The Princess and the Billionaire (19 page)

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a square box wrapped in shiny silver paper and tied with a big red satin bow. “I think this has your name on it.”

Delightedly she reached for the box. Jewelry, she thought, as she untied the ribbon. A ring. Definitely a ring—diamonds—maybe sapphires and diamonds. Dear God, could it possibly be an engagement ring? Wouldn’t that be an odd twist of fate, to receive an engagement ring when she was no longer certain she wanted to marry? But how romantic—how wonderful—how—

“Oh,” she said, as she lifted the top of the box. “A bracelet.” It was a beautiful bracelet, a coil of thick, heavy gold with a spray of tiny diamonds on the clasp and a gold tiara charm dangling from it.

“Look inside.”

“You had it engraved.” She peered at the cursive letters. The date. His initials. Her initials. “How wonderfully sentimental. I’m surprised you didn’t add your social security number.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She blinked at him. “What do you mean, what’s that supposed to mean? It was a declarative sentence, quite self-explanatory, even with my accent.”

“If you don’t like the bracelet, just say it.”

“I love the bracelet, Bronson,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m not sure about the tiara.”

“It’s a crown,” Bronson said.

“It’s a tiara,” she corrected him.

“The jeweler said it was a crown.”

“Is the jeweler a princess?” she asked sweetly.

“If you love it, why haven’t you put it on?”

“I wasn’t certain it looked quite right with my nightgown.” She snapped the bracelet around her left wrist. “See? Chanel couldn’t have done better.” She realized she was acting like a spoiled brat, but she couldn’t stop. The flu must be altering her brain waves or something.
You idiot! You didn’t want a ring from him. He didn’t give you a ring. You don’t want a commitment any more than he does. You should be happy!

“Remind me to give you a gift certificate for Valentine’s Day, princess.”

With that he turned and stormed out the door.

From somewhere on the next floor she heard the strains of “Jingle Bells” being played. “Oh, do shut up!” she muttered and then burst into tears.

An hour later he returned with Chinese food, vanilla ice cream, and a huge red poinsettia.

“Oh, Bronson,” she said, beaming. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I did.”

“Are you implying that I need to have my feelings soothed with presents?”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

They were off and running again, arguing over his hot and sour soup and her dish of Ben and Jerry’s.

All things considered, it was the best Christmas either one had enjoyed in years.

* * *

Juliana slipped down the worn staircase and headed for the library, clutching her robe tightly about her body for warmth. Outside the winds beat ceaselessly against the walls of the castle, searching for any chink in the stones, any opening. On nights like these it seemed the castle was losing the battle. Frigid drafts of wind swirled about her ankles, curling beneath the hem of her ivory cashmere robe and making her shiver.

The dying embers of a fire still burned in the library fireplace. She drew her father’s chair closer to the hearth and curled up in it, as much as her belly would allow. She had thought she would go utterly mad from the noise of music and laughter and endless conversation. By the time their guests had all retired to their respective rooms, Juliana’s nerves were so raw she felt like weeping. Weeping would be a relief. She would welcome anything that would help dissipate the awful tension building inside her chest.

Honore had insisted that a Christmas gala was not only proper but necessary. “It’s time to open the doors again, Juliana. We must think of the future.”

She watched the dwindling fire as bitterness gnawed at her breast. She’d wanted to ask Honore what future he was talking about, for surely there was no future on the horizon for Perreault. They were deep in winter’s grasp, and still the projects Honore espoused existed only on paper. For two days she’d watched while a veritable army of revelers availed themselves of her hospitality, and for what? Honore claimed this was a necessary part of the process of building good will with the same people who would soon frequent the casinos. All of which would matter only if the casinos one day came to pass, something that Juliana was beginning to doubt.

Honore had been quite pleased when she’d informed him that she’d released Isabelle’s trust fund into her sister’s hands. “You are a wise woman,” he had said approvingly. “Better to annihilate an enemy with benevolence than anger her with justice.” There was something wrong with that aphorism, but she chose not to pursue it.

