Книга - The Princess Problem

The Princess Problem
Teri Wilson


A Diamond in the RoughAlways-proper-princess Aurélie Marchand never flouts the wishes of her father. But when she’s set to marry a man she doesn’t love, Aurelie finally escapes — to glittering New York City. And she’s got a surprise for her hosts at Drake Diamonds: A magnificent secret treasure that can guide their fortunes forever. But it’s the dour-but-dashing Dalton Drake that’s the true surprise…Despite a store built on finding true love, after one tragic try at marriage Dalton’s wed only to his family’s business. When the feisty princess appears on his doorstep, though, she immediately tries his patience… and charms her way into his fiercely padlocked heart. But can the secret-filled runaway royal become his forever bride?







A Diamond in the Rough

Always-proper princess Aurélie Marchand never flouts the wishes of her father. But when she’s set to marry a man she doesn’t love, Aurélie finally escapes—to glittering New York City. And she’s got a surprise for her hosts at Drake Diamonds: a magnificent secret treasure that can guide their fortunes forever. But it’s the dour but dashing Dalton Drake who is the true surprise...

Despite a store built on finding true love, after one tragic try at marriage Dalton’s wed only to his family’s business. When the feisty princess appears on his doorstep, though, she immediately tries his patience...and charms her way into his fiercely padlocked heart. But can the secret-filled runaway royal become his forever bride?


“Where have you been?”

“Getting this for you.” He handed her the tissue-wrapped bundle. It warmed her hands.

Aurélie’s defenses dropped, and she stared at him in disbelief. “You bought me a gift.”

He frowned, which in no way diminished the potency of his chiseled good looks. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t get too excited. Trust me. It’s nothing.”

With great care, she peeled back the tissue. When she realized what he’d done, she couldn’t seem to utter a word. She blinked to make sure what she was seeing was real—a hot dog. He’d gotten her a hot dog.

“It’s a metaphor.” He shrugged as though he were right, as if this silly little gesture meant nothing at all, when to Aurélie, it meant everything. “With mustard.”

She didn’t fully understand what happened next. Maybe she wasn’t thinking straight after getting the call from the palace. Maybe the thought of going back home had broken something inside her. Maybe she no longer cared what happened to her at all.

Because even though she knew it was undoubtedly the gravest mistake of her life, Her Royal Highness Aurélie Marchand grabbed Dalton Drake by the lapels and kissed him as though she wasn’t already engaged to another man.

* * *

Drake Diamonds: Looking for love that shines as bright as the gems in their window!


The Princess Problem

Teri Wilson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


TERI WILSON is a novelist for Mills & Boon. She is the author of Unleashing Mr. Darcy, now a Hallmark Channel Original Movie. Teri is also a contributing writer at HelloGiggles.com (http://www.HelloGiggles.com), a lifestyle and entertainment website founded by Zooey Deschanel that is now part of the People magazine, TIME magazine and Entertainment Weekly family. Teri loves books, travel, animals and dancing every day. Visit Teri at www.teriwilson.net (http://www.teriwilson.net) or on Twitter, @teriwilsonauthr (http://twitter.com/@teriwilsonauthr).


For my English writer friend and fellow royal enthusiast,

Rachel Brimble.


Contents

Cover (#uf49ddb23-6d74-5232-8426-60ffd525facb)

Back Cover Text (#uefe2e67e-9bbc-5eab-ab43-3bbe3aeef1ef)

Introduction (#u0c757f0f-71f0-5e0c-a5fd-f3702ec24164)

Title Page (#u6a1479bf-9cb1-5fd7-861b-42871f0e2a28)

About the Author (#uf8f8c744-2e39-56b6-8dcc-b67d4e6cb5cb)

Dedication (#u1d6445f0-2e5f-5d9e-b3ec-5f4c4ae9e184)

Quote (#ue95856bb-5dd9-5234-a7fe-30aab5978690)

Chapter One (#u1afc330e-6937-5369-805c-74a27977617e)

Chapter Two (#u18552915-bec7-5306-8f25-8cc3b9e5417c)

Chapter Three (#u9342d54c-6f53-5237-b1bb-1b3fa6857374)

Chapter Four (#u5270487d-1367-5db8-85f1-a4df8410e5f9)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“The pearl is the queen of gems and the gem of queens.”

Grace Kelly


Chapter One (#u1b0aff8d-7cf2-53cb-86be-9ed90a7e552e)

It was the pearls that tipped Dalton off.

Dalton Drake knew a string of South Sea pearls when he saw one, even when those pearls were mostly hidden behind the crisp black collar of an Armani suit jacket. He stood in the doorway of his office, frowning at the back of the Armani-clad figure. The pearls in question were a luminous gold, just a shade or two darker than a glass of fizzy Veuve Clicquot. The rarest of the rare. Worth more than half the jewels in the glittering display cases of Drake Diamonds, the illustrious establishment where he currently stood. And owned. And ran, along with his brother, Artem Drake.

Dalton had grown up around pearls. They were in his blood, every bit as much as diamonds were. What he couldn’t figure out was why such a priceless piece of jewelry was currently draped around the neck of a glorified errand boy. Or why that particular errand boy possessed such a tiny waist and lushly curved figure.

Dalton had paid a small fortune for a private plane to bring someone by the name of Monsieur Oliver Martel to New York all the way from the royal territory of Delamotte on the French Riviera. What the hell had gone wrong? It didn’t take a genius to figure out he wasn’t looking at a monsieur, the simple black men’s suit notwithstanding. Delicate, perfectly manicured fingertips peeked from beneath the oversized sleeves. Wisps of fine blond hair escaped the fedora atop her head. She lowered herself into one of the chairs opposite his desk with a feline grace that wasn’t just feminine, but regal. Far too regal for a simple employee, even an employee of a royal household.

There was an imposter in Dalton’s office, and it most definitely wasn’t the strand of pearls.

Dalton closed the door behind him and cleared his throat. Perhaps it was best to tread lightly until he figured out how a royal princess from a tiny principality on the French Riviera had ended up on Fifth Avenue in New York. “Monsieur Martel, I presume?”

“Non. Je suis désolé,” the woman said in flawless French. Then she squared her shoulders, stood and slowly turned around. “But there’s been a slight change of plans.”

Dalton should have been prepared. He’d been researching the Marchand royal family’s imperial jeweled eggs for months. Dalton was nothing if not meticulous. If pressed, he could draw each of the twelve imperial eggs from memory. He could also name every member of the Marchand family on sight, going back to the late 1800s, when the royal jeweler had crafted the very first gem-encrusted egg. Naturally, he’d seen enough photographs of the princess to know she was beautiful.

But when the woman in his office turned to face him, Dalton found himself in the very rare state of being caught off guard. In fact, he wasn’t sure it would have been at all possible to prepare himself for the sight of Her Royal Highness Princess Aurélie Marchand in the flesh.

Photographs didn’t do her beauty justice. Sure, those perfectly feminine features could be captured on film—the slightly upturned nose, the perfect bow-shaped lips, the impossibly large eyes, as green as the finest Colombian emerald. But no two-dimensional image could capture the fire in those eyes or the luminescence of her porcelain skin, as lovely as the strand of pearls around her elegant neck.

A fair bit lovelier, actually.

Dalton swallowed. Hard. He wasn’t fond of surprises, and he was even less fond of the fleeting feeling that passed through him when she fixed her gaze with his. Awareness. Attraction. Those things had no place in his business life. Or the rest of his life, for that matter. Not anymore.

“A change of plans. I see that.” He lifted a brow. “Your Highness.”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly. “So you know who I am?”

“Indeed I do. Please have a seat, Princess Aurélie.” Dalton waited for her to sit, then smoothed his tie and lowered himself into his chair. He had a feeling whatever was coming next might best be taken sitting down.

