The Princess and the Billionaire (8 page)

Eric unlocked the door to the chalet and ushered her inside. It smelled of damp earth and pine, and she walked across the front room and flung open the windows to the sweet night air. He switched on the lamp in the corner. The faded divan near the fireplace beckoned to her.

She perched on the window seat and drew her knees up under her chin. A faint crescent moon rode high in the sky. She watched as it vanished behind a drift of clouds, only to reappear a few moments later.

“Do you want some music?”

She nodded. “That would be nice.”

Seconds later the painfully glorious sound of Mozart reached out to embrace them.

“We could dance,” Eric said, standing before her.

“To Mozart?”

He smiled and held open his arms.

She rose from the window seat and stepped into his embrace. They stood motionless in the center of the room, their arms around each other.

“So long,” he murmured, kissing her on the side of her neck. “How could you believe I would ever let you go?”

She started to say that the fact of his marriage was a fairly good clue, but she bit back the words. What on earth was the matter with her? She’d dreamed of this moment for six long months, and now that it was here, she’d almost ruined it with a slash of her sharp tongue.

“Soon we’ll be able to be together for all time,” he said, kissing her jaw, her throat. “Three short weeks...”

His kisses were intoxicating but apparently so were hers. “But Juliana isn’t due until October.”

He shook his head. “Three weeks,” he repeated.

“That’s not possible.”

“Darling girl,” said Eric with a chuckle, “surely I must know. I have been counting the days until—” He stopped. He met her eyes, and in that instant the final puzzle piece dropped into place.

“My God!” She pulled away from him, stumbling in her haste to put distance between them. “How could you?”

“Darling girl, I can explain. I—”

“Be quiet!” Her voice resonated with her pain, her humiliation. “Don’t say anything! You cannot say anything I wish to hear.” What a fool she’d been to believe he loved her, that his marriage to Juliana had been nothing but an arrangement between two families. The proof of that was in the date of conception.

“It happened,” he continued. “I don’t know how. I didn’t want it to, but Juliana—”

“Spare me,” Isabelle snapped. “None of this matters—you don’t matter.”

He grabbed her by the forearms. She struggled to pull away, but he held her fast. “She came to me, Isabelle. She said things—” He glanced away for an instant. “I’d never seen her that way. There was nothing I could do—” His yelp of pain mingled with the crashing brilliance of Mozart.

“I can only hope I broke your leg!” Isabelle roared. “Consider yourself fortunate that I did not reach my goal, or there might never be another child!”

Pain was a living force tearing its way through her body. She couldn’t think over the rush of blood pounding wildly in her ears. Her sister... her sister... she had to get out of there... she had to get as far away from this insanity as she possibly could.

She grabbed for the key ring resting atop the mantelpiece.

“Isabelle!” Eric lurched toward her, favoring his right leg. “It’s dark—you’ve had too much champagne. Let me—”

“Don’t touch me!”

“I’ll drive,” he persisted. “You can’t—”

“Good-bye, Eric,” she said as she opened the front door. “I’ll tell your wife you’ll be home late tonight.”

* * *

The Lamborghini skidded on the first in a series of hairpin curves that marked the beginning of castle property. Isabelle gripped the wheel more tightly and eased up on the gas pedal. Another mistake like that, and she’d find herself at the bottom of a three-hundred-foot cliff. She’d already wrecked her own car. Adding another to her list would hardly endear her to anyone.

Maybe it really didn’t matter. Maybe the thing to do was drive as fast as the Lamborghini would allow in an attempt to keep one step ahead of the pain that had her in its grip and refused to let go.

I’ll love him until the day I die.... I feel sorry for you, Mr. Bronson...

She laughed out loud, the sound carrying a note of hysteria. He’d tried to tell her the affair was doomed, but she’d been too blinded by love to listen. That brash American with the Midas touch had seen it as clearly as he saw the numbers in one of his financial reports.

“I should have listened to you,” she said into the stillness. No one else had had the guts to tell her that the whole thing was impossible. Only Daniel Bronson had taken her measure and told her the truth.

