Barbara Bretton - Wish You Were Here: One and Only

The always talented Barbara Bretton has written a witty, charming and emotional story. - Romantic Times

Wonderfully romantic as well as sensuous, this fairy tale is one that should be savored. - Rendezvous

One and Only gives you glamour, intrigue, and action...a regal rollercoaster of a romance. - Nora Roberts

This is a funny, sexy and bright tale... definitely a winner. - The Paperback Forum

One and Only is a spectacular story that leaves you breathless...guaranteed to keep you on the edge of your seat right to the very last page. - Joan Adis, Paperbacks n' Things

One and Only has all the magic, passion and spellbinding drama necessary to make it the classic adult fairy tale...stunning, powerful, and enjoyable novel. - Affaire de Coeur

[One and Only] has everything that readers will love - romance, murder, lust, and jealousy. Warning: Once you pick this book up, you won't want to put it down until you reach that final page. Ms. Bretton has written a blockbuster novel! You won't want to miss this wonderful read! - GEnie Romance Exchange

This seductive novel simmers with international intrigue, sex and betrayal . . . . [a] nicely plotted sizzler [that] takes readers on an energetic romp through the world of the privileged class. - Publishers weekly

I don't know about you, but I could use a good fairytale right about now. A grown-up "once upon a time" kind of fairy tale about a beautiful princess who grew up in a castle high in the French Alps and a handsome all-American male who was born and raised in Queens. A match made in heaven? You must be kidding. Isabelle cut her teeth on caviar and champagne while Daniel's idea of a great meal includes a Big Mac and a side of fries. She longs for a big loving family to call her own while there are days when he'd happily trade in all of his siblings for an unlisted phone number.

The world has changed so much since One and Only was first published in 1994 but, luckily for all of us, the rules of love have remained the same. Some couples fall in love gracefully, with lots of longing looks, delicate sighs, and pledges of eternal devotion while other couples fall kicking and screaming. Isabelle and Daniel fight the attraction between them every step of the way, from the snowcapped French Alps to the noisy streets of Manhattan to a rundown cottage in the Poconos of Pennsylvania, but when it's right, it's right and not even danger in a most surprising form can keep them apart.

That's what I love best about love stories. The good guys always win. They meet. They fall in love. They struggle. They find each other again and before you can say happily-ever-after, a brand-new family springs to life right before your eyes. To me, family is what romances are really all about. Every family on earth was born of a romance, that miracle of finding the other half of your heart in a world that sometimes seems hell-bent on keeping the two of you apart. An every day miracle right there in the middle of our very ordinary lives, if we just know where to look.

I'll bet you could use a fairy tale right now too, the kind with a happy ending you can count on, characters you'll root for, and enough laughter and tears to keep you up long past bedtime.

Whether you're meeting Isabelle and Daniel for the first time or revisiting old friends, I hope you enjoy One and Only.

It wasn't every day a kid from Queens got to spend the night in a castle.

Daniel Bronson was no stranger to the perks money could buy, but even he had been set back on his nouveau riche heels by the power of old money. Funny thing, it didn't matter how much old money you had; it only mattered that the money in question came with a history attached to it, preferably a history that included a title.

Rumor had it Prince Bertrand of Perreault had plenty of titles, but not much of the long green Ð or long blue in this case. Still, Daniel had to admit you couldn't tell by the spread Bertrand had put out tonight in honor of his principality's tricentennial celebration. The champagne had flowed freely while mountains of caviar grace every tabletop in sight. Even the waiters' uniforms looked as if they'd been tailored on Savile Row. The prince had been expansive in his generosity. Women had been gifted with diamond stud earrings, while the men eagerly accepted elegant Swiss watches that would have fed a family of four for a year back home in Queens, New York.

Not that Daniel knew too much about what went on in Queens these days. It seemed he spent half his life on the road in search of the ultimate business deal. "You're just like your old man," his father Matty liked to say. "Can smell money two states away." Hell, thought Daniel with a rueful laugh, make that two continents away.