There was a large black trunk at the princess’s feet, which he assumed contained precious cargo—the imperial eggs scheduled to go on display in the Drake Diamonds showroom in a week’s time. But there was no legitimate reason why Aurélie Marchand had delivered them, especially after other transport had been so painstakingly arranged.

Coupled with the fact that she was dressed in a man’s suit that was at least three sizes too big, Dalton sensed trouble. A big, royal heap of it.

“Good. That makes things easier, I suppose.” She sat opposite him and removed her fedora, freeing a mass of golden curls.

God, she’s gorgeous.

Sitting down had definitely been a good call. A surge of arousal shot through him, as fiery and bright as a blazing red ruby. Which made no sense at all. Yes, she was beautiful. And yes, there was something undeniably enchanting about her. But she was dressed as a royal bodyguard. The only thing Dalton should be feeling right now was alarmed. He sure as hell shouldn’t be turned on.

Stick to business. This is about the eggs.

Dalton inhaled a fortifying breath. He couldn’t recall a time in his entire professional life when he’d had to remind himself to stick to business. “Do explain, Your Highness.”

“Don’t call me that. Please.” She smiled a dazzling smile. “Call me Aurélie.”

“As you wish.” Against every instinct Dalton possessed, he nodded his agreement. “Aurélie.”

“Thank you.” There was a slight tremble in her voice that made Dalton’s chest hurt for some strange reason.

“Tell me, Aurélie, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from a member of the royal family?” He tried not to look at her crazy costume, but failed. Miserably.

“Yes, well...” There was that tremble in her voice again. Nerves? Desperation? Surely not. What did a royal princess have to feel desperate about? “In accordance with the agreement between Drake Diamonds and the monarchy of Delamotte, I’ve delivered the collection of the Marchand imperial eggs. I understand your store will be displaying the eggs for fourteen days.”

Dalton nodded. “That’s correct.”

“As I mentioned, there’s been a slight change of plans. I’ll be staying in New York for the duration of the exhibit.” Her delicate features settled into a regal expression of practiced calmness.

Too calm for Dalton’s taste. Something was wrong here. Actually, a lot of things were wrong. The clothes, the sudden appearance of actual royalty when he’d been dealing with palace bureaucracy for months, the notable absence of security personnel...

Was he really supposed to believe that a member of the Marchand royal family had flown halfway across the world with a trunkful of priceless family jewels without a single bodyguard in tow?

And then there was the matter of the princess’s demeanor. She might be sitting across from him with a polite smile on her face, but Dalton could sense something bubbling beneath the surface. Some barely contained sense of anticipation. She had the wild-eyed look of a person ready to throw herself off the nearest cliff.

Why did he get the awful feeling that he’d be expected to catch her if something went wrong?

Whatever she was up to, he didn’t want any part of it. For starters, he had more important things to worry about than babysitting a spoiled princess. Not to mention the fact that whatever was happening here was in strict violation of the agreement he’d made with the palace. And he wasn’t about to risk losing the eggs. Press releases had been sent out. Invitations to the gala were in the mail. This was the biggest event the Drake Diamonds flagship store had hosted since it opened its doors on Fifth Avenue back in 1940.

“I see.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll just give the palace a call to confirm the new arrangements.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Aurélie reached to stop him, placing a graceful hand on his wrist.

He narrowed his gaze at her. She was playing him. That much was obvious. What he didn’t know was why.

He leaned back in his chair. “Aurélie, why don’t you tell me exactly why you’re here and then I’ll decide whether or not to make that call?”

“It’s simple. I want a holiday. Not as a princess, but as a normal person. I want to eat hot dogs on the street. I want to go for a walk in Central Park. I want to sit on a blanket in the grass and read a library book.” Her voice grew soft, wistful, with just a hint of urgency. “I want to be a regular New Yorker for these few weeks, and I need your help doing so.”

“You want to eat hot dogs,” he said dryly. “With my help?” She couldn’t be serious.

Apparently she was. Dead serious. “Exactly. That’s not so strange, is it?”

Yes, actually. It was. “Aurélie...”

But he couldn’t get a word in edgewise. She was going on about open-air buses and the subway and, to Dalton’s utter confusion, giant soft pretzels. What was with her obsession with street food?

“Aurélie,” he said again, cutting off a new monologue about pizza.

“Oh.” She gave a little jump in her chair. “Yes?”

“This arrangement you’re suggesting sounds a bit, ah, unorthodox.” That was putting it mildly. He couldn’t recall ever negotiating a business deal that involved soft pretzels.

She shrugged an elegant shoulder. “I’ve brought you the eggs. Every single one of them. All I ask is that you show me around a little. And let me stay without notifying the palace, or the press, obviously. That’s all.”

So she wanted a place to hide. And a tour guide. And his silence. That’s all.

And face the wrath of the palace when they realized what he’d done? Have the eggs snatched away before the exhibit even opened? Absolutely not. “All the arrangements are in place. I’d have to be insane to agree to this. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Not insane. Just a little adventurous.” She was beginning to have that wild-eyed look again. He could see a whole secret, aching world in her emerald gaze. She leaned closer, wrapping Dalton in a heady floral aroma. Orchids, peonies, something else he couldn’t quite place. Lilacs, maybe. “Live a little, Mr. Drake.”

Live a little. God, she sounded like his brother. And his sister. And pretty much everyone else in his life. “That’s not going to work on me, Your Highness.”

She said nothing, just smiled and twirled a lock of platinum hair around one of her fingers.

Flirting wasn’t going to work either.

He ignored the hair twirling as best he could and shot her a cool look. “The eggs are here, as agreed upon. Give me one legitimate reason why I shouldn’t call the palace.”

She was delusional or, at the very least, spoiled rotten. Did she really think he had time to drop everything he was doing to babysit an entitled princess? He had a company to run. A company in need of a fresh start.

He sat back in his chair, glanced at the Cartier strapped around his wrist, and waited.

He’d give her two more minutes.

That’s all.

* * *

Aurélie was beginning to think she’d made a mistake. A big one.

Granted, she hadn’t exactly thought this whole adventure through. Planning had never been her strong suit. Firing Oliver Martel and demanding that he hand over his suit so she could take his place on the flight to the States had been easy enough. That guy was an arrogant jerk. He needed to go, and he’d made enough passes at her over the course of his employment at the palace for her to have plenty of leverage over him. No problems there.

Impersonating a royal courier had also gone swimmingly. It was startling how little attention the pilot had paid her. He seemed to look right through Aurélie, as if she were a ghost rather than a living, breathing person. Then again, Aurélie had lived in a fishbowl her entire life. She was accustomed to being watched every waking moment of her existence. That’s what this whole charade was about—getting away from prying eyes while she still could. In a few short weeks, her entire life would change. And, if her father got his way, she’d never get this kind of chance again.

Aurélie didn’t regret walking away from her royal duties for a moment. Placing her trust in Dalton Drake, on the other hand, might not have been the wisest idea. For starters, she hadn’t expected the CEO of Drake Diamonds to be so very handsome. Or young. Or handsome. Or stern. Or handsome.

It was unsettling, really. How was she supposed to make a solid case for herself when she was busy thinking about Dalton’s chiseled jaw or his mysterious gray gaze? And his voice—deep, intense and unapologetically masculine. The man could probably read a software manual aloud and have every woman in Manhattan melting at his feet.

But it was his attitude that had really thrown Aurélie off-balance. She wasn’t accustomed to people challenging her, with one notable exception. Her father.

That was to be expected, though. Her father ran a small country. Dalton Drake ran a jewelry store. She’d assumed he would be easy to persuade.

She’d thought wrong, apparently. But he would come around. He had to. Because she was not going to spend her last twenty-one days of freedom staring at the castle walls.

She swallowed. These wouldn’t be her last twenty-one days of freedom. Her father would change his mind. But she shouldn’t really be thinking about that right now, should she? Not while Dalton Drake was threatening to pick up the phone and tattle on her.

