The Princess and the Billionaire (Billionaire Lovers - Book #2) Page 4

  His serious expression dissolved into the pleasant smiling countenance she knew and loved. “Darling girl,” he said, drawing her into his embrace. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  Juliana’s laugh joined his. “She’s much too curious for her own good. How on earth can we plan the world’s most wonderful birthday party if she questions our every move?”

  Isabelle relaxed against Eric, burying her face against the soft wool of his sweater. Goose, she thought. Everything is absolutely fine.

  * * *

  Maxine couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong, but she knew deep in her bones that trouble was on the horizon. She hadn’t slept well last night. Each time she closed her eyes, visions of some faceless, nameless terror forced her to sit upright with her heart pounding in her throat. She didn’t know when the hounds of hell would come riding over the crest, but she could hear the thud of their footsteps as surely as she had heard the banshees howl the night the Princess Sonia had died.

  How well she remembered that awful time. It had been the night of the hunter’s moon sixteen years ago, a wild night of punishing winds and wicked rain. “You mustn’t go out in this, madame,” she had pleaded with Sonia as she helped the princess with her toilette. “There’s evil afoot tonight.”

  Sonia had only laughed at her reflection in the beveled glass of her mirror and arranged a diamond comb in her upswept hair. “It is the Irish in you speaking, Maxine. A little rain shan’t hurt me.”

  The cruel sparkle of diamonds in Sonia’s midnight hair made Maxine shiver. “’Tisn’t the rain what worries me,” she said, smoothing a curl that tumbled from the princess’s glamorous coiffure. “’Tis a feeling I have.”

  Sonia’s laughter grew brittle. “Spare me your feelings. I know all about your feelings.” She rose from the boudoir chair, all willowy grace and elegance. Sonia was everything Maxine could never be: beautiful, rich, and well loved. “I only wish someone would pay heed to my feelings for a change.”

  It had seemed to Maxine that people paid too much heed to the heartless Sonia’s feelings, but she held her tongue. When you worked for royalty you quickly learned to keep your opinions to yourself, at least until you were safely belowstairs with the rest of the staff. Being Irish and naturally rebellious, Maxine had a basic distrust for royalty, even royalty as minor as the ruling family of Perreault. Royalty was nothing more than an accident of birth, the simple luck of being born on the right side of the sheets, in a palace rather than a cold-water flat. Maxine was paid to serve, and when it came to the little princesses, she loved as well. If only their mother were capable of the same emotion.

  Rain beat fiercely against the window of the Paris apartment while vicious winds bent the graceful trees toward the pavement. Sonia, in her sleek black dress, stood at the window, her face raised toward the storm. “It’s wonderful,” she whispered, her voice vibrant with forces Maxine dared not contemplate. “Perfect.”

  “Madame,” Maxine began, unable to stop herself, “I’m begging you to reconsider...”

  The deep roar of a powerful engine at the curb drowned out her words, and in a moment the princess was gone.

  Even now, many years later, Maxine could conjure up the sight of Sonia, so ravishing in her black gown, as she dashed across the rainswept sidewalk and swung her elegant legs into the waiting sports car. So young. So foolish. So terribly, terribly selfish. Maxine saw that selfishness in the girls Sonia had left behind, and she had spent the last fifteen years battling against it. Isabelle was the spit of her mother, but Juliana, with her candy-box prettiness and spun-sugar blond hair, had inherited her mother’s fatal flaw. There was something beneath the surface with Juliana, a note of steel, of hunger, that worried Maxine for it brought Sonia to mind more clearly than the wild beauty the younger girl had inherited.

  Last night Maxine had thought about the curse for the first time in years. She had been standing in the doorway to the ballroom, watching as Isabelle danced with Honore Malraux. Something about the way her girl looked in the older man’s arms triggered a fear inside Maxine that was beyond reason, conjuring up memories of a time when talk of the curse of Perreault had been on everyone’s lips. Newspapers and slick, shiny magazines had devoted endless space to the chain of tragedies that dogged the royal family.

