The Princess Problem. Teri Wilson

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 princess sitting in Dalton’s office. And for some nonsensical reason, she was waiting for him to take her on a grand adventure involving hot dogs and public transportation. How such things fit into anyone’s definition of a good time was beyond him.

      A sharp pain took up residence in Dalton’s temples. “Aurélie,” he muttered.

      Artem’s eyebrow arched, and he stared at Dalton for a moment that stretched far too long. “Pardon?”

      Dalton cleared his throat. “She’s asked me to call her Aurélie.”

      “Really?” Artem’s trademark amused expression made yet another appearance. To say it was beginning to grate on Dalton’s nerves would have been a massive understatement. “This princess sounds rather interesting.”

      “That’s one way of putting it, although I’d probably use another word.”

      “Like?”

      Unexpected. “Impulsive.” Whimsical. “Volatile.” Breathtaking. “Dangerous.”

      “That’s three words,” Artem corrected. “Interesting. The princess—excuse me, Aurélie—must have made quite an impression in the twenty minutes you spent with her.”

      Twenty minutes? Impossible. It had been precisely 10 a.m. when he’d first set eyes on those golden South Sea pearls. On that straight, regal back and exquisitely elegant neck. If the severity of the tension between his shoulder blades was any indication, he’d been dealing with the stress of harboring a royal runaway for at least two hours. Possibly three.

      Dalton glanced at his Cartier. It read 10:21. He’d need to add a massage therapist to the payroll at this rate. If he managed to keep an aneurysm at bay for the next few weeks.

      “I dare say you appear rather intrigued by her.” Artem’s gaze narrowed. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d go so far as to say you seem smitten. But of course the Dalton I know would never mix business and pleasure.”

      Damn straight. Dalton preferred pleasure of the no-strings variety, and he seldom had trouble finding it. Sex belonged in the bedroom, not the boardroom. He wasn’t Artem, for crying out loud. He could keep his libido in check when the situation called for it. “I assure you I’m not smitten. I have no feelings toward the princess whatsoever, aside from obligation.”

      “Ah yes, your bargain.” Artem turned the egg in his grasp, inspecting it. Blinding light reflected off its pavé diamonds in every direction, making the egg look far more precious than a collection of carefully arranged gemstones. Dynamic. Alive. A brilliant, beating heart.

      Dalton had never seen anything quite like it. The other Marchand imperial eggs paled in comparison. When it went on display in the showroom, Drake Diamonds would be packed wall-to-wall with people. People who wouldn’t go home without a Drake-blue bag dangling from their arms.

      If the egg went on display.

      It would. The exhibition and gala would take place as scheduled. The spectacular secret egg was just what Drake Diamonds needed. When Dalton and Artem’s father died, he’d left the family business on the verge of bankruptcy. They’d managed to climb their way back to solvency, but Drake Diamonds still wasn’t anywhere near where it had been in its glory days.

      Dalton aimed to fix that. With the egg, he could.

      He would personally see to it that the palace in Delamotte had nothing to worry about. He’d keep Aurélie under lock and key. Then, in three weeks’ time, she’d pack up the eggs and go straight home. Dalton would strap her into her airplane seat himself if he had to.

      Artem returned the egg to its shiny satin pedestal, peeled off the jeweler’s gloves and tossed them on the table. Then he crossed his arms and shot Dalton a wary glance. “Tell me, what sort of fun is the princess up to at the moment?”

      Dalton shrugged. “She’s in my office.”

      “Your office? Of course. Loads of fun, that place.” Artem shot him an exaggerated eye roll.

      This was going to stop. Dalton might have agreed to escort the princess on her grand adventure, but under no circumstances would he succumb to constant commentary on his personal life. “I’ve asked Mrs. Barnes to get her settled with a glass of champagne and a plate of the petit fours we serve in Engagements.”

      “So you have absolutely no interest in the woman, yet she’s in your office snacking on bridal food.”

      Before Dalton could comment, there was a soft knock on the door.

      The brothers exchanged a loaded glance, and Dalton swiftly covered the jeweled egg with the lid to its tasteful indigo box.

      Once the treasure was safely ensconced in velvet, Artem said, “Come in.”

      The door opened, revealing Dalton’s secretary balancing a plate of petit fours in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, wearing a distinct look of alarm. “I’m sorry to interrupt...”

      Dalton’s gut churned. Something wasn’t right. But what could have gone wrong in the span of a few minutes? “Yes, Mrs. Barnes?”

      “Your guest is gone, Mr. Drake.”

      Surely she was mistaken. Aurélie wouldn’t just take off and leave the eggs behind. She wouldn’t think about walking around a strange city all alone, without her security detail.

      Or would she?

      Dalton swore under his breath. Why did he get the feeling that Aurélie would do both of those things without bothering to consider the possible disastrous consequences of her actions?

      Live a little, Mr. Drake.

      “Shall I take a look in the ladies’ room?” Mrs. Barnes asked.

      Dalton shook his head. If he thought for one second that Aurélie Marchand could be found in the ladies’ room of Drake Diamonds, he’d march in there and go get her himself. “No, thank you. I’ll see to her whereabouts. That will be all, Mrs. Barnes.”

      “Yes, sir.” She nodded and disappeared in the direction of Dalton’s office.

      “Calm down, brother. I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. She’s not going to just disappear and leave the Marchand family jewels behind.” Artem waved a casual hand at the velvet box in the center of the table.

      Dalton sighed. “Have you forgotten that she’s in a strange city? In a foreign country. All alone.”

      “Exactly. She’s hasn’t ventured any further than the Plaza. Come on, I’ll help you track her down.” Artem reached for the suit jacket on the back of his chair.

      “No,” Dalton said through gritted teeth. He pointed at the velvet box. “You stay, and see to it that the eggs are safely locked away in the vault. I’ll find Miss Marchand.”

      And when he did, he’d lay down some ground rules for their arrangement. After he’d made it clear that he considered her behavior wholly unacceptable. Princess or not.

      “As you wish,” Artem said. “But can I give you one piece of advice?”