Give me one legitimate reason why I shouldn’t call the palace.

Aurélie’s heart beat wildly in her chest as she met Dalton’s gaze. “Actually, Mr. Drake, I have a very good reason why you and I should reach an agreement.”

He glanced at his watch again, and she wanted to scream. “Do elaborate, Your Highness.”

“It’s best if I show you.”

She bent to open the buttery-soft Birkin bag at her feet, removed a dark blue velvet box from inside and placed it square in the center of Dalton Drake’s desk.

He grew very still. Even the air between them seemed to stop moving. Aurélie had managed to get his attention. Finally.

He stared at the box for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the embossed silver M on its top. He knew what that M stood for, and so did she. Marchand. “One of the eggs, I presume?” Clearly, Mr. Drake had done his homework.

“Yes.” Aurélie offered him her sweetest princess smile. “And no.”

Before he could protest, she reached for the box and removed its plush velvet lid. The entire top portion of the box detached from the base, so all that was left sitting atop the desk was a shimmering, decorated egg covered in pavé diamonds. Pale pink, blush enamel and tiny seed pearls rested on a bed of white satin.

Aurélie had seen the egg on many occasions, but it still took her breath away every time she looked at it. It glittered beneath the overhead lights, an unbroken expanse of dazzling radiance. Her precious, priceless secret.

She hadn’t realized how very strange this would feel to share it with someone else. How vulnerable. She felt as though she’d unlocked a treasure chest and offered this strange man her heart. How absurd.

“I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen this egg before.”

But there was a hint of a smile dancing on his lips, and when he trained his eyes on Aurélie, she could see the glittering egg reflected in the cool gray of his eyes, and she knew. She just knew.

Dalton Drake would agree to everything she’d asked.

“No one has,” she said quietly.

She didn’t know how she managed to sound so calm, so composed, when she was this close to having the one thing she’d wanted for such a long time. Freedom. However temporary.

He lifted a brow. “No one?”

“No one outside the Marchand family.”

“So there’s a thirteenth egg? I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Believe it, Mr. Drake. My father gave this egg to my mother on their wedding day. Other than the palace jeweler, no one even knew it existed.” A familiar, bittersweet ache stirred inside Aurélie. She’d always loved the idea of her parents sharing such an intimate secret. Their wedding, their engagement and even their courtship had been watched by the entire world. But they’d managed to save something just for themselves.

What must it be like to be loved like that? To trust someone so implicitly? She’d never know, whether her father went through with his plans or not.

Of course, her parents’ fairy-tale romance hadn’t been as real as she’d always believed. Fairy tales never were.

Her throat grew tight. “I inherited it when my mother died three years ago. Even I was stunned to learn of a thirteenth egg.”

Many things had surprised her then, but none so much as the shocking details of her parents’ marriage. Her mother was gone, and Aurélie was left with nothing but the egg, a book with gilt-edged pages and a father she realized she’d never really known. And questions. So many questions.

When had things changed between her parents? Or had the greatest royal romance of the past fifty years always been a lie?

Her eyelashes fluttered shut and memories moved behind her eyes—her mother and father waltzing in a sweeping circle beneath glittering chandeliers, the whirring of paparazzi cameras and her mother’s elegant features setting into her trademark serene expression. A smile that never quite reached her eyes. How had Aurélie never noticed?

She opened her eyes and found Dalton watching her intently from across the desk. “Why are you showing this egg to me, Aurélie?”

Aurélie. Not Princess. Not Your Highness. Just her name, spoken in that deep, delicious voice of his.

Her head spun a little. Concentrate. “Because, I’d like you to display it in your exhibition.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.” She paused. “On one condition.”

Dalton gave her a sideways glance. “Just one?”

“Give me my adventure, Mr. Drake. On my terms. No bodyguards, no notifying the palace, no press. That’s all I ask.” And it was a lot to ask. She had enough dirt on the courier to guarantee he wouldn’t go running to the palace. But someone would notice she’d gone missing. She just didn’t know when.

It would be a miracle if she got away with this, but she had to try. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she didn’t.

She stood and extended her hand.

Aurélie had never in her life shaken a man’s hand before. Certainly not the hand of a commoner. In Delamotte, Dalton wouldn’t be permitted to touch her. Under royal protocol, he’d be required to bow from a chaste three-foot distance. “Do we have a deal?”

“I believe we do.”

Then Dalton Drake rose to his feet and took Aurélie’s hand in his warm, solid grip.

Delamotte had never felt so far away.


Chapter Two (#u1b0aff8d-7cf2-53cb-86be-9ed90a7e552e)

“So let me get this straight.” Artem Drake, Dalton’s younger brother, pointed at the diamond-and-pearl-encrusted Marchand egg sitting in the middle of the small conference table in the corner of his office and lifted a brow. “You’re saying no one has ever seen this egg before.”

Dalton nodded and glanced over his shoulder to double-check that he’d closed the door behind him when he’d entered. He didn’t want anyone else on the staff knowing about the egg. Its unveiling needed to be carefully planned, and he couldn’t risk the possibility of a potential leak.

Satisfied with the privacy of their surroundings, Dalton turned to face his brother again and noted the enormous empty spot on the wall above his desk. The spot where the portrait of their father had hung for the better part of the past thirty years.

He was a bit taken aback by the painting’s absence, since Artem hadn’t mentioned his plan to remove it. And Drake Diamonds had never been about change. It was about tradition, from the store’s coveted location on Fifth Avenue to the little blue boxes they were so famous for. Drake Diamond blue. The color was synonymous with class, style and all things Drake. It was the shade of the plush carpeting beneath Dalton’s feet, as well as the hue of the silk tie around his neck. If Dalton were to slit his wrists, he’d probably bleed Drake Diamond blue.

But time changed things, even in places where tradition reigned. Their father was dead. This was no longer Geoffrey Drake’s office. It was Artem’s, despite the fact that there’d never been any love lost between Dalton’s younger brother and their father. Despite the fact that Dalton himself had been groomed for this office since the day he’d graduated from Harvard Business School.

He was relieved the portrait was gone. Now he’d no longer be forced to stop himself from hurling his glass of scotch at it on nights when he found himself alone in the store after hours. Which was often. More often than not, to be precise.

Dalton averted his gaze from the empty wall and refocused his attention on Artem. There was no point in dwelling on the wrongness of the terms of their father’s Last Will and Testament. He probably should have expected it. Geoffrey Drake hadn’t been known for his sense of fairness. He certainly hadn’t had a reputation as a loving family man. He’d been shrewd. Calculating. Brusque. As had all the Drake men, Dalton included, for as long as grooms had been slipping revered Drake Diamonds on their brides’ fingers. Empires weren’t built on kindness.

He leveled his gaze at Artem. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. No one outside the Marchand family is aware of this egg’s existence. Until now, of course.”

Artem reached for the egg.

“Seriously?” Dalton sighed, pulled a pair of white cotton jeweler’s gloves from his suit pocket and threw them at his brother. “Put these on if you insist on touching it.”

Artem caught the gloves midair and shook his head. “Relax, would you? A secret Marchand imperial egg just fell into our laps. You should be doing backflips between the cases of engagement rings downstairs.”

“We’re on the tenth floor. Engagements is just down the hall, not downstairs,” Dalton said dryly.

It was a cheap shot. Artem actually showed up to work on a regular basis now that they’d talked things through and agreed to share the position of Chief Executive Officer. The fact that Artem was now married and expecting a baby with their top jewelry designer, Ophelia Rose Drake, didn’t hurt either.

Artem was a husband now, and soon he’d be a father. Dalton couldn’t fathom it. Then again, he’d never actually witnessed a healthy marriage. To be honest, he wasn’t sure such a thing existed.

Artem’s features settled into the lazy playboy expression he’d been so famous for before he’d surprised everyone by settling down. “I know that, brother. You’re missing the point. This is good. Hell, this is fantastic. You should be smiling for a change.”