  The loss of Bertrand’s wife and the death of his sister’s fiancé were grist for the gossipmonger’s mill. To her endless regret, Maxine herself had devoured the details of the Princess Elysse’s grief when her playboy fiancé had drowned in a boating accident. Years later, when she met Elysse at the castle for the first time, Maxine had been overcome with remorse that the good woman’s loss had provided her with an hour’s entertainment.

  “You’d be too young to go walking down memory lane like that,” she chided herself. Better to push these unsettling thoughts from her mind. There was much work to be done today, what with so many people in the palace for the celebration.

  She hurried downstairs to fetch a packet of letters she’d promised to answer for Prince Bertrand and was passing by the wall of windows in the library when something caught her eye.

  There, in the gazebo, were the two young princesses and Honore Malraux’s boy. Juliana, a snow angel in her pale blond fur coat, was talking with great animation while Isabelle, a flash of ebony fire, had eyes only for Eric. Even from a distance Maxine could feel the intensity. She couldn’t quite make out their expressions, the glare from the sun being what it was, but there was something... something.

  Dread prickled its way down Maxine’s arms.

  “You would be lettin’ your imagination run away with you, old woman,” she said out loud. “How many times would you see the three of them together, as normal as you please?”

  She reached into the capacious side pocket of her navy wool jumper and withdrew her spectacles. Not that she needed them, of course. She was only fifty-six and not prey to the ravages of time quite yet. It was just the glare and the way it streamed through the leaded-glass windows. Squinting, she looked back toward the gazebo. Ah, yes. There they were. She could see them quite clearly now. Eric had his arm about Isabelle’s shoulders. Isabelle was looking up at him as if he were the sun and the moon and the stars, all rolled up in one quite average young man.

  Maxine sighed. There was no denying that look on her beloved girl’s face. She’d given herself to that pretty young boy, given away the most important possession a girl would ever have. People said virginity wasn’t important any longer, that only fools worried about that tiny, trembling membrane, but Maxine knew otherwise. It mattered to men, being first. Oh, women could talk all they wanted about being equal and being free, but when the bedroom door closed on a bridal couple, a man liked to think he would be the one to teach his wife the ways of the world.

  At first glance it seemed as if Juliana was looking upon her sister and her sister’s young man with the fond benevolence of a woman much older and a great deal wiser. But then Maxine looked more closely. Juliana’s smile was sharpened like a blade; her movements were quicker, more certain; and, dear God, she seemed to be focusing her attentions in on Eric.

  Maxine took off her glasses, letting them dangle over her bosom from a long ribbon cord. It couldn’t be. Surely she was misreading the expression on Juliana’s face the way the gypsy lady used to misread the tea leaves after too much of the grape. Life was complicated enough without pitting sisters one against the other. Nothing good would come of a confrontation like that, nothing good at all.

  Chapter

  Four

  If Isabelle had her way, she would have spent the afternoon in the gazebo with Eric. Instead she found herself perched on the high terrace at the rear of the palace, watching while men and women who should know better fired bullets at pieces of clay.

  Cries of “Pull! Pull!” rang out in the Alpine stillness followed by the report of shotguns and peals of excited laughter. Her father’s beloved Corgis, a gift from Queen Elizabeth II, barked accompaniment. Isab
elle sighed and hugged her knees closer to her body. She was hopelessly awkward with pistols and shotguns. She hated the cold dead weight against her shoulder and cheek, hated the off-balance way she felt as she peered through the sight. The mere thought of pulling the trigger made her flinch. Juliana, of course, was expert at it. While Isabelle was stranded in that godforsaken boarding school, Juliana had been at their father’s side, learning all the things that were truly important in Perreault.

  “Good, isn’t she?” said a deep male voice as the clay bird shattered overhead.

  Isabelle groaned inwardly. Bronson, no less.

  “Yes, she is,” she managed. Why on earth did everyone find Juliana’s proficiency with a shotgun so incredibly interesting? “Quite good.”

