It suddenly hit Bronson that she wasn’t half as smart or sophisticated as she wanted him to believe. Isabelle was a nineteen-going-on-twenty-year-old girl with a bad case of the hots for a guy who wasn’t good enough to kiss her Jimmy Choos. He’d overheard the servants talking about the little princess and Malraux’s son, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was all about.

Just because he was too jaded to believe in happily-ever-after was no reason to deny the girl her dreams. She’d learn soon enough that life didn’t always work out according to plan, not even for princesses with eyes dark as night.

But still there was something about her that called out to him. Something that went beyond the allure of her cascade of dark curls or the sweet curves of her body and touched at the most primitive part of his soul. She shifted in her seat, brushing away a lock of hair with an elegant, artless gesture and for a moment, Bronson knew exactly how she would feel in his arms. She was too young, too spoiled, too much trouble for a man as practical and pig-headed as he was, but still—

I’m not laughing at you, princess, he thought as he met her eyes. I’m just wondering why I couldn’t have been first.