Dalton’s frown hardened into place. “I’ll smile when the unveiling of the collection goes off without a hitch. And when I’m certain I won’t be facing jail time in Delamotte for kidnapping the princess.”

“She came here of her own free will.” With the hint of a rueful smile, Artem shrugged. “Besides, the way I see it, you have a much bigger problem to worry about.”

More problems. Marvelous. “Such as?”

“Such as the fact that you’ve been charged with showing a runaway princess a good time.” Artem let out a chuckle. “Sorry, but surely even you can see the irony of the situation.”

Dalton was all too aware he wasn’t known as the fun brother. Artem typically had enough fun for both of them. In reality, his younger brother had probably had enough fun for the greater population of Manhattan. But that was before Ophelia. Artem’s face might no longer be a permanent fixture on Page Six, but against all odds, Dalton had never seen him happier.

“Fun is overrated,” Dalton deadpanned.

Fun didn’t pay the mortgage on his Lenox Hill penthouse. It hadn’t landed him on Fortune’s “40 Under 40” list for five consecutive years. And it sure as hell didn’t keep hordes of shoppers flocking to Drake Diamonds every day, just to take something, anything, home in a little blue box.

Artem’s smirk went into overdrive. “From what you’ve told me, the princess doesn’t seem to share your opinion on the matter. It sounds as though Her Royal Highness is rather fond of fun.”

Her Royal Highness.

There was a princess sitting in Dalton’s office. And for some nonsensical reason, she was waiting for him to take her on a grand adventure involving hot dogs and public transportation. How such things fit into anyone’s definition of a good time was beyond him.

A sharp pain took up residence in Dalton’s temples. “Aurélie,” he muttered.

Artem’s eyebrow arched, and he stared at Dalton for a moment that stretched far too long. “Pardon?”

Dalton cleared his throat. “She’s asked me to call her Aurélie.”

“Really?” Artem’s trademark amused expression made yet another appearance. To say it was beginning to grate on Dalton’s nerves would have been a massive understatement. “This princess sounds rather interesting.”

“That’s one way of putting it, although I’d probably use another word.”

“Like?”

Unexpected. “Impulsive.” Whimsical. “Volatile.” Breathtaking. “Dangerous.”

“That’s three words,” Artem corrected. “Interesting. The princess—excuse me, Aurélie—must have made quite an impression in the twenty minutes you spent with her.”

Twenty minutes? Impossible. It had been precisely 10 a.m. when he’d first set eyes on those golden South Sea pearls. On that straight, regal back and exquisitely elegant neck. If the severity of the tension between his shoulder blades was any indication, he’d been dealing with the stress of harboring a royal runaway for at least two hours. Possibly three.

Dalton glanced at his Cartier. It read 10:21. He’d need to add a massage therapist to the payroll at this rate. If he managed to keep an aneurysm at bay for the next few weeks.

“I dare say you appear rather intrigued by her.” Artem’s gaze narrowed. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d go so far as to say you seem smitten. But of course the Dalton I know would never mix business and pleasure.”

Damn straight. Dalton preferred pleasure of the no-strings variety, and he seldom had trouble finding it. Sex belonged in the bedroom, not the boardroom. He wasn’t Artem, for crying out loud. He could keep his libido in check when the situation called for it. “I assure you I’m not smitten. I have no feelings toward the princess whatsoever, aside from obligation.”

“Ah yes, your bargain.” Artem turned the egg in his grasp, inspecting it. Blinding light reflected off its pavé diamonds in every direction, making the egg look far more precious than a collection of carefully arranged gemstones. Dynamic. Alive. A brilliant, beating heart.

Dalton had never seen anything quite like it. The other Marchand imperial eggs paled in comparison. When it went on display in the showroom, Drake Diamonds would be packed wall-to-wall with people. People who wouldn’t go home without a Drake-blue bag dangling from their arms.

If the egg went on display.

It would. The exhibition and gala would take place as scheduled. The spectacular secret egg was just what Drake Diamonds needed. When Dalton and Artem’s father died, he’d left the family business on the verge of bankruptcy. They’d managed to climb their way back to solvency, but Drake Diamonds still wasn’t anywhere near where it had been in its glory days.

Dalton aimed to fix that. With the egg, he could.

He would personally see to it that the palace in Delamotte had nothing to worry about. He’d keep Aurélie under lock and key. Then, in three weeks’ time, she’d pack up the eggs and go straight home. Dalton would strap her into her airplane seat himself if he had to.

Artem returned the egg to its shiny satin pedestal, peeled off the jeweler’s gloves and tossed them on the table. Then he crossed his arms and shot Dalton a wary glance. “Tell me, what sort of fun is the princess up to at the moment?”

Dalton shrugged. “She’s in my office.”

“Your office? Of course. Loads of fun, that place.” Artem shot him an exaggerated eye roll.

This was going to stop. Dalton might have agreed to escort the princess on her grand adventure, but under no circumstances would he succumb to constant commentary on his personal life. “I’ve asked Mrs. Barnes to get her settled with a glass of champagne and a plate of the petit fours we serve in Engagements.”

“So you have absolutely no interest in the woman, yet she’s in your office snacking on bridal food.”

Before Dalton could comment, there was a soft knock on the door.

The brothers exchanged a loaded glance, and Dalton swiftly covered the jeweled egg with the lid to its tasteful indigo box.

Once the treasure was safely ensconced in velvet, Artem said, “Come in.”

The door opened, revealing Dalton’s secretary balancing a plate of petit fours in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, wearing a distinct look of alarm. “I’m sorry to interrupt...”

Dalton’s gut churned. Something wasn’t right. But what could have gone wrong in the span of a few minutes? “Yes, Mrs. Barnes?”

“Your guest is gone, Mr. Drake.”

Surely she was mistaken. Aurélie wouldn’t just take off and leave the eggs behind. She wouldn’t think about walking around a strange city all alone, without her security detail.

Or would she?

Dalton swore under his breath. Why did he get the feeling that Aurélie would do both of those things without bothering to consider the possible disastrous consequences of her actions?

Live a little, Mr. Drake.

“Shall I take a look in the ladies’ room?” Mrs. Barnes asked.

Dalton shook his head. If he thought for one second that Aurélie Marchand could be found in the ladies’ room of Drake Diamonds, he’d march in there and go get her himself. “No, thank you. I’ll see to her whereabouts. That will be all, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded and disappeared in the direction of Dalton’s office.

“Calm down, brother. I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. She’s not going to just disappear and leave the Marchand family jewels behind.” Artem waved a casual hand at the velvet box in the center of the table.

Dalton sighed. “Have you forgotten that she’s in a strange city? In a foreign country. All alone.”

“Exactly. She’s hasn’t ventured any further than the Plaza. Come on, I’ll help you track her down.” Artem reached for the suit jacket on the back of his chair.

“No,” Dalton said through gritted teeth. He pointed at the velvet box. “You stay, and see to it that the eggs are safely locked away in the vault. I’ll find Miss Marchand.”

And when he did, he’d lay down some ground rules for their arrangement. After he’d made it clear that he considered her behavior wholly unacceptable. Princess or not.

“As you wish,” Artem said. “But can I give you one piece of advice?”

Dalton glared at him. “Do I have a choice?”

“Whatever you do, don’t take her to bed.” Artem’s mouth curved into a knowing grin. “Assuming you find her, of course.”

* * *

Who did Dalton Drake think he was?

She hadn’t traveled halfway across the world, and risked the wrath of her father, only to stay trapped in a closed room on the tenth floor of Drake Diamonds. Not that the surroundings weren’t opulent. On the contrary, the place was steeped in elegant luxury, from the pale blue plush carpet to the tasteful crown molding. It felt more like being in a palace than a jewelry store.

Which was precisely the problem.