  “Why aren’t you down there performing your royal duties?”

  She ignored him.

  “Can’t shoot?” he persisted.

  “Of course I can,” she said with a short laugh. “There’s nothing terribly special about that.” She fixed him with a look. “Do you shoot?”

  “Only to kill,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s a waste of good ammunition.” If ever a man looked as if he’d have a taste for blood, it was Bronson. “Why aren’t you down there with your pal?” he asked.

  She gazed pointedly toward Greta VanArsdalen who idled near a Japanese businessman from Kyoto. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  His smile didn’t waver, but she noted the steel behind it. “There’s nothing between Greta and me.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Bronson. She made your alliance quite clear at breakfast.”

  “I didn’t say we didn’t have sex last night. I said there’s nothing between us.”

  To her dismay, her cheeks reddened. “But you—I mean, you said you...”

  His eyes raked her body, not in a sleazy fashion, but rather like someone reacquainting himself with the obvious. “I keep forgetting how young you are, princess. In case you don’t know, sex and love are two different things.” He paused, his vivid green eyes twinkling. “Or they should be if you’re doing it right.”

  “That’s despicable.”

  “That’s the real world. I know you princesses don’t have a lot to do with the real world, but the sooner you pick up on a few elementary points, the better off you’ll be.”

  “I feel sorry for you, Mr. Bronson,” she said, turning away from him. “You must lead a terribly lonely life.”

  They watched in silence as Juliana and Prince Bertrand engaged in some friendly competition. Her sister’s pale hair was pulled back in a sleek French braid that bobbed merrily between her shoulder blades. The expression on her heart-shaped face was endearingly earnest as she listened to some advice from their father then blithely raised the rifle to her shoulder and took aim. The clay bird shattered and fell back to earth.

  “You as good a shot as your sister?”

  She shook her head, maintaining her silence, as Juliana’s laughter floated up to the balcony. Her father’s handsome face was creased with a broad smile, and jealousy, her old nemesis, clawed at her ribcage. Isabelle’s breath caught as Eric moved out from the shadows and took his place next to Juliana. Bertrand stepped aside as if that were the most natural thing in the world. There was something so right about the scene, so deeply inevitable, that Isabelle struggled to maintain her composure.

  “They make a great-looking couple,” Bronson noted.

  She refused to meet his eyes. Damn him. He was being tactful. Eric and Juliana made a stunning couple. You would have to be blind not to be struck by the sight of their two blond heads pressed close together as Eric helped Juliana reload. Isabelle suspected her sister could take the shotgun apart and put it back together again without anyone’s help whatsoever.

  “I know you don’t believe it,” Bronson continued in a voice more gentle than she’d heard from him before, “but one day you’ll wonder what you saw in him.”

  “I love him,” she said. “I’ll love him until the day I die.”

  “Sure you will,” said Bronson.

  “You don’t know anything at all,” she snapped. “You wouldn’t understand true love if you lived to be a thousand.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “And you think Malraux is your knight in shining armor?”

  She hesitated. The biting edge to his words wasn’t lost on her. “You make it sound so foolish. Why is it so hard for you to believe that two people can fall in love?”

  “Go ahead, princess,” Bronson urged. “Tell me you two will live happily ever after.”

  “We will,” she snapped in exasperation. “Mark my words, Mr. Bronson. You’ll dance with the bride before too long.”

  “Right,” said Bronson, “and if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get to dance with you, too.”

  “You bastard!” Fury flooded her brain. All she could think of was wiping that malicious smirk from his face. She raised her hand, her palm itching to make contact with his cheek, and gasped in surprise as he deftly moved forward and pinned her hands behind her back while she prayed he wouldn’t toss her over the railing.

  “Don’t even think it, princess. You’re not going to get away with that crap with me.”

  She considered the wisdom of kicking him in the shins, but the set of his jaw forced her to reconsider. “You’re hurting me.”

  “I’d turn you over my knee and paddle some sense into you if I thought it would do any good.”