Getting an invitation to the Perreault Tricentennial Ball had been easy. All you needed was fame and a world-class fortune and you were in like Flynn. The famous and the infamous on both sides of the Atlantic had flocked to the tiny alpine principality in droves to be part of the festivities. Only an elite few, however, had been chosen to spend the night in the castle, surrounded by battlements and suits of armor and the ghosts of three hundred years of history, most of which had been spent in a dance of conquest and surrender.

Everywhere you looked, you could see evidence of a past that included a rich tapestry of splendor and savagery: the small towns, walled in stone to withstand ancient invaders; the freshly painted farmhouses whose walls still held the gunshot scars from more recent wars. History was in the road you walked on, the music you danced to, and the castle that dominated the entire landscape.

It was more opulent than Bronson had ever dreamed possible. You didn't grow up in an apartment overlooking a concrete playground and expect to spend the night with royalty. Hell, you were lucky if your dreams took you as far as the Hudson River. A tiny snowball of a country, Perreault was perched high in the Alps, hard to find and even harder to forget. Some said it was Perreault's inaccessibility that gave it its cachet; others said it was the aura of mystery and sadness that hung over the principality like a morning fog. Either way, it wasn't much of a monarchy, but Bronson wasn't fussy. Castles still had the power to impress, and he wasn't afraid to admit it Ð at least not to himself.

He looked over at the woman asleep on the pillow next to him. Greta was from one of those Eastern European countries whose borders were more flexible than the Pentagon's budget. Greta had long limbs and hair the pale gold of Dom Perignon. Her morals were dependent upon the occasion, and he was moderately glad he'd been able to rise to that occasion tonight.

There were rules for this sort of thing, and he'd mastered them the way he'd mastered the rules of business. Keep things light and breezy. Never mention anything as crass as a future together.

To his family's dismay, he'd reached his early thirties without forming the kind of alliance his parents believed necessary to survival. His one attempt at marriage had been more to placate his folks than to build a future, and it had come as a relief when his wife found a more welcoming pair of arms elsewhere.

He couldn't blame her. A part of himself was always standing aside, watching, wondering if happily-ever-after was possible or if the concept was just the collective fantasy of a culture raised on John Wayne movies and Disney World vacations. A fine Irish gloom had captured his soul at birth, and it seemed there had never been a time when he hadn't seen the dark cloud on the horizon, waiting to steal away the silver lining.

"The Golden Boy," they'd called him in the New York tabloids. The man with the Midas touch. Nobody suspected the layers of deeply-rooted, old-fashioned Catholic guilt the good sisters of Saint Dominic had instilled in him over the years. Prove it, he heard them say. Prove you have what it takes.

And so he did. Over and over and over again, with each new deal taking him closer to the top.

Even Bronson's most vociferous detractors had to admit, however, that he'd never once forgotten where he came from. How could he? The rhythm of the New York City streets was in his blood. But not the streets of Fifty-seventh and Fifth. The streets the Bronsons called their own weren't home to Tiffany and Bijan; they were home to Sam's Deli and Nino's Pizzeria and Shamrock Realty where his old man had made his fortune, parlaying prewar apartment buildings into co-op urban dream machines for the average man.

His father had taken Daniel under his wing, exposing him to both the good and the bad the city had to offer. Matty had no illusions about the place of honor in business. He adhered to his own strict code of behavior, but he had stopped being surprised when others stumbled over their ethics.

"Take a good look around you, Danny," his father had said time and again. "You're no better than the rest of 'em. You only have more money."

Unlike Trump and his ilk, Bronson hadn't forgotten his roots He built for those at the top of the ladder and those who had to reach up to touch the bottom. It wasn't unusual for him to have dinner with the governor and an ambassador or two at some posh Manhattan eatery, then show up a few hours later for a beer and a few laughs at a Queens neighborhood bar. You never knew when you might need a favor, and it was those no-bullshit blue-collar types from Ridgewood and Woodside who made his dreams possible. He wasn't about to forget that.