She didn’t want to be stuck inside this grand institution. It wasn’t what she’d signed on for. Did he not realize the risks she’d taken to get here? She already had three missed call notifications on her cell from Delamotte. None from her father, thank goodness. It would take him days, if not weeks, to realize she was gone. The Reigning Prince had more important things to worry about than something as trivial as his only daughter fleeing the country. Oh, the irony.

But the palace staff was another story. They watched her every move and minced no words when it came to their opinions on her behavior. Or her fashion sense. Or her hair.

Or her love life. They had plenty to say about that.

How on earth was she going to pull this off? What if her father came looking for her?

She sighed. She wasn’t going to think about that now. Besides, she was lost in the maze of pale blue and the sparkle of the diamond store. How would she find her way around New York when she couldn’t even manage to navigate the terrain of Drake Diamonds?

Every room looked the same. Row upon row of diamonds sparkled beneath gleaming glass. Chandelier earrings. Long platinum chains with dazzling pendants shaped like antique keys. Shiny silver bracelets with heart-shaped charms.

Engagement rings.

Aurélie looked around and realized she was surrounded by couples embracing, holding hands and clinking champagne flutes together while they gazed into one another’s eyes. Everywhere she turned, teary-eyed brides-to-be were slipping diamond solitaires on their fingers.

She felt oddly hollow all of a sudden. Numb. Empty.

Alone.

For some silly reason she remembered the feel of Dalton’s palm sliding against her own when they’d shaken on their deal. He had strong hands. The hands of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. What he wanted right now was her secret egg, of course. She’d given it to him on a silver platter.

And now he was gone.

Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Again. Aurélie switched it off and removed the SIM card without bothering to look at the display. Without a SIM card, the GPS tracking on her iPhone wouldn’t work. At least she thought she remembered reading that somewhere.

She really should have had a better escape plan. Or at least a plan.

Her gaze snagged on a silver sign hanging on the wall with discreet black lettering. Will you? Welcome to the Drake Diamond Engagement Collection.

She rolled her eyes, marched straight to the elevator and jabbed at the down button with far too much force.

But as she waited, something made her turn and look again, some perverse urge to torture herself. Maybe she needed a reminder of why she’d fled Delamotte. Maybe she wanted to test herself to see if she could stand there in the midst of so much romantic bliss without breaking down. Maybe she’d simply left the vestiges of dignity back in her home country.

She stared at the happy couples, unabashed in their affection, and felt as though she were disappearing. Fading into the tasteful cream-colored wallpaper.

None of this is real, she told herself. She didn’t believe any of it for a minute.

She wanted to, though. Oh how she wanted to. She wanted to believe that happy endings were real, that love could last, that marriage was something more than just another transaction. A business deal.

A bargain.

But she didn’t dare, because believing the fairy tale would hurt too much. Believing would mean admitting she was missing out on something she’d never have. Something worth more than deep crimson rubies, cabochon emeralds and the entire collection of imperial Marchand eggs.

Why was the elevator taking so long? She pushed the button a few more times, yet still jumped in surprise when the chime signaled the elevator’s arrival. The doors swished open, and she half ran, half stumbled inside.

A hand caught her elbow. “Are you all right, miss?”

She blinked up at the elevator attendant dressed in a stylish black suit, pristine white shirt and a bowtie the same hue as the Windsor knot that had sat at the base of Dalton Drake’s muscular neck. Aurélie’s gaze lingered on that soft shade of blue as she remembered how perfectly Dalton’s silk tie had set off his strong jawline.

“I’m fine, thank you.” The elevator closed and began its downward descent, away from all those engagement rings and the quiet solitude of Dalton’s office.

The elevator attendant smiled. “Do you need help finding anything?”

Aurélie shook her head, despite the fact that she didn’t know the first thing about New York. She didn’t know how to hail a cab or ride the subway. She didn’t even have a single American dollar in her fancy handbag. She had a wallet full of euros, yet she wasn’t even familiar with the exchange rate.

But none of that mattered. She just wanted to get out of there.

Now.


Chapter Three (#u1b0aff8d-7cf2-53cb-86be-9ed90a7e552e)

Right around the time he was on the verge of losing his mind, Dalton spotted Aurélie on the outskirts of Central Park. She was standing beneath a portable blue awning at the corner of Central Park South and 59th Street, directly across the street from the Plaza Hotel. She was holding a dog. Not a hot dog, but an actual dog. Which for some reason only exacerbated the pounding in Dalton’s temples. The woman was impossible.

What had she been thinking? She didn’t want to be discovered, yet she’d walked right out the door. Unaccompanied. Unprotected. Undisguised. It was enough to give Dalton a coronary.

At least he’d been able to find her with relative ease. All told, it had only taken about a quarter of an hour. Still, those fifteen minutes had undoubtedly been the longest of Dalton’s life.

To top things off, a street musician had parked himself right outside the entrance of Drake Diamonds with his violin and his tip bucket. This marked the third time in less than a month that Dalton had ordered him to leave. Next time, he’d call the cops.

He squinted against the winter wind and shoved his bare hands into his trouser pockets. He’d been in a panic when he’d spun his way out of the store through the revolving door and onto the snowy sidewalk. Filled with dread and angry beyond all comprehension, he hadn’t even bothered to grab a coat, and now, three blocks later, he was freezing.

Freezing and absolutely furious.

He dashed across the street without bothering to wait for the signal at the pedestrian crossing, enraging a few cab drivers in the process. Dalton didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight until he’d returned her safely to his office. And then...

What?

He wasn’t actually sure what he’d do at that point. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now he simply planned on escorting her back to his store on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street while administering a searing lecture on the dangers of disappearing without giving him any sort of notice whatsoever.

“Aurélie!” He jogged the distance from the curb to where she stood, still holding onto the damn dog.

She didn’t hear him. Either that, or she was intentionally ignoring him. It was a toss-up, although Dalton would have greatly preferred the former.

“Aurélie,” he said again, through gritted teeth, when he reached her side.

An older woman wearing a hooded parka and fingerless mittens stood next to her. There was a clipboard in her hands and a small playpen filled with little dogs yipping and pouncing on one another at her feet. The woman eyed Dalton, giving him a thorough once-over, and frowned.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Aurélie said blithely, without tearing her gaze from the trembling, bug-eyed dog in her arms.

It stared at Dalton over her shoulder. He stared back and decided it was possibly the ugliest dog he’d ever set eyes on. Its pointed ears were comically huge, which might have been endearing if not for the googly eyes that appeared to be looking in two completely different directions. And it had a wide, flat muzzle. Not to mention the god-awful snuffling sounds coming from the dog’s smashed little face.

“Hello.” The woman with the clipboard nodded. “Are you the boyfriend?”

Boyfriend?

Hardly.

He opened his mouth to say no—God no—but before he could utter a syllable, Aurélie nodded. “Yes, here he is. Finally.”

Dalton didn’t know what kind of game she was playing, and frankly, he didn’t care. If she wanted to pose as some kind of couple in front of this random stranger who could possibly recognize her from the tabloids, then fine. Although, the idea was laughable at best.

“Yes, here I am.” He turned sharp eyes on her with the vague realization that he wasn’t laughing. Not even close. “Finally. Surely you’re aware I’ve been looking for you, sweetheart.”

At last she met his gaze. With snowflakes in her eyelashes and rosy, wind-kissed cheeks, she looked more Snow Queen than princess.

And lovelier than ever.

Nature suited her. Or maybe it was winter itself, the way the bare trees and dove-gray sky seemed to echo the lonely look in her eyes. Seeing her like this, amidst the quiet grace of a snowfall, holding onto that ugly dog like a child hugging a teddy bear, Dalton got a startling glimpse of her truth.

She was running from something. That’s why she’d left Delamotte. That’s why she’d shown up in men’s clothes and begged him not to call the palace. She wasn’t here on holiday. She was here to get lost in the crowd.

