The Princess Problem

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.