Buch lesen: «The Princess Problem»

Chapter One

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.