Not that her reasons had anything to do with Dalton. He was simply her means to an end, and vice versa.

“What’s our address again? Silly me, I keep forgetting.” She let out a laugh.

Dalton fought to keep his expression neutral. Surely she wasn’t planning on moving into his apartment. That’s what hotels were for. And there were approximately 250 of them in New York.

Then again, who knew what sort of trouble she could get into unsupervised.

His headache throbbed with renewed intensity. “Our address?”

“Of course, darling. You know, the place where we live.” Quicker than a blink, her gaze flitted to the woman with the clipboard. “Together.”

Struggling to absorb the word darling, he muttered the address of his building in the Upper East Side. The woman with the clipboard jotted it down.

Who was this person, anyway? And why did Aurélie think she had any business knowing where they lived? Where I live. Not we. Good God, not we.

He leaned closer to get a look at whatever form she appeared to be filling out. The bold letters at the top of the page spelled out Pet Adoption Agreement.

“Wait,” Dalton said, as something wet and foul-smelling slapped against the side of his face. He recoiled and realized, with no small degree of horror, that it was the googly-eyed puppy’s tongue.

Marvelous. He wiped his cheek with the cuff of his suit jacket, and aimed his fiercest death glare at Aurélie. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We are adopting a dog, darling.” Again with the darling.

And again with the we.

“I believe this is the type of thing we should discuss,” he said, trying not to imagine the dreadful dog snoring like a freight train in his office while he tried to run the company.

Or, God forbid, snoring in his bed. Because if adopting homeless animals was the sort of thing she did on a whim when he wasn’t looking, she’d need to stay with him. Who knew what kind of trouble she could get into if he left her all alone in a hotel room for a fortnight?

He’d been wrong when he’d described her to Artem as impulsive. Impulsive didn’t even begin to describe Aurélie. She was full-blown crazy. Either that or the most manipulative woman he’d ever met.

“But we did discuss it. This morning.” Her bow-shaped lips curved into a beguiling smile that hit Dalton square in his libido, despite the deafening clang of warning bells going off in his head.

She was business. She was irritating to no end. And what’s more, she was far too headstrong for his taste. He shouldn’t be attracted to her in any way, shape or form. Nor should he be thinking about that troublesome mouth of hers and the myriad ways in which he’d prefer to see her use it.

She rested a hand on his bicep and gave it a firm squeeze. “Surely you remember our agreement?”

Unbelievable. She was using the secret egg to blackmail him into adopting a dog. She wasn’t crazy at all. Cunning. Most definitely.

Dalton Drake didn’t take orders. Nor did he allow himself to be manipulated in such a manner. Aurélie would learn as much soon enough. But not until he’d taken the pathetic animal home, apparently.

“Well?” The clipboard-wielding woman tilted her head. “What’s it going to be? Do you want to adopt him or not?”

Aurélie nodded furiously. “Absolutely. We do. Right, darling?” She looked at him expectantly. So confident. So certain he’d acquiesce to whatever she demanded.

He had a mind to refuse and put her on the next plane back to the French Riviera, along with the dog and all of the Marchand family jewels. Yes, they had a deal. But it didn’t encompass sending him on a wild goose chase. Nor did it include sharing his apartment. With her, or the dog.

He hadn’t taken a woman into his home since Clarissa. But that had been a long time ago. He’d been a different man.

Think of the egg. What it could do for business.

He looked at Aurélie for a long moment, and for some ridiculous reason, Artem’s warning came flooding back.

Whatever you do, don’t take her to bed.

He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. The very fact that Artem had seen fit to mention the possibility was preposterous. Dalton wasn’t the one who’d bedded half the women in Manhattan. That had been Artem’s doing. Dalton’s self-control was legendary.

But looking into Aurélie’s aching emerald eyes did something to him. That vulnerability that she hid so well was barely noticeable, but very much there. And it made him wonder what she’d look like bare in the moonlight, dressed in nothing but pearls.

Damn you, Artem.

Then, before he could stop himself, he heard himself say, “Fine. We’ll take the dog.”

* * *

What kind of person didn’t like animals?

The kind who was seething quietly beside Aurélie, evidently.

Dalton hadn’t uttered a word since he’d paid the adoption fee and slipped the receipt into his suit pocket. He’d simply aimed a swift, emotionless glance at Aurélie, cupped her elbow in the palm of his hand and steered her back in the direction of Drake Diamonds. Now, less than a block later, he was walking so fast that she struggled to keep up with him. She had a mind to give up entirely and pop into the Plaza for afternoon tea, but looking at the tense set of Dalton’s muscular shoulders as he marched in front of her, she got the distinct feeling there’d be hell to pay if she didn’t fall in step behind him.

Plus she didn’t have any money. Or credit cards. Which meant she was totally dependent on the very cranky Dalton Drake.

Besides, every three or four paces, he glanced over his shoulder, probably to assure himself of her obedience. It was infuriating, particularly when Aurélie recalled the archaic Delamotte law that stated royal wives must walk a minimum of two paces behind their husbands in public. No doubt a man had come up with such a ludicrous decree.

She held the trembling little dog tight against her chest and hastened her steps. She wasn’t Dalton’s lowly subordinate, and she refused to act like it. Even if, as they said in Delamotte, la moutarde lui monte au nez. The mustard was getting to his nose. In other words, he was angry.

Fine. So was she. And she wasn’t spending another second scurrying to keep up with him.

“Arrête! Stop it.” She tugged on his sleeve, sending him lurching backward.

Dalton’s conservative businessman shoes slid on the snowy pavement, but he righted himself before he fell down. Pity.

He exhaled a mighty sigh, raked his disheveled hair back into place and stared down at her with thunder in his gaze. “What is it, Aurélie?”

She blinked up at him, wishing for what felt like the thousandth time, that he wasn’t so handsome. His intensity would be far easier to take if it didn’t come in such a beautiful package.

His gray eyes flashed, and a shiver coursed through Aurélie. As much as she would have liked to blame it on the cold, she knew the trembling in her bones had nothing to do with the weather. He got to her. Especially when he looked at her like he could see every troublesome thought tumbling in her head. “What do you want?”

What did she want?

Not this. Not the carefully controlled existence she’d lived with for so long. Not the future awaiting her on the distant shores of home.

She wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted, only that she needed it as surely as she needed to breathe. She couldn’t name it—this dark, aching thing inside her that had become impossible to ignore once her father had sat her down and laid out his plans for her future.

Palace life had never come easily to Aurélie. Even as a child, she’d played too hard, laughed too loudly, run too fast. Then that little girl had grown into a woman who felt things too keenly. Wanted things too much. The wrong things.

Just like her mother.

Aurélie had learned to conduct herself like royalty, though. Eventually. It had been years since she’d torn through the palace halls, since she’d danced with abandon. She’d become the model princess. Proper. Polite. Demure.

But since the awful meeting with the Reigning Prince and his advisors a month ago, her carefully constructed façade had begun to crack. She couldn’t keep pretending, no matter how hard she tried.

What do I want? She couldn’t say, but she’d know it when she found it.

Dalton glowered at Aurélie.

She inhaled a breath of frigid air and felt as if she might freeze from the inside out. “Are you always this cranky?”

He arched a single, accusatory brow. “Are you always this irresponsible?”

“Irresponsible?” The nerve. He didn’t know a thing about her life in Delamotte. “Did I just hear you correctly?”

People jostled past them on the sidewalk. Skyscrapers towered on either side of the street. The snow was coming down harder now, like they were inside a snow globe that had been given a good, hard shake.

“You certainly did,” he said.

God, he was rude. Particularly for a man who wanted something from her. “You do realize who you’re speaking to, don’t you, Mr. Drake?”

He looked pointedly at the puppy in Aurélie’s arms.

The little dog whimpered, and she gave him a comforting squeeze.