Had he known that Juliana and Eric were having an affair, or had the affair started after the Tricentennial Ball? Not that it mattered any longer, but Isabelle was seized with the need to know everything.

She gunned the engine, leaping forward into the blackness. She wanted to revel in her pain, bathe in scalding tears, beat her breast, and curse the gods for letting her be such a fool.

Her face burned with shame as she thought of her sister and the man she loved together in bed. How they must have laughed at poor little Isabelle, so young and so naive.

Foolish enough to believe that someone might actually love her.

* * *

Juliana watched her sister with detachment. There was something unseemly about such an unbridled display of emotion.

“It’s late,” she said as another vase went winging its way toward destruction. “You are obviously in no condition to talk rationally. Perhaps we can continue this discussion tomorrow.”

Isabelle’s eyes were wild with emotion. Her cheeks were flushed and streaked with tears. Juliana could not remember a time when her sister looked less attractive.

“It doesn’t matter to you, does it?” Isabelle shrieked. “My feelings, my happiness, my future.”

“Perhaps if you thought less of yourself and more of Perreault, your future would be of greater consequence.”

A porcelain statue crashed against a bookshelf. “I don’t give a damn about Perreault, and neither do you.”

“You’re wrong, Isabelle. I care a great deal.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Juliana smiled. “As you wish.”

“You’re so cool about this,” Isabelle said, moving closer. “I may not matter to you, but I know who does. Your precious husband.”

“Spare me your lies,” Juliana said in her most imperious tone of voice. She had heard her share of rumors about Eric and chose to deal with them by pretending they didn’t exist. Eric appreciated his position too much to endanger it.

“He still wants me.”

“He never wanted you. He took what you offered.”

“Ask him,” Isabelle challenged, recovering too quickly for Juliana’s taste. “He’ll be home soon.”

Juliana fingered the pearls at her neck. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Eric is away on business.”

The glint in Isabelle’s eyes grew wilder. “Eric was at the Savoie with Mireille Dubois.”

“You’re a liar.”

“It would appear your loving husband is the liar.”

“I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work. You’re pathetic, Isabelle, truly pathetic, and I am bored with you.” She turned toward the door. “Good night.”

In an instant Isabelle was in front of her, barring the way.

“I can prove it.” Isabelle reached into the pocket of those ridiculous satin shorts and pulled out a set of keys. She twirled them in front of Juliana’s eyes. “Look familiar?”

“Car keys prove nothing,” Juliana said. She linked her hands over her stomach. “Move, please. I am fatigued.”

Isabelle hesitated, her gaze lowering to rest briefly on Juliana’s belly. She took a deep breath. “A Porsche, Papa’s Daimler, your Rolls.” She fingered the keys one by one. “Still think it’s a coincidence?”

“You took them from our bedroom.” Juliana snatched the keys from her sister. “Eric is in Italy. What need would he have for his keys?”

“Eric is at the chalet.”

“You lying bi—” Juliana raised her hand, but Isabelle grabbed her wrist.

“You have already hurt me more deeply than any blow possibly could,” she said, “but I will not let you hurt me again.”

Juliana did not look away. This would make the next month or two rather messy, but she was glad her sister finally knew. She’d waited a long time to savor her triumph to its fullest. “I’d wondered when you would realize.”

“Your stupid little sister finally knows the truth.”

“It was never a secret,” Juliana said. “Certainly everyone else realized it long ago.”

Isabelle looked down, struggling with tears. Juliana noted the action, recognized the meaning, but Isabelle’s pain meant nothing to her.

“It’s better this way,” she said as Isabelle’s shoulders heaved with her sobs. “Eric was quite embarrassed by the way you have been throwing yourself at him. Perhaps now you can get on with your life. Aunt Elysse would so love to have you visit her in New York. You might—” Isabelle withdrew something else from her pocket, something round and golden, and held it up to the light. “Wh-what is that?”

“Your husband’s wedding ring.” She tossed it to Juliana, but it hit the edge of the bar and rolled across the floor. “You might ask yourself how it came to be in my possession.”

“You’ll pay for that,” Juliana said, her voice low with menace. “I promise you, you’ll pay for that.”

