He rolled his eyes as he strode naked to the marble bathroom at the far end of the master suite and turned on the shower. Perhaps a soggy pillow was his penance for allowing a royal princess to sleep on his sofa rather than giving up his bed. Not that he hadn’t tried. But at 1 a.m., she’d still been perched cross-legged on the oversized tufted ottoman in the living room, flipping through the hundreds of channels his satellite dish company offered, like a giddy child on holiday. Dalton hadn’t even known he subscribed to so much programming. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d turned on the television.
Sleeping in his office had become something of a habit, especially in recent years. But he couldn’t very well spend the night there with Aurélie. He wasn’t about to let the staff at Drake Diamonds see her hanging about his office in her pajamas. Explaining her sudden presence in his life—and the need for a duplicate key to his apartment—to the doorman of his building had been awkward enough. Until she’d slipped her arm through his and called him darling, that is.
They were masquerading as a couple. Again.
Dalton wasn’t sure why he found that arrangement so vexing. She couldn’t introduce herself as a princess. That was out of the question. Posing as his lover was the obvious choice.
Dalton stepped under the spray of his steam shower and let the hot water beat against the rigid muscles in his shoulders. Every inch of his body was taut with tension. He told himself it had nothing to do with the bewildered expression on the doorman’s face as Aurélie had gripped his arm with her delicate fingertips and given him a knowing smile, as if they’d been on their way upstairs so he could ravish her. Was the idea of a woman in his life really so far-fetched?
Yes, he supposed it was. He didn’t bring dates here. Ever. There were too many ghosts roaming the penthouse.
It isn’t real. It’s nothing but a temporary illusion, a necessary evil.
In just thirteen days, Dalton’s existence would return to its predictable, orderly state. He’d have his life back. And that life would be significantly improved, because the display cases in the first floor showroom of Drake Diamonds would be filled with sparkling, bejeweled eggs.
He knew precisely where he would put the secret egg—in the same glass box that had once housed the revered Drake Diamond. The 130-carat wonder had held a place of honor in the family’s flagship store since the day the doors opened to the public. Tourists came from all over the city just to see the stone, which had only been worn by two women in the 150 years since Dalton’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather had plucked it from a remote mine in South Africa and subsequently carved it into one of the most famous gemstones in the world.
The loss of that diamond just three months after the death of Dalton’s father had been like losing a limb. Granted, Artem had managed to buy it back for his wife, Ophelia. But it belonged to her personally now. Not the store. The Drake Diamond’s display case sat empty.
Not that Dalton despised the sight of that vacant spot for sentimental reasons. The Drakes had never been an emotional bunch, and sentimentality had been the last thing on Dalton’s mind once he’d learned he’d been passed over in favor of Artem for the CEO position. His pride was at stake. His position in the family business.
He didn’t want to restore Drake Diamonds to its former glory. He wanted to surpass it, to make the institution into something so grand that his father wouldn’t even recognize it if he rose from his grave, walked through the front door and set foot on the plush Drake-blue carpet.
Selling the Drake Diamond had been a necessity. Geoffrey Drake had plunged the family business so far into debt that there’d been no other option. And he hadn’t told a soul. He’d sat in an office just down the hall from Dalton every day for years and hadn’t said a word about the defunct diamond mine that had stripped the company of all its cash reserves. About the debt. About any of it.
Dalton shouldn’t have been surprised. Honesty had never been his father’s strong suit. Artem’s very existence was a testament to their father’s trustworthiness, or lack thereof. Dalton hadn’t even known he had a brother until his father had brought five-year-old Artem home to the Drake mansion. Judging from the look of hurt and confusion on his mother’s pale face, it had come as a surprise to her as well. Less than a year later, she was dead. To this day, Dalton’s sister blamed their mother’s death on a broken heart.
If there was a bright side to any of his family’s sordid past or the recent sudden death of their patriarch, it was that the brothers had made peace with each other. At long last. When Artem had made the decision to sell the Drake Diamond, he’d saved the company. Dalton could admit as much.
But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
He needed to be the one to transform Drake Diamonds into something more spectacular than it had ever been. It was the only way to justify his years of mindless devotion to the family business. He needed those years to mean something. He needed something to show for his life. Something other than loss.
He switched the shower faucet to the off position with more force than was necessary, and then grabbed a towel. On any other day, he would already have put in a solid hour behind his desk by now. He dressed as quickly as possible, adjusted the Windsor knot in his Drake-blue tie and resigned himself to the fact that it was time to venture into the living room and wake Aurélie. But first he needed to get the snoring beast out of his bed.
Dalton scooped the dog up and tried to wrap his mind around how something so tiny could make so much noise. Then his gaze landed on a wet spot in the center of the duvet. The little monster had peed in his bed. Perfect. Just perfect.
“Seriously?”
The animal’s googly eyes peered up at Dalton. He sighed mightily.
“Aurélie!” He stormed into the living room without bothering to deal with the mess. “Your charge requires attention.”
The television was blaring and the sofa was piled with pillows and blankets, but Aurélie wasn’t there. Dalton’s temples began to pound. She’d run off? Again?
The puppy squirmed in his arms and let out a little yip, so Dalton lowered him to the floor. He scampered toward the kitchen, tripping over his own head a few times in the process.
“Mon petit chou!”
Dalton didn’t know whether to feel relieved at the sound of Aurélie’s voice or angry. Angry about the dog. About the near heart attack he’d just experienced when he’d thought she’d run off again. About every ridiculous thing she’d done since she’d breezed into his life less than twenty-four hours ago.
He settled on relief, until he followed the dog into the kitchen and caught his first glimpse of Aurélie’s appearance.
She stood leaning against the counter with her mass of blond hair piled in a messy updo, wearing nothing but her luminous strand of gold pearls and a crisp men’s white tuxedo shirt. His tuxedo shirt, if Dalton wasn’t mistaken. But it wasn’t the idea that she’d slept in his freshly pressed formal wear that got under his skin. It was the sight of her bare, willowy legs, the curve of her breasts beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt, the lush fullness of her bottom lip.
All of it.
He went hard in an instant, and the thought occurred to him that perhaps the only ghost inhabiting the apartment in the past few years had been him.
Whatever you do, don’t take her to bed.
“Bonjour.” Aurélie smiled. “Look at you, all dressed and ready for work. Why am I not surprised?”
Dalton shook his head. He was aroused to the point of pain. “We’re not going to the office.”
“Non?”
Non. Very much non. Suddenly, there was a more pressing matter that required attention—clothing the princess living under his roof before he did something