If she put herself in Dalton’s shoes, she could understand how adopting a dog on a whim might appear a tad irresponsible. But it wasn’t a whim. Not exactly. And anyway, she shouldn’t have to explain herself. They had a deal.

He crossed his arms. Aurélie tried not to think about the biceps that appeared to be straining the fabric of his suit jacket. How did a man who so obviously spent most of his time at work get muscles like that? It was hardly fair. “You said you wanted a hot dog, not a French bulldog.”

What was he even talking about? Oh, that’s right—her grand speech. “The hot dog was a metaphor, Mr. Drake.”

“And what about the pretzel? Was that a metaphor, as well?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean...” Merde. Why did she get so flustered every time she tried to talk to him? “What do you have against dogs, anyway?”

“Nothing.” He frowned. How anyone could frown in the presence of a puppy was a mystery Aurélie couldn’t begin to fathom. “I do, however, have a problem with your little disappearing act.”

“And I have a problem with your patronizing attitude.”

She needed to put an end to this ridiculous standoff and get them both inside, preferably somewhere other than Dalton’s boring office. “I could very easily pack up my egg and go home, if you like.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, and to her utter astonishment, he began walking away.

“I beg your pardon?” she sputtered.

He turned back around. “Fine. Go back to your castle. And take the mutt with you.”

A slap to the face wouldn’t have been more painful. She squared her shoulders and did her best to ignore the panicked beating of her heart. “He has a name.”

“Since when? Five minutes ago?”

“It’s Jacques.” She ran a hand over the dog’s smooth little head. “In case you were wondering.”

A hint of a smile passed through his gaze. “Very French. I’m sure the palace will love it.”

She wasn’t sure if his praise was genuine or sarcastic. Either way, it sent a pleasant thrill skittering through Aurélie. A pleasant thrill that irritated her to no end.

Why should she care what he thought about anything? Clearly he considered her spoiled. Foolish. Irresponsible. He’d said as much, right to her face. When he looked at her, he saw one thing. A princess.

She wondered what it would be like to be seen. Really seen. Every move she made back home was watched and reported. Not a day passed when her face wasn’t on the front page of the Delamotte papers.

“Let’s be serious, Mr. Drake. We both know I’m not going anywhere. You want that egg.”

He took a few steps nearer, until she could feel the angry heat of his body. Too close. Much too close. “Yes, I do. But not as much as you wish to escape whatever it is you’re running from. You’re not going anywhere. I, on the other hand, won’t hesitate to call the palace. Tell me, Princess, what is it that’s got you so frightened?”

As if she would share any part of herself with someone like him. She hadn’t crossed an ocean in an effort to get away from one overbearing man, only to throw herself into the path of another.

She leveled her gaze at him. “Nothing scares me, Mr. Drake. Least of all, your empty threats. If you’re not prepared to uphold your end of our bargain, then I will, in fact, leave. Only I won’t take my egg back to Delamotte. I’ll take it right down the street to Harry Winston.”

She pasted a sweet smile on her face. Dalton gave her a long look, and as the silence stretched between them, she feared he might actually call her bluff.

Finally, he placed a hand on the small of her back and said, “Come. Let’s go home.”


Chapter Four (#u1b0aff8d-7cf2-53cb-86be-9ed90a7e552e)

The next morning, Dalton woke to the sensation of a warm body pressed against his. For a moment—just an aching, bittersweet instant—he allowed himself to believe he’d somehow traveled back to the past. Back to a time when there’d been more to life than work. And his office. And yet more work.

Then an unpleasant snuffling sound came from the body beside him, followed by a sneeze that sprayed his entire forearm with a hot, breathy mist. Dalton opened one eye. Sure enough, the beast he found staring back at him was most definitely not a woman. It was the damned dog.

He sighed. “What are you doing in here? I thought we agreed the bedroom was off-limits?”

The puppy’s head tilted at the sound of his voice, a gesture that would have probably been adorable if the dog weren’t so ridiculous-looking. And if he weren’t currently situated in Dalton’s bed, with his comically oversized head nestled right beside Dalton’s on his pillow—eiderdown, imported from Geneva.

Dalton’s gaze landed on a dark puddle of drool in the center of the pillowcase. Eiderdown or not, the pillow had just become a dog bed.

He rolled his eyes as he strode naked to the marble bathroom at the far end of the master suite and turned on the shower. Perhaps a soggy pillow was his penance for allowing a royal princess to sleep on his sofa rather than giving up his bed. Not that he hadn’t tried. But at 1 a.m., she’d still been perched cross-legged on the oversized tufted ottoman in the living room, flipping through the hundreds of channels his satellite dish company offered, like a giddy child on holiday. Dalton hadn’t even known he subscribed to so much programming. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d turned on the television.

Sleeping in his office had become something of a habit, especially in recent years. But he couldn’t very well spend the night there with Aurélie. He wasn’t about to let the staff at Drake Diamonds see her hanging about his office in her pajamas. Explaining her sudden presence in his life—and the need for a duplicate key to his apartment—to the doorman of his building had been awkward enough. Until she’d slipped her arm through his and called him darling, that is.

They were masquerading as a couple. Again.

Dalton wasn’t sure why he found that arrangement so vexing. She couldn’t introduce herself as a princess. That was out of the question. Posing as his lover was the obvious choice.

Dalton stepped under the spray of his steam shower and let the hot water beat against the rigid muscles in his shoulders. Every inch of his body was taut with tension. He told himself it had nothing to do with the bewildered expression on the doorman’s face as Aurélie had gripped his arm with her delicate fingertips and given him a knowing smile, as if they’d been on their way upstairs so he could ravish her. Was the idea of a woman in his life really so far-fetched?

Yes, he supposed it was. He didn’t bring dates here. Ever. There were too many ghosts roaming the penthouse.

It isn’t real. It’s nothing but a temporary illusion, a necessary evil.

In just thirteen days, Dalton’s existence would return to its predictable, orderly state. He’d have his life back. And that life would be significantly improved, because the display cases in the first floor showroom of Drake Diamonds would be filled with sparkling, bejeweled eggs.

He knew precisely where he would put the secret egg—in the same glass box that had once housed the revered Drake Diamond. The 130-carat wonder had held a place of honor in the family’s flagship store since the day the doors opened to the public. Tourists came from all over the city just to see the stone, which had only been worn by two women in the 150 years since Dalton’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather had plucked it from a remote mine in South Africa and subsequently carved it into one of the most famous gemstones in the world.

The loss of that diamond just three months after the death of Dalton’s father had been like losing a limb. Granted, Artem had managed to buy it back for his wife, Ophelia. But it belonged to her personally now. Not the store. The Drake Diamond’s display case sat empty.

Not that Dalton despised the sight of that vacant spot for sentimental reasons. The Drakes had never been an emotional bunch, and sentimentality had been the last thing on Dalton’s mind once he’d learned he’d been passed over in favor of Artem for the CEO position. His pride was at stake. His position in the family business.

He didn’t want to restore Drake Diamonds to its former glory. He wanted to surpass it, to make the institution into something so grand that his father wouldn’t even recognize it if he rose from his grave, walked through the front door and set foot on the plush Drake-blue carpet.

Selling the Drake Diamond had been a necessity. Geoffrey Drake had plunged the family business so far into debt that there’d been no other option. And he hadn’t told a soul. He’d sat in an office just down the hall from Dalton every day for years and hadn’t said a word about the defunct diamond mine that had stripped the company of all its cash reserves. About the debt. About any of it.

Dalton shouldn’t have been surprised. Honesty had never been his father’s strong suit. Artem’s very existence was a testament to their father’s trustworthiness, or lack thereof. Dalton hadn’t even known he had a brother until his father had brought five-year-old Artem home to the Drake mansion. Judging from the look of hurt and confusion on his mother’s pale face, it had come as a surprise to her as well. Less than a year later, she was dead. To this day, Dalton’s sister blamed their mother’s death on a broken heart.

