The Princess Problem. Teri Wilson
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.
“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