  “How terribly macho,” she said, praying she sounded braver than she felt. “I’m sure your female companions must enjoy walking three paces behind you.”

  “He’s a schmuck,” said Bronson. “You can find a thousand like him at the tables in Monte Carlo.”

  “And a million of you on any street corner in Manhattan.” Damn the quaver in her voice. “Why are you so hateful? What on earth have I done to make you treat me this way?”

  “I hate to see people make mistakes.”

  “Loving Eric isn’t a mistake.”

  “It’s not love, princess, it just feels that way.”

  “You couldn’t possibly understand anything about the way I feel. Why, I—”

  With one swift movement he lowered his head, bringing his mouth against her mouth, kissing her hard and long. There was nothing tender about the kiss, nothing sweet or romantic. What there was, was heat. More raw fire than she would have imagined possible in a kiss. The fact that he had absolutely no business claiming her this way was almost secondary to the warmth radiating outward from the pit of her stomach.

  His mouth was hard, demanding. He yielded nothing and demanded everything. And there was nothing—nothing she could do.

  If he hadn’t taken her by surprise, she never would have allowed such a thing to happen.

  If he hadn’t pinned her hands behind her so effectively, she would have pushed him away without a second thought.

  If he—

  “Is that you I hear, Mr. Bronson? We need to talk.”

  Heat was replaced by panic as her father’s footsteps sounded on the stone steps, not thirty feet away from the balcony where they stood.

  “See what I mean?” Bronson ended the kiss with the same suddenness with which it had begun. She struggled to regain her composure. “Lust.” His grin was all too knowing. “Hard to tell the difference, isn’t it?”

  “Shut up,” she hissed. “I have a good mind to tell my father what you did. He’d toss you off this balcony in a flash.”

  “Feeling guilty, princess? Doesn’t Malraux—”

  “So it was you I heard, Mr. Bronson.” Bertrand’s imposing figure appeared on the landing. Dressed in forest green cords and a coffee-brown suede jacket, he appeared more the country gentleman than the ruler of Perreault. A jaunty Irish cap, souvenir of his last visit to Dublin, perched atop his thick mane of silver hair. “And Isabelle.” He bestowed his best smile on his younger daughter. “Juliana didn’t tell me I’d find you here as well.” He cro
ssed the balcony to where she stood, radiating paternal warmth and concern. “Your cheeks are flushed, cheri. Perhaps you are cold?”

  “N-no.” She swallowed hard, studiously avoiding Bronson’s eyes. “We—I mean, I was just...” Her voice drifted away. So did her father’s attention. For once she was glad she’d failed to hold his interest.

  “Isabelle was explaining some of the finer points of trap shooting,” Bronson offered, his tone laconic. “She’s an enthusiastic teacher.”

  Her father’s smile was benign. “My daughter does everything with great enthusiasm.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  She couldn’t help it. She looked up at Bronson, but his expression was as bland as his voice. No wonder he was so successful in business. He could lie with the best of them.

  “... much like my late wife,” her father was saying. “All fire and emotion...”

  Bronson’s dark brows lifted, and Isabelle held her breath. Don’t say anything, she pleaded silently. If you ask one question about my mother, he’ll turn away from me as if I were invisible.

  Prince Bertrand shook his head once, then twice, as if to bring himself back to the matter at hand. “We have some time before the afternoon hunt.” He focused in on Bronson, using all of his formidable charm to coax a smile from the businessman. “You said you wished to speak with me about a particular matter?”

  Isabelle watched as Bronson switched gears with the ease of a Maserati downshifting into a curve. “A very important matter,” he said with none of the deference most men evidenced when speaking to her father. “Give me an hour, and I can lay out the whole project for you.”

  Her father blinked, then looked over at Isabelle. “The directness of Americans can be overwhelming, can it not?”

  Isabelle bit hard on the inside of her cheek. “Quite,” she said after a moment.

  “In the library, then,” said her father.

  “I’ll get my portfolio,” said Bronson, “and meet you there in five minutes.”

  “My daughter will be joining us, if you don’t mind.”