry, Bronson.”

“I’m not angry. Just looking for an answer.”

“Fine.” She pulled away, turning into the little princess right before his eyes. “I’m tired and I have a long day tomorrow, and it might be better if I spend the night alone.”

He raised his hands, palms outward. “Okay. Great. Whatever you say, princess. I live to serve.”

“Oh, do be quiet!” she snapped. “That’s a perfectly dreadful thing to say.”

It was a cheap shot, and he knew it, fueled by the unsettling feeling that she was about to slip through his fingers like quicksilver. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She touched his forearm. “I had a grand weekend.”

“So did I.”

“I could be persuaded to try my hand again at scrambled eggs tomorrow night.”

“Around seven?”

“You might want to eat a nutritious lunch, Bronson, as a precautionary measure.”

He forced a smile. “I’ll do that.”

“Your family are wonderful,” she said, using that odd Euro-grammar that he was finally getting used to. “Thank you for inviting me.”

He pulled her to him and claimed her mouth with a kiss that carried with it all the fear and anger that had been building inside him these past few hours. She would go so far and then retreat, as if she couldn’t quite believe that what they had together was real. He had the feeling that one day he would open his eyes and she would be gone, vanished like a dream.

She was soft and yielding in his arms, as warm and womanly as he could ever desire, but the sense that the ground was shifting beneath his feet remained long after they said good night, reminding him of all the reasons why it didn’t make sense to get more involved.

* * *

“Great job, Princess Isabelle.” The star of the radio program stood up and extended his hand. “You handled those phone calls like a pro.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beaumont. You made the experience very enjoyable.”

She glanced at her watch. Not yet noon, and she’d already put in a full day. A breakfast interview with
Women’s Wear Daily
and visits to three different talk radio shows. At two o’clock she was slated to meet Maxine and Ivan at Tres Chic to be fitted for the only evening gown planned for the Princess collection. The wonderful weekend with the Bronsons seemed a lifetime ago. If only it hadn’t ended with pointed words. Those pointed words echoed in her mind all night, making it almost impossible to sleep.

Liar,
she thought as she rode the elevator down to the main lobby. The truth was much more complicated than that. She missed the feel of his body next to hers, the distinctive smell of his skin, the sound of his breathing in the heart of the night. She’d never imagined that what happened in bed between a man and a woman could be so powerful or that it could affect her in such a fiercely primitive way.

The elevator doors opened. She strode across the lobby, her thoughts tangled.

“Darling girl!”

She slowed her step for a moment and glanced around. Shaking her head, she continued.

“Isabelle! You must stop, darling girl, I’ve come a long way to see you again.”

A hand on her shoulder. A familiar laugh. The floor tilted beneath her feet, and she found herself in the one place where she never thought to find herself again. In the arms of Eric Malraux.

* * *

“Maxine, Maxine, Maxine. Where is your brain, woman? Five minutes I’m talking to you, and you haven’t heard one word.”

Maxine shook her head as if trying to clear the cobwebs. “I’m sorry, Ivan. Now what is it you were saying?”

Ivan launched into a list of facts and figures about the Princess line while Maxine struggled to keep her mind on his words. All morning long she’d had the terrible feeling that disaster was lurking right around the next corner. It was the same dreadful feeling she’d experienced those last months in the castle.

She and Ivan had spent a wonderful weekend with his married daughter and her family in the countryside of northern New Jersey. It felt like home there, a gentler version of the mountainsides of Perreault. Ivan promised to take her to the house he owned in the Poconos in Pennsylvania, and Maxine looked forward to it.

The only disturbing event had been that first night when Maxine had sat bolt upright in bed, certain she had heard the unearthly wailing of a banshee, but the next morning Ivan’s daughter Natalie had laughed and said it was only the sound of the neighbor’s beagle howling at the full moon.

“Maxine!”

“Something’s wrong, Ivan,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t know what it is, but something dreadful is coming, and we can’t do a thing to stop it.”

“You’re a superstitious Irishwoman, Maxine Neesom. The girl is fine. She’ll be here in an hour for our meeting, and you’ll see for yourself. Now put your mind to business.”

* * *

Isabelle was bored. Deeply, profoundly, irrefutably bored. She stole a glance at her watch. A scant ten minutes past one o’clock. She and Eric had been together less than an hour, and she found herself praying for an earthquake or some other act of God to help her break free. He claimed he’d been in a taxicab on his way to
Tante
Elysse’s apartment when he’d heard her on the radio and instructed the driver to take him immediately to the station. The story was meant to impress, but it left Isabelle even more bored, as if that were possible.

“More wine, darling girl?”

She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I have a long afternoon ahead of me.”

“You’ve barely touched your food. Your appetite always charmed me.”

“I must be coming down with a cold,” she said. “I am feeling a trifle under the weather.”

He considered her closely. “You are different, Isabelle. I cannot place exactly in what way, but you are not the same woman who left Perreault.”

Her laugh was brittle. “I should hope not. Experience changes a woman, Eric. Even a woman as foolish as I was.”

“You were never foolish, darling girl. It is I who—”

She raised her hand. “I’m afraid I do not wish to continue this conversation, Eric. I agreed to join you for lunch because you claimed there was a matter of some importance that needed to be discussed. Thus far I have heard nothing of any consequence.”

“So wonderfully hot-tempered.” He leaned back in his chair and favored her with a tender smile. “I have always envied you for living to the full extent of your emotions.”

She pushed back her chair, causing a bevy of waiters to race to her assistance. “I’m sorry, Eric, but there is no point to this conversation. I appreciate the opportunity to see the photos of Victoria and the fact that you seek rapprochement for Juliana and me, but I am simply not interested.” She tucked her purse under her arm. “And I venture to say my sister is not interested, either.”

“Juliana is with child once again.”

Isabelle’s brows lifted. “So soon? Victoria is—what? Four months old?”

“Juliana is eager to have a son.”

“Terribly eager, I should say. I cannot imagine that it is good to space children so closely together.”

“Your sister is a determined woman. She usually gets whatever she desires.”

“I know,” said Isabelle. “I have had firsthand experience.”

“We need time to talk, Isabelle. There are many things that need to be said, and we cannot say them all over such a short lunch.”

“I have said everything I wish to say, Eric, and I have heard a great deal more than I wished. Have a pleasant trip back to Perreault.”

“When will I see you again?” he persisted as she gathered up her belongings. “I will be in town for another two days.”

“No, Eric.” His meaning was unmistakable. “Not in this lifetime.”

“Surely you must know how I feel—how I have always felt....”

She left the restaurant, knowing he would be delayed paying the bill. The fates were with her, for a taxi was discharging a passenger right there at the curb. She claimed it like a native New Yorker, slamming shut the door behind her.

“Where ya goin’, lady?” barked the cabbie.

“Anywhere,” she said, sinking down into her seat. “As long as it’s far away from here.”

* * *

“This was the single smartest thing I ever did.” Daniel reared back and landed another punch. “Should be standard office equipment.”

Phyllis, notebook in hand, stood in the doorway and watched as he hammered the speedbag with a flurry of punches. “You didn’t learn this in Harvard Business School.”

“Even Harvard Business School doesn’t know everything, Phyl.” Another barrage of punches, each one harder than the last. “Some of the best moves you pick up on the street.”