The Princess Problem

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.