Sometimes he felt as if he was the only one who recognized the way the global economy was shifting. You'd have to be blind not to see the way the Japanese were nosing their way into the American mainstream. First it was cars, then VCRs. Before you knew it, they'd be buying up enough land to carve out a new country. And it wasn't just the Japanese who were expanding. Phrases like "global economy" and "world market" had taken on new meaning, and he wasn't about to let his patriotism get in the way of his pragmatism.

People had warned him that doing business with Prince Bertrand would be like dancing on quicksand. Like most Europeans he'd met, Bertrand was a natural pessimist. Both frugal and cautious, the prince had an appalling lack of interest in anything remotely resembling progress. So far, Daniel's best efforts had been met with nothing more than maddening courtesy.

Next to him Greta stretched lazily, a lean and gilded cream-fed cat. Those magnificent amber eyes fluttered open and the look she gave him was pure heat.

"Good morning, darling," she said.

"It's not morning yet."

"How wonderful." She spread her perfect legs and opened her arms to him.

Sometimes being a red-blooded American male was a definite asset.

Yves was waiting at the foot of the winding staircase when Isabelle glided down from her bedroom suite early the next morning. Dressed in his formal daytime uniform, Yves held his bony frame erect, as befitted his position. His sparse, light-brown hair was neatly plastered to his head, and his narrow face held its perennially gloomy expression. Isabelle sighed. Poor Yves. It must be terribly sad to be so old and to have no one to love.

"Breakfast is in the garden room," he said with obvious disdain. "Mademoiselle desires anything special?"

Isabelle tossed her dark hair and favored him with a smile. What on earth was the matter with Yves? God knew, he was always dour but the way he was looking at her was almost as if . . .

Ridiculous. He couldn't possibly know. If he hadn't known last night when the proof was right there in her eyes and on her lips, he would never know.

"Nothing special, Yves." She frowned when he didn't return her smile. "Coffee and melon will do."

"Je suis votre serviteur." The traditional statement of obeisance. He bowed, then left the room.

Let him have his dark and dreary thoughts. Isabelle had more wonderful things with which to concern herself. She dashed off toward the garden room where a bountiful repast was laid out on the sideboards, attended to by a bevy of fluttery young parlormaids with nary a thought in their heads. Yesterday she had been just like those girls, giggling and silly, wondering what life held in the palm of its hand for her.

Ah, but today she knew!

Today she knew that at the center of her future was Eric Malraux and their happiness stretched as far as the eye could see.

"Spreading lies, is it?" Maxine Neeson's broad Irish brogue grew stronger as she stared at her nemesis. "How dare you be saying such nonsense about one of my girls!"

Yves didn't flinch beneath her flinty gaze and that unnerved Maxine more than his words had. Lord in heaven, could it be true?

"Honore Malraux's boy," Yves said with such authority that Maxine's indignation wilted before it. "I saw them near the garden with my own eyes."

"Ridiculous!" said Maxine with a snap of her broad fingers. "In this dreadful October cold? Never." Her beloved girl's first time would be on her wedding night in a beautiful room made perfect by Maxine. Maxine had been with the family from the moment when both of the royal sisters drew their first breaths. God willing, she would be with them when she drew her last.

Poor little things they had been, so tiny and defenseless. So forgotten. Their mother had been a flighty one, more concerned with dancing the night away than in seeing to it her own babies were cared for a happy. "No one could take better care of them than you, darling Maxi," the mother had said once as she kissed the babies good night before leaving for yet another cotillion.

