Free The Princess and the Billionaire by Barbara Bretton

work.”
    “Of course it worked,” she said, unable to mask her delight. “We’re dancing, aren’t we?”
    “Not anymore.” With a mock bow, he released her, then turned to head toward the French doors leading out to the terrace.
    Murderous rage filled Isabelle’s breast, and she started after him.
    “Cara.” Gianni Vitelli appeared at her side, bearing a flute of Dom Perignon. “I live to serve.”
    She took the glass, blew him a kiss, then continued toward the French doors. She’d make it up to the handsome Italian later. Right now all she could think about was giving the obnoxious American businessman a piece of her mind.
    The raw beauty of the night stopped her in her tracks. The stars overhead were shattered crystal against a moonless sky, and the only sound was the low rumble of the heaters, positioned at discreet intervals along the perimeter of the terrace. She drew in a long breath, cold air mingled with the scent of pine and the sharp smell of an approaching snowstorm.
    It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the absence of light as she searched for Bronson. There! Over in the far corner she saw the red glimmer of a glowing cigarette. A cheap American brand, no doubt.
    She gulped some champagne then stalked over to where he stood, looking out into the blackness. She stopped mere inches away from him, demanding his full and utter attention with the force of her will.
    “I should throw this champagne in your arrogant face.”
    He didn’t even have the decency to meet her eyes. “I wouldn’t try it.”
    “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Didn’t you once tell me you would hit a woman?”
    “If she pulled a stunt like that, damn straight I would.”
    “How perfectly Neanderthal of you.”
    “I’m funny like that, princess. Hit me, and I’m damn likely to hit you back.”
    “A real man wouldn’t behave like that.”
    “Yeah? Well, a real woman wouldn’t embarrass another woman the way you did back there.”
    Isabelle dismissed his criticism with a wave of her hand. “Margot knows there was nothing personal about the exchange.”
    “You’re probably right,” he said. “Most of the people around here seem to accept lousy behavior as the norm.”
    “I’m so sorry if we’ve offended you. How could I have forgotten America is the last bastion of polite society on earth.”
    “Hell of a lot more polite than anything I’ve seen here tonight.”
    “Then why don’t you go home, Mr. Bronson, where the atmosphere suits your sensibilities?”
    He looked at his watch. “My plane leaves in ten hours and eleven minutes.”
    “And I suggest you be on it.”
    “Don’t worry about it, princess.” The look he gave her was anything but flattering. “There isn’t anything here to keep me.”
    There was something about his words—or maybe it was the way he said them, or maybe it was the feeling that there was no one on earth who understood one blessed thing about her. Whatever it was, the tears she’d been holding back all day burst forth with a vengeance, and she sank down onto a bench and began to sob.
    * * *
    “Jesus Christ,” Daniel muttered under his breath. “Don’t cry.”
    He came from a long line of men who were lousy at dealing with crying women, and from an equally long line of women who knew exactly how to use that to advantage. He was the worst of the lot. The sight of a woman dissolved in tears usually reduced him to a useless blob of testosterone.
    He stood there staring down at her while she sobbed into the hem of her fancy ballgown, and felt an alarming rush of something too close to affection for his own comfort. This wasn’t some poor kid with a broken heart. This was a rich brat, born on the right side of the royal sheets and determined to make sure everyone on the planet knew about it. She was the kind of woman he disliked on sight. She was arrogant, self-centered, and—damn it—crying as if her heart would break.
    “For Christ’s sake,” he said, grabbing