“I already have,” Isabelle said as she turned toward the door. “I loved him first, didn’t I?”

* * *

“No fish!” Juliana’s voice pierced the silence of the breakfast room the next morning. She tossed the menu plan at Yves. “How many times have I told you I absolutely abhor fish and will not tolerate it at my table?”

“Many times, madam,” said Yves. Both his tone and his expression were carefully neutral. He had seen to it that the detritus of last night’s disruption had been cleaned up, but had not alluded to the incident in any way. “I shall convey your displeasure to the cook.”

“And convey the message that the cook’s services are no longer required. He is terminated as of now.”

“But, madam, we—”

“Now!”

Yves bowed stiffly. “As you wish, madam.” He backed out of the room then disappeared down the corridor.

Pompous fool.
As if anyone cared what he thought about the subject. There were times when Yves acted as if he ruled the house and the rest of them were his loyal servants.

She pushed back her chair and waited a full ten seconds before a red-faced footman raced into the dining room to help her. Certainly her father had never endured such an indignity.

“Has my father returned yet from his walk?”

The footman shook his head. “N-no, your highness. The prince took the dogs from their kennels and left before seven.”

“That will be all.”

The footman bowed, then backed out of the room with the same obsequious agility that was Yves’s hallmark. There were people who found that type of behavior a horrifying throwback to the Middle Ages. Juliana unabashedly enjoyed it and, she suspected, so would most people if they were the object of such slavish servility. Honore understood. She smiled as she thought of her father-in-law. Somehow she never had to explain herself to him. Honore knew that she was everything Isabelle was not, and he seemed glad of it.

If only it were that easy with his son.

She walked slowly from the dining room, aware of the dark pain in the small of her back. She hadn’t slept a wink last night: That nasty bit of excitement in the library had sent her adrenaline flowing, and she’d found it impossible to close her eyes. The adrenaline, she suspected, was also to blame for the twinges of pain she’d felt intermittently deep in her belly. Unfortunately there were still three long weeks to go until she delivered her son.

And it had to be a son. Power in Perreault, such as it was, passed directly to the first male child, regardless of the royal rank of the child’s parent. Indeed, if her aunt Elysse had borne a son, Juliana would not be in a position of power today. She shivered at the thought of how close she might have come to losing all that she held dear.

A parlormaid dropped a quick curtsy as Juliana passed her in the hallway. Juliana nodded in acknowledgment and continued walking. Like her father, she thought best when she walked, even if the process was more difficult now than it should be. Last night she had come close to allowing emotion to override her common sense. Men were weak creatures. She understood full well why Eric would seek out the company of a mindless piece of fluff like Mireille Dubois. Isabelle, however, was another story. She’d rather see her husband dead than in the arms of that duplicitous bitch.

She paused for breath in the enormous center hallway, leaning against a pillar for support. If only she were in charge now, she would send Isabelle away post haste and Maxine with her. She would see to it that Eric had a title, the first step toward bolstering his fragile male ego. And she would welcome her father-in-law’s new ideas with open arms.

“Madam?” Yves made his way across the hall. “The cook has asked me to beg your forgiveness.”

Her expression remained impassive, and she watched, fascinated, as Yves seemed to grow smaller before her eyes.

Yves cleared his throat. “He asks you to look upon him with generosity and accept his apologies for his grievous mistake.” All said with a French accent that would have done Charles de Gaulle proud.

Juliana, cool and collected, met his eyes. “Am I to assume the cook also wishes that I restore him to his position on the staff?”

Yves nodded. “That is indeed his wish, madam.”

“His wish is denied.” A surge of adrenaline flooded through her veins at the look of disbelief on the man’s narrow face. This was power, and she found she loved it. “One month’s salary and the usual references.”

“But, madam—”

“That is all, Yves.”
Unless you wish to join the cook on his search for a new position.
“And you are not to trouble my father with this matter. He gave me full authority over household matters, and I will not be challenged. Do you understand?”

“I understand, madam.”

She turned and headed for the main door. “I am going for a walk in the garden. If my husband telephones, please ask him to leave a number where he can be reached.”