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Authors: Barbara Bretton
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culture kind of guy.”
“How surprising,” she drawled. “And here I imagined you were haunting the latest exhibition at the Louvre.”
“Forget the Louvre, but if you want someone to tell you how Gilligan managed to get off his island, I’m your guy.”
She looked away, but not quickly enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do,” he said, positive he’d seen her smile actually reach her eyes. “Europeans talk a good show when it comes to culture, but you gobble up our TV shows like they’re ‘Masterpiece Theatre.’”
“You certainly do think well of yourself, don’t you, Mr. Bronson?” She paused a few yards from the doors to the cathedral.
“Give me an hour, princess, and I’ll show you why.”
She shuddered theatrically. “You’re much worse than I’d feared.”
“But a hell of a lot better than you think.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I doubt that, Mr. Bronson.” She turned to leave the church.
“He’s not worth the heartache, Isabelle,” he said to her retreating back. “None of us are.”
He wasn’t at all surprised when she didn’t stop to answer him.
Chapter
Six
“C hampagne!” Isabelle spun away from the arms of an Italian auto baron and placed her hands on her hips. “My kingdom for more champagne!”
Gianni Vitelli, twice married and looking for wife number three, threw back his head and laughed. “Cara, you surprise me. Surely your kingdom is worth more than a glass of wine.”
“Such insolence!” Isabelle pretended to strike him an invisible blow. “Champagne or it’s off with your head.”
Vitelli was rich, but Isabelle was royal. Fortunately, those things still mattered to some people. He scurried away to do her bidding while Isabelle, laughing, swayed to the music.
The other dancers on the floor laughed along with her, as Isabelle had known they would. There were unwritten rules attached to mingling with royalty. Enjoying their jokes, however feeble they might be, was one of them. Isabelle could have placed her hands under her arms and clucked like a chicken, and within a heartbeat the titled and untitled alike would be clucking right along with her.
Everyone, that is, except for that annoying American, Bronson. It wasn’t that he did anything untoward. He was far too clever for that. No, he danced with the ladies and chatted up the men, but the whole time Isabelle knew he was laughing up his sleeve at the lot of them.
The orchestra segued from a fox trot into a sedate waltz. She watched as Margot Hofmaier, of the Liechtenstein Hofmaiers, batted her false eyelashes in Bronson’s direction and was rewarded with an invitation to dance. Margot had the subtlety of a cow in heat, and wasn’t it just like a man to respond to such a blatant overture.
It occurred to her that they needed to be brought down a peg and, with a toss of her head, she set out to do exactly that.
Dancing up to the couple, she tapped Margot on her plump white shoulder. “Be a darling, won’t you, Margot—I’m simply longing to dance with Mr. Bronson.”
“Next dance,” Bronson said, meeting her eyes over Margot’s hennaed head.
Margot cast a quick, satisfied look in Isabelle’s direction.
“I adore waltzes,” Isabelle said, shadowing their movements with sure and graceful steps.
Margot’s shoulders and cheeks reddened to match her hair, and she stumbled but quickly regained her composure. “I prefer fox trots,” she began. “Perhaps—”
“I’m sure the princess won’t mind waiting her turn.” The look the American gave her was enough to make Isabelle’s blue blood boil. She wanted to slap his face. She chose, however, to ignore him and press her advantage with Margot.
“Thank you ever so much, darling Margot.” Isabelle neatly replaced the middle-aged woman in the American’s arms. “I’ll return him to you just the moment the dance is over.”
“Nice trick,” Bronson said as she looked up at him. “Too bad it didn’t
“How surprising,” she drawled. “And here I imagined you were haunting the latest exhibition at the Louvre.”
“Forget the Louvre, but if you want someone to tell you how Gilligan managed to get off his island, I’m your guy.”
She looked away, but not quickly enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do,” he said, positive he’d seen her smile actually reach her eyes. “Europeans talk a good show when it comes to culture, but you gobble up our TV shows like they’re ‘Masterpiece Theatre.’”
“You certainly do think well of yourself, don’t you, Mr. Bronson?” She paused a few yards from the doors to the cathedral.
“Give me an hour, princess, and I’ll show you why.”
She shuddered theatrically. “You’re much worse than I’d feared.”
“But a hell of a lot better than you think.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I doubt that, Mr. Bronson.” She turned to leave the church.
“He’s not worth the heartache, Isabelle,” he said to her retreating back. “None of us are.”
He wasn’t at all surprised when she didn’t stop to answer him.
Chapter
Six
“C hampagne!” Isabelle spun away from the arms of an Italian auto baron and placed her hands on her hips. “My kingdom for more champagne!”
Gianni Vitelli, twice married and looking for wife number three, threw back his head and laughed. “Cara, you surprise me. Surely your kingdom is worth more than a glass of wine.”
“Such insolence!” Isabelle pretended to strike him an invisible blow. “Champagne or it’s off with your head.”
Vitelli was rich, but Isabelle was royal. Fortunately, those things still mattered to some people. He scurried away to do her bidding while Isabelle, laughing, swayed to the music.
The other dancers on the floor laughed along with her, as Isabelle had known they would. There were unwritten rules attached to mingling with royalty. Enjoying their jokes, however feeble they might be, was one of them. Isabelle could have placed her hands under her arms and clucked like a chicken, and within a heartbeat the titled and untitled alike would be clucking right along with her.
Everyone, that is, except for that annoying American, Bronson. It wasn’t that he did anything untoward. He was far too clever for that. No, he danced with the ladies and chatted up the men, but the whole time Isabelle knew he was laughing up his sleeve at the lot of them.
The orchestra segued from a fox trot into a sedate waltz. She watched as Margot Hofmaier, of the Liechtenstein Hofmaiers, batted her false eyelashes in Bronson’s direction and was rewarded with an invitation to dance. Margot had the subtlety of a cow in heat, and wasn’t it just like a man to respond to such a blatant overture.
It occurred to her that they needed to be brought down a peg and, with a toss of her head, she set out to do exactly that.
Dancing up to the couple, she tapped Margot on her plump white shoulder. “Be a darling, won’t you, Margot—I’m simply longing to dance with Mr. Bronson.”
“Next dance,” Bronson said, meeting her eyes over Margot’s hennaed head.
Margot cast a quick, satisfied look in Isabelle’s direction.
“I adore waltzes,” Isabelle said, shadowing their movements with sure and graceful steps.
Margot’s shoulders and cheeks reddened to match her hair, and she stumbled but quickly regained her composure. “I prefer fox trots,” she began. “Perhaps—”
“I’m sure the princess won’t mind waiting her turn.” The look the American gave her was enough to make Isabelle’s blue blood boil. She wanted to slap his face. She chose, however, to ignore him and press her advantage with Margot.
“Thank you ever so much, darling Margot.” Isabelle neatly replaced the middle-aged woman in the American’s arms. “I’ll return him to you just the moment the dance is over.”
“Nice trick,” Bronson said as she looked up at him. “Too bad it didn’t
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