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Authors: Barbara Bretton
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words. “In the eyes of God, he belongs to her.”
“No,” said Isabelle. “He belongs to me.”
* * *
The little princess was out of control.
Even across the crowded cathedral Daniel had noted the wild fire in her dark eyes, recognized her pain. From the very beginning, he’d known that this was where she’d end up, standing there in her pretty yellow dress, watching while the man she loved claimed his future at her sister’s side.
Men like Eric Malraux didn’t waste their time on the second princess in line. Perreault might not amount to much in the economic scheme of things, but the Malraux family hadn’t gotten what they wanted by settling for second place.
You bastard, he thought as Honore said something to his plain little wife. He’d sold his zero of a son to the highest bidder, and now Perreault was his personal playground. He’d build his glitzy palaces where rich people with nothing to do met other rich people and compared notes and, in the process, he’d become wealthier than in his wildest dreams.
Daniel told himself he’d come to the wedding to make a last-ditch attempt to sway Bertrand over to his side. Through the years Monaco had become a joke, the very name a synonym for emptiness, and it would be a damned waste of potential if this picture-perfect country followed suit. The wedding was only a good excuse to fly across the pond and put his proposal to Bertrand one last time.
The music of the recessional flooded the cathedral. The bride and groom linked arms and began the long walk back up the aisle as man and wife. He had to admit Juliana was radiant. He’d never thought much about that word before but apparently even he knew it when he saw it. The happy groom, however, had the look of a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
A match made in heaven, like it said in the tabloids? Not very likely.
The pews cleared one by one as the guests streamed from the church. Daniel was about to take his place with the rest of them when he saw a lone figure appear to the side of the altar. A shaft of sunlight found her, gilding her thick tumble of dark hair and illuminating her skin. He felt an uncharacteristic tug of emotion.
She stood with her spine straight, chin held high, as gutsy as she was beautiful. He knew her heart was breaking and he found himself admiring the strength that enabled her to be there at all.
Then he remembered who she was, the spoiled little princess with the sharp tongue and fiery temper who’d told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with his opinion of her love life. She didn’t need his sympathy. Hell, she’d probably toss it back in his face without a backward glance.
“M’sieur?” The woman next to him touched his elbow then gestured toward the aisle. “S’il vous plait?”
He stepped out of the pew to let her pass. The church was just about empty. He looked back at the little princess who’d been joined by her nursemaid. The red-haired woman said something to the girl, but the princess said nothing. She gathered her skirts, lifted her chin, then glided up the aisle in her pretty yellow dress as if the celebration belonged to her.
If he’d been expecting to see heartbreak on her beautiful face, he was mistaken.
He saw defiance.
“Mr. Bronson,” she said as she swept past him on her way toward the vestibule. “Do save me a dance, won’t you?”
Her smile was dazzling, but not quite dazzling enough.
“Not bad, princess,” he said, falling into step with her, “but it still needs some work.”
He detected a flash of fire in her dark eyes, but the smile never faltered. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bronson?”
“The poker face. It gives you away every time.”
“What a wonderful imagination you Americans have,” she said, a bite hidden in her sugar-coated words. “No wonder you’ve given the world so many cultural treasures.”
“I wouldn’t know about treasures,” said Daniel, grinning. “I’ve always been a pop
“No,” said Isabelle. “He belongs to me.”
* * *
The little princess was out of control.
Even across the crowded cathedral Daniel had noted the wild fire in her dark eyes, recognized her pain. From the very beginning, he’d known that this was where she’d end up, standing there in her pretty yellow dress, watching while the man she loved claimed his future at her sister’s side.
Men like Eric Malraux didn’t waste their time on the second princess in line. Perreault might not amount to much in the economic scheme of things, but the Malraux family hadn’t gotten what they wanted by settling for second place.
You bastard, he thought as Honore said something to his plain little wife. He’d sold his zero of a son to the highest bidder, and now Perreault was his personal playground. He’d build his glitzy palaces where rich people with nothing to do met other rich people and compared notes and, in the process, he’d become wealthier than in his wildest dreams.
Daniel told himself he’d come to the wedding to make a last-ditch attempt to sway Bertrand over to his side. Through the years Monaco had become a joke, the very name a synonym for emptiness, and it would be a damned waste of potential if this picture-perfect country followed suit. The wedding was only a good excuse to fly across the pond and put his proposal to Bertrand one last time.
The music of the recessional flooded the cathedral. The bride and groom linked arms and began the long walk back up the aisle as man and wife. He had to admit Juliana was radiant. He’d never thought much about that word before but apparently even he knew it when he saw it. The happy groom, however, had the look of a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
A match made in heaven, like it said in the tabloids? Not very likely.
The pews cleared one by one as the guests streamed from the church. Daniel was about to take his place with the rest of them when he saw a lone figure appear to the side of the altar. A shaft of sunlight found her, gilding her thick tumble of dark hair and illuminating her skin. He felt an uncharacteristic tug of emotion.
She stood with her spine straight, chin held high, as gutsy as she was beautiful. He knew her heart was breaking and he found himself admiring the strength that enabled her to be there at all.
Then he remembered who she was, the spoiled little princess with the sharp tongue and fiery temper who’d told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with his opinion of her love life. She didn’t need his sympathy. Hell, she’d probably toss it back in his face without a backward glance.
“M’sieur?” The woman next to him touched his elbow then gestured toward the aisle. “S’il vous plait?”
He stepped out of the pew to let her pass. The church was just about empty. He looked back at the little princess who’d been joined by her nursemaid. The red-haired woman said something to the girl, but the princess said nothing. She gathered her skirts, lifted her chin, then glided up the aisle in her pretty yellow dress as if the celebration belonged to her.
If he’d been expecting to see heartbreak on her beautiful face, he was mistaken.
He saw defiance.
“Mr. Bronson,” she said as she swept past him on her way toward the vestibule. “Do save me a dance, won’t you?”
Her smile was dazzling, but not quite dazzling enough.
“Not bad, princess,” he said, falling into step with her, “but it still needs some work.”
He detected a flash of fire in her dark eyes, but the smile never faltered. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bronson?”
“The poker face. It gives you away every time.”
“What a wonderful imagination you Americans have,” she said, a bite hidden in her sugar-coated words. “No wonder you’ve given the world so many cultural treasures.”
“I wouldn’t know about treasures,” said Daniel, grinning. “I’ve always been a pop
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