So many parts of her life seemed to be spinning out of control: the nonexistent casino project, Eric with his constant traveling and lackluster lovemaking, Victoria who cried each time Juliana took her in her arms, and the most painful disappointment of them all—she laid her hands across her belly—the sonogram run last week had shown the child she carried was healthy, was developing on schedule, and was a girl. Honore had suggested she abort the child, but Juliana had been horrified. “You could try again almost immediately, my dear, and thus have the son you desire.”

She had been so offended that he quickly apologized for his faux pas. “It’s a new world, dear child. Choices are in our best interest.” Juliana, however, strongly disagreed. Taking an innocent life was wrong.

It was the not-so-innocent lives that didn’t bear closer examination.

Be careful what you wish for.
The truth of that statement made her laugh out loud. Locked away in the bottom drawer of her father’s old desk was more information than she had expected or wanted. The pictures of her husband and Isabelle had torn at her heart, but she had found a way to deal with the threat. The information she now possessed was beyond her comprehension. The scope of it the sheer ugliness of what was revealed in those papers had stunned her into silence. Money laundering was the least of it. The thought of drugs being moved through the principality made her blood run cold.

She knew Eric couldn’t possibly be involved, if for no other reason than he lacked the cunning to carry out his part in the scheme. Honore, however, was another story. She had not been deaf to the whispers. Still she could not allow herself to confront him. The truth was, she needed her father-in-law. Bertrand had left behind an ocean of debts, both to Honore and to others. Honore had forgiven Bertrand’s debt to him; the other debts remained outstanding, a constant source of deep embarrassment for Juliana and the principality.

“You are not to worry, dear child,” Honore had said. “I will see to it that everyone is taken care of.”

She would not question how. That was up to her father-in-law. He had made her marriage possible, and for that she would forgive him almost anything.

* * *

By the twenty-seventh of December, Isabelle was forced to admit her cold was getting worse instead of better. She and Daniel were due to leave for Japan in five days, and she hadn’t even begun to pack or do any of the thousand things she needed to take care of before they left.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. McCaffree,” she said as the young woman entered the examining room.

“Problems don’t come on a time schedule,” the doctor said, flipping through Isabelle’s chart while she talked. “It hasn’t been that long since your last visit, has it?”

“September,” said Isabelle. “You changed my birth control prescription.”

Dr. McCaffree nodded. “Now what seems to be the problem?”

Isabelle sneezed.

“I see. Have you anything to add to that description?”

“Only that I require the services of a miracle worker. I’m short-tempered, tired all the time, and my throat is raw. I feel absolutely dreadful and I am due to leave for Japan on the first of January.”

“We’ll have to see about that.” She withdrew a tongue depressor from a jar. “Open, please—that’s it—I don’t like the look of that throat. Stay open, Isabelle, while I take a culture.”

Fifteen minutes later, the doctor came back into the room. “There’s good news and bad news.”

Isabelle sniffled then blew her nose. “Yes?”

“You don’t have strep throat, but you do have a rotten case of flu, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“I can still go to Japan, can’t I?”

“Of course you can,” said the doctor, “only not on the first of January.”

“But—”

“No buts. You could damage your hearing permanently if you fly before we clear up the ear infection you have brewing. I’ll fill out a prescription and—” She stopped. “Are you sexually active, Isabelle?”

Her cheeks burned. “What on earth does that have to do with an ear infection?”

“If you’re pregnant, I’ll need to choose a different medication. We’d hate to expose the fetus to any side effects.”

“I am—active, but I don’t see how I can possibly be pregnant. I’ve taken my pills regularly.”

“Only abstinence is foolproof, Isabelle. The bathroom is the second door on the right. You’ll find a specimen cup on the ledge above the sink.”

* * *

It’s not possible,
Isabelle thought as she waited by the telephone for the results a few hours later. She’d taken every one of her pills exactly when she was supposed to take them. The odds of becoming pregnant were so slim that she was being ridiculous to even entertain such a notion.

Dr. McCaffree was just being cautious. Americans loved to sue their doctors. McCaffree was merely exercising the prudence necessary in such a litigious society.

She tapped her fingers against the edge of her night stand. If only she didn’t feel so dreadful, she’d go for a walk, anything to break the tension.

“Lovey, I made some—”

Isabelle fairly jumped out of her skin. “Maxine!” Her voice was down to a low rasp. “Must you sneak up on me like this? Consider knocking next time.”

Maxine stood in the doorway balancing a tray of food. “I’ll be overlookin’ your bad mood while you’re sick.”

“How kind of you,” she drawled in a particularly obnoxious tone of voice. “What do you want?”

Maxine looked pointedly at the tray. “I thought you’d be wantin’ to play a game of canasta. What would you be thinkin’ I want, lovey, me with a tray of food in my hands?”

“I’m not hungry.”

To Isabelle’s dismay, Maxine bustled into the room. “Hot chicken soup is what you’d be needin’.”

“Chicken soup?” Isabelle had to laugh. “Is this Ivan’s idea?”

“Better than these modern medicines that drain a person’s wallet. I don’t see that doctor making you well.”

“I haven’t started taking the pills yet.”

“All this fuss and feathers for nothing.” Maxine put down the tray on top of the dressing table then handed her a steaming bowl of soup. “Eat. Feed a cold, starve a fever.”

“Will you take that out of here?” Her voice was strained with agitation. “I cannot bear the smell.”

“I’m not leaving until you eat something.”

“Maxine, I warn you—”

The telephone on the nightstand rang, and Maxine reached for it.

“No, Maxi!” Isabelle caught the panic in her tone and took a deep breath. “I’ll answer it.” She waited a moment. “It’s personal, Maxi.”

“No need to spell it out, lovey. I know when I’m not wanted.”

It was Dr. McCaffree. Isabelle clutched the receiver as if it were a lifeline.

“My nurse is calling the pharmacy right now, Isabelle. We’re going with the secondary antibiotic.” The doctor paused.

Isabelle swallowed hard. “I’m pregnant?”

“The test was positive,” said Dr. McCaffree, “and I’m as amazed as you are.”

“No,” said Isabelle with a nervous laugh. “There is no one more amazed than I.”

“Remember that nothing is infallible,” said the doctor. “Not the birth control pill and not even the pregnancy test. I cannot confirm your condition without a physical examination.”

“If I’m pregnant, how far along would I be?”

The doctor sighed. “I realize how frustrating this must be for you, but again I cannot hazard a guess without performing an examination. I’m sorry, Isabelle. I wish I could be more informative, but I cannot.”

“I don’t see how this can be happening. I’ve never given thought to having a child.” She’d always believed motherhood to be somewhere down the road, years and years away.

“There are options available to a woman,” McCaffree went on.

“No! I meant it’s not that I—” She sighed. “I don’t know what I mean.”

“The first thing is to take care of that flu. Then we can discuss what’s next.”

Isabelle listened, her mind numb, as the doctor fired off instructions.

“Isabelle!” McCaffree’s voice penetrated her fog. “Have you been listening to me?”

“No,” said Isabelle, “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“That’s what I thought. Now write this down: Next Thursday, ten a.m. We’ll know more after that.”

Isabelle hung up the telephone, and a thousand crazy questions leaped into her mind. Dear God, was it possible that she was indeed pregnant? Next Thursday seemed such a long time from now, endless hours of waiting and wondering.

Even if her flu magically vanished between now and then, she couldn’t leave for Tokyo before she saw Dr. McCaffree again. Daniel had postponed his trip many times before. She was certain he would do so again.

* * *

“Poor little thing,” Maxine said to Daniel when she opened the door to him on New Year’s Day. “She hasn’t been out of bed in days. Too sick to do much more than lie there and cry her eyes out.”

Daniel strode down the hallway toward Isabelle’s bedroom. Damn it. The last thing he wanted to do was leave her, especially when she was so sick.

He tapped on the door. Nothing. He tapped again, then opened the door.

She was sitting upright in bed, surrounded by more junk than he’d ever seen in his entire life. Huge bed pillows, a half dozen afghans, books, magazines, needlework, and a remote control for the TV in the corner. The nightstand boasted a crystal pitcher of orange juice, a jug of water, two crystal tumblers, an ice bucket, and a Wedgwood candy dish piled high with cough drops. She wore a lace-trimmed yellow nightgown. Her hair was knotted on top of her head. Dark shadows ringed her eyes, and her cheekbones stood out in sharp relief in her drawn face.