If there was a bright side to any of his family’s sordid past or the recent sudden death of their patriarch, it was that the brothers had made peace with each other. At long last. When Artem had made the decision to sell the Drake Diamond, he’d saved the company. Dalton could admit as much.

But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

He needed to be the one to transform Drake Diamonds into something more spectacular than it had ever been. It was the only way to justify his years of mindless devotion to the family business. He needed those years to mean something. He needed something to show for his life. Something other than loss.

He switched the shower faucet to the off position with more force than was necessary, and then grabbed a towel. On any other day, he would already have put in a solid hour behind his desk by now. He dressed as quickly as possible, adjusted the Windsor knot in his Drake-blue tie and resigned himself to the fact that it was time to venture into the living room and wake Aurélie. But first he needed to get the snoring beast out of his bed.

Dalton scooped the dog up and tried to wrap his mind around how something so tiny could make so much noise. Then his gaze landed on a wet spot in the center of the duvet. The little monster had peed in his bed. Perfect. Just perfect.

“Seriously?”

The animal’s googly eyes peered up at Dalton. He sighed mightily.

“Aurélie!” He stormed into the living room without bothering to deal with the mess. “Your charge requires attention.”

The television was blaring and the sofa was piled with pillows and blankets, but Aurélie wasn’t there. Dalton’s temples began to pound. She’d run off? Again?

The puppy squirmed in his arms and let out a little yip, so Dalton lowered him to the floor. He scampered toward the kitchen, tripping over his own head a few times in the process.

“Mon petit chou!”

Dalton didn’t know whether to feel relieved at the sound of Aurélie’s voice or angry. Angry about the dog. About the near heart attack he’d just experienced when he’d thought she’d run off again. About every ridiculous thing she’d done since she’d breezed into his life less than twenty-four hours ago.

He settled on relief, until he followed the dog into the kitchen and caught his first glimpse of Aurélie’s appearance.

She stood leaning against the counter with her mass of blond hair piled in a messy updo, wearing nothing but her luminous strand of gold pearls and a crisp men’s white tuxedo shirt. His tuxedo shirt, if Dalton wasn’t mistaken. But it wasn’t the idea that she’d slept in his freshly pressed formal wear that got under his skin. It was the sight of her bare, willowy legs, the curve of her breasts beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt, the lush fullness of her bottom lip.

All of it.

He went hard in an instant, and the thought occurred to him that perhaps the only ghost inhabiting the apartment in the past few years had been him.

Whatever you do, don’t take her to bed.

“Bonjour.” Aurélie smiled. “Look at you, all dressed and ready for work. Why am I not surprised?”

Dalton shook his head. He was aroused to the point of pain. “We’re not going to the office.”

“Non?”

Non. Very much non. Suddenly, there was a more pressing matter that required attention—clothing the princess living under his roof before he did something royally stupid.

“Get ready. We’re going shopping.” He lifted a brow at the puppy in her arms. “As soon as you clean up after your dog.”

* * *

After more cajoling than Aurélie could have possibly anticipated, Dalton finally acquiesced and agreed to take the subway rather than using his driver. He appeared distinctly uncomfortable doing so.

Aurélie couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since he’d ridden any form of public transportation. Granted, he was rich. That much was obvious. And just in case it hadn’t been so glaringly apparent, the Google search Aurélie had conducted of Drake Diamonds on her phone the night before had confirmed as much.

According to Forbes, the flagship store on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street was the most valuable piece of real estate in the entire country. The building and its contents were worth slightly more than Fort Knox, where America’s official gold reserves were held.

So yes, Dalton Drake was quite wealthy. And as he took such pleasure in pointing out over and over again, he was also busy. But this was New York. She’d assumed that everyone rode the subway, even rich workaholics like Dalton Drake.

Aurélie was also tempted to ask him how long it had been since he’d set foot in a building that didn’t bear his name. She couldn’t help but notice the discreet script lettering spelling out The Drake on the elegant black awnings of his apartment building. He seemed to spend every waking moment inside his sprawling penthouse or his jewelry store, where the name Drake was splashed everywhere, including across the structure’s granite Art Deco exterior.

She didn’t ask him either of those things, though. Instead, she soaked up every detail of riding the city’s underground—the click of the silver turnstiles, the bright orange seats, the heady feeling of barreling through tunnels. The train sped from stop to stop, picking up and letting off people from all walks of life. Students with backpacks. Mommies with infants. Businessmen with briefcases.

None of those businessmen, however, were quite as formidable as the man standing beside her. No matter how much she tried to ignore him, Aurélie was overly conscious of Dalton’s presence.

As fascinated as she was by the hordes of New Yorkers, the bustling subway stations, even the jostling movement of the train, she couldn’t fully focus on any of it. Her gaze kept straying to Dalton’s broad shoulders, his freshly shaven square jaw, his full, sensual mouth.

If only she could ignore him properly. But it proved an impossible task, no matter how hard she tried. During the frantic disembarking process at one of the stops, someone shoved Aurélie from behind and she found herself pressed right up against Dalton’s formidable chest, her lips mere inches from his. She stiffened, unable to move or even breathe, and prayed he couldn’t feel the frantic beating of her heart through the soft cashmere of his coat.

She’d been so overwhelmed by the sheer closeness of him that she couldn’t quite seem to think, much less right herself. Until he glared down at her with that disapproving gray gaze of his. Again.

Right. He was a serious CEO, and she was nothing but a spoiled, irresponsible princess. Duly noted.

“We’re here,” he said, as the doors of the train whooshed open.

Aurélie glanced at the tile mosaic sign on the wall. Lexington Avenue. “Wait, this isn’t...”

But Dalton’s hand was already in the small of her back and he was guiding her through the station and out onto the snowy sidewalk before she could finish her thought. As usual, he was on a mission. Aurélie was just along for the ride, but at least when he noticed how enraptured she was by the opulent shop windows, he slowed his steps. When she stopped to admire a display of dresses made entirely of colorful paper flowers, she caught a glimpse of Dalton’s reflection, and it looked almost as though he were smiling at her.

Then their eyes met in the glittering glass and any trace of a smile on his handsome face vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

He cleared his throat. “Shall we continue?”

That voice. Such a dark, low sound that sent a dangerous chill skittering up Aurélie’s spine, for which she heartily admonished herself. She shouldn’t be attracted to Dalton Drake. She couldn’t. He had too much leverage over her as it was. Besides, she had enough men in her life. More than enough.

“Yes.” She breezed past him as if she knew precisely where they were headed, when in fact, she hadn’t a clue. “Let’s.”

“Aurélie,” he said, with a hint of amusement in his tone. “We’re going that way.”

He pointed over his shoulder. This time, he most definitely smiled, and his grin was far too smug for Aurélie’s taste.

Fine, she thought. No, not fine. Good. He was much easier to despise when he was being arrogant. Which, to Aurélie’s great relief, was most of the time.

They walked the next few blocks in silence until they reached a sleek black marble building that appeared to take up an entire city block. Like both of Dalton’s namesake buildings, it had a doorman stationed out front. And gold-plated door handles. And a glittering, grand chandelier Aurélie could see through the polished windows. She squinted up at the sign. Bergdorf Goodman.

Without even setting foot inside, she could tell it was elegant. Tasteful. Expensive. Everything she didn’t want.

She shook her head. “Non.”

Beside her, Dalton sighed. “I beg your pardon?”

Aurélie pretended not to notice the hint of menace in his deep voice. “No, thank you. I’d rather go someplace else.”

“But we haven’t even gone inside.” He eyed her.

Let him be mad. Aurélie didn’t care. The rest of her life would be spent in designer dresses and kitten heels. This was her holiday, not his. She had no intention of spending it dressed like a royal. “I don’t need to go in. I can tell it’s not the sort of place where I want to shop for clothes.”





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