Maxine, young herself and eager for adventures of her own, had known the cold fingers of dread along her spine that night, for with those careless words the lives of two helpless babes had been placed in Maxine's hands as surely as the rosary she prayed with each night. She squared her shoulders, feeling the sharp flare of arthritis in her neck and spine. The unmistakable sign that her youth was long gone and old age waited to enfold her in its cold embrace. Still, she had no regrets. She lived a good life and she had done her job well. She loved the girls with all her heart and soul and knew God would forgive her if the princess Isabelle occupied a bigger part of her heart than perhaps was fair. Juliana was self-contained and obedient; she would always fare well.

Isabelle, however, was ruled by emotions as fiery as her dark eyes and, as Maxine listened to Yves spin his tale, the truth of his words found its mark.

"I saw the mademoiselle with my own eyes last night," Yves continued, cool and calm as could be. "Grass stains across the backside of her fancy dress and a smile on her face that can only mean one thing."

Maxine drew herself up to her full height and looked the uppity butler right in the eye. "Coincidence," she said, almost as if she believed it. "And I'll be thanking you to keep your opinions to yourself." She lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. "One word of your suspicions to any of the servants, and I'll have your head on a silver platter or know the reason why."

"I do not gossip with the help, madame," said Yves with a regal snort. "I simply tell the truth."

With that he turned and disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving Maxine with the terrible feeling that disaster was right around the corner.

Isabelle stepped over to the sideboard and waved away one of the serving girls. She was about to help herself to a large plateful of eggs and kippers when she saw Bronson, that brash American, in the archway to the room. He looked different than he had last night in evening clothes. His dark hair fell artlessly across his forehead, shaggy and quite appealing in a rough-hewn way. Even from across the room she could discern the vivid green of his eyes. Contact lenses, she thought with a sniff. No one's eyes were that green.

But what on earth could possibly explain that almost laughable self-confidence? In her experience, the notion of failure was something that never occurred to Americans. Defeat simply wasn't in their national vocabulary. You had only to look at the way Bronson entered a room to know he wasn't the kind of man who took a backseat to anything or anybody.

She nodded toward him and dished up a more ladylike serving of eggs than she might have, had he not chosen that moment to present himself.

"Don't hold back on my account." Bronson executed a ridiculous caricature of a bow in her direction. "I like a woman with an appetite."

Isabelle ignored the slice of honey bread she'd coveted a second ago. "I'm afraid I am not concerned with what you do and do not like in a woman, Mr. Bronson."

"Suit yourself." He reached around her and grabbed himself a platter.

"Isabelle watched in envy as he loaded his plate with everything that caught his fancy.

"You are allowed to return for more," she tossed over her shoulder. "No one will slap your hand."

"Thanks," he said, following her to the table near the French doors that led out to the garden. "I probably will."

She waited for him to hold out her chair. Cheerfully oblivious, he sat down and looked as though he was about to dive into his mountain of food when a cough from Isabelle caught his attention.

"Sit down," he said. "The food's getting cold."

"My chair."

He glanced over at it. "Louis Quatorze, is it?"

Muttering an oath in both French and Italian, Isabelle claimed her seat. A red-faced butler dashed out from the anteroom but Isabelle waved him away.

"If you wanted me to hold your chair, you should have said so."

She glared at him across the table. "A true gentleman wouldn't have needed to be told."

He made short work of a croissant. "Like your boyfriend Eric?"

"Eric?" she said, eyes wide. "Do you mean Honore Malraux's son?" Perfect, she thought. Not too ingenuous. Not too arch. He'd never suspect a thing.

"Yeah," said Bronson. "The guy you're sleeping with."

She felt as if she'd been caught in flagrante delicto. "How dare you insinuate such a thing?"

"I'm not insinuating anything," Bronson said, swallowing some black coffee. "I'm stating a fact."

"You know nothing about me," Isabelle said, cheeks reddening. "You couldn't possibly know with whom I spend my time."

"Wrong, princess. I know exactly what you were up to last night."

Her liaison with Eric flashed through her mind in glorious Technicolor. "But you Ð I mean, we were Ð"

Bronson threw back his head and laughed. The sound was entirely too triumphant for Isabelle's taste. "You're going to have to work on that poker face. It'll get you in trouble one of these days."

"I shouldn't wonder that you spend time speculating on the lives of others, Mr. Bronson, for it is abundantly clear your own bedmate of last night has abandoned you."

That phantom grin of his teased the corners of his mouth. "How do you know I had a bedmate last night?" he countered. "Maybe I spent it alone, thinking of you."

"A man like you? I cannot imagine you spend many nights alone." She treated him to a parody of her most flirtatious smile. "Thinking of me or otherwise."

"Don't waste your time batting your eyelashes at me, princess. I'm out of your league."

Isabelle laughed out loud. "What a high opinion you have of yourself. Are all Americans as self-satisfied as you?"

"Only the successful ones."

"Then I shudder to think of the future of your country. You are vulgar, egotistical, incredibly Ð"

"Good morning, all."

Both Isabelle and Daniel turned toward the doorway. Greta VanArsdalen, ex-wife of a notable Dutch banker, slithered into the room in cream-colored wool and silk. She exuded the ripe sexuality of a woman in her prime, a woman who knew the power of her allure and didn't hesitate to use it. Isabelle, newly attuned to the sensual byplay between men and women, knew instantly that Bronson and the sleek blonde had spent the night together.

Why was it that she'd never before realized how much she disliked Greta VanArsdalen?

"You're looking well, Isabelle," Greta offered as she glided over to the sideboard.

"As are you, Greta."

Greta's gaze landed on the collar of Isabelle's blouse. "How perfectly sweet," she purred. "Embroidered collars are so cunning."

Fine needlework was Isabelle's only claim to artistic talent. The woman's cutting remark found its target with ease. She was possessed of an almost irresistible urge to embroider the woman's mouth shut.

Greta cast a look in Bronson's direction. Isabelle could feel the heat from across the table. Suddenly she felt terribly young and extremely uncomfortable, and she welcomed the arrival of the other guests. In moments the room was filled to overflowing with Swedes and Japanese, Brits and Italians, until it seemed as if every nationality in the world was represented at the table.

But it was the only American at the table who commanded Isabelle's attention, and each time she looked at Daniel Bronson, he was looking right back at her and laughing.

She thought he was laughing at her. Maybe he had been, but he wasn't any longer. Damn it. She was a spoiled brat. Why couldn't she stay that way instead of turning into a real live human being in front of his eyes? He saw her uneasiness in the way she held her chin high and stabbed at her eggs with short, determined jabs of the sterling silver fork. He liked the way she used that fork. She might act like a pampered house pet but she also had a no-nonsense directness that would have made her feel right at home on the streets of Queens.

The idea of the glamorous Princess Isabelle strolling along Roosevelt Avenue, window-shopping at Woolworth's, and saying hi to the guys at the construction site on the corner brought a huge smile to his face, something he instantly regretted when he glanced across the table and caught the look in her eyes. Damn it, princess, he thought, ripping apart a piece of honey bread and smearing it with sweet butter. I'm not laughing at you. Not really. Who would've figured the girl with the sharp tongue would have such thin skin? He didn't want to think of her as a real live person with a breakable heart. He wanted to think of her only as another of Perreault's underutilized natural resources.

The word around town was that she was as wild as an unbroken mare, as flighty and unpredictable as her mother, and twice as beautiful. While the old-timers on the staff despaired for her future, they still seemed to have a soft spot in their hearts for Isabelle, a soft spot that didn't exist for her sister Juliana.

Next to him Greta was going on about some idiotic horse show she was riding in next month in Philadelphia, and wouldn't he absolutely love to come to Philly to cheer her on? He grunted something noncommittal and shot another look at the dark-haired princess. Those high, almost Slavic cheekbones and her straight nose gave her face a chiseled quality, softened only by the