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 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
