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ripping apart a piece of honey bread and smearing it with sweet butter. I’m not laughing at you. Not really. Who would’ve figured the girl with the sharp tongue would have such thin skin? He didn’t want to think of her as a real live person with a breakable heart. He wanted to think of her only as another of Perreault’s underutilized natural resources.
    The word around town was that she was wild as an unbroken mare, as flighty and unpredictable as her mother, and twice as beautiful. While the old-timers on the staff despaired for her future, they still seemed to have a soft spot in their hearts for Isabelle, a soft spot that didn’t exist for her sister Juliana.
    Next to him Greta was going on about some idiotic horse show she was riding in next month in Philadelphia, and wouldn’t he absolutely love to come to Philly to cheer her on? He grunted something noncommittal and shot another look at the dark-haired princess. Those high, almost Slavic cheekbones and her straight nose gave her face a chiseled quality, softened only by the huge dark eyes with the thick tangle of lashes that cast a shadow each time she glanced down at her plate. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain-smooth, with a patch of high color riding across each cheekbone.
    It suddenly hit him that she wasn’t half as smart or sophisticated as she wanted him to believe. She was a nineteen-going-on-twenty-year-old girl with a bad case of the hots for a guy who wasn’t good enough to kiss her Maud Frizons. He’d overheard the servants talking about the little princess and Malraux’s son, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was all about. She thought she was in love, even though Bronson could have told her that sooner or later the fog would lift and she would see Eric Malraux for the nobody he was. People often mistook loneliness for love and, unless he missed his guess, this was one of those times. Trouble was, if he told Isabelle right now, she wouldn’t believe him.
    Just because he was too old and too jaded to believe in happily-ever-after was no reason to deny the girl her dreams. He’d had a first time himself and dreamed those same dreams. She’d learn soon enough that life didn’t always work out according to plan, not even for princesses with eyes dark as night.
    But still there was something about her that called out to Bronson in a way that made him feel both powerful and vulnerable at the same time. Something that went beyond the allure of her cascade of dark curls or the sweet curves of her ripe young body and touched at the most primitive part of his soul. She shifted in her seat, brushing away a lock of hair with an elegant, artless gesture and for a moment, Bronson knew exactly how she would feel in his arms. She was too young, too spoiled, too much trouble for a man as practical and pig-headed as he was, but still—
    I’m not laughing at you, princess, he thought as he met her eyes. I’m just wondering why I couldn’t have been first.

Chapter
Three

    B reakfast dragged on forever. There were so many people laughing about so many inconsequential things that Isabelle could scarcely manage to keep her mind on the foolish conversations flying about her head, much less respond in kind.
    Only forty-five minutes until she was in Eric’s arms once more. The thought was enough to make even this boring meal palatable. She sipped her coffee, listening for the deep roar of Eric’s Lamborghini. Outside, a crisp autumn day beckoned, and she wished she could meet Eric down near the lake. Away from prying eyes, she could throw herself into his arms and—
    Bronson’s amused laughter brought her back to the breakfast table. “Come on, princess,” he said in that infuriating American accent of his. “Dr. Wortham asked you a question.”
    Isabelle conquered her desire to kick him under the table. Instead she turned her attention to the physicist and managed to field some questions about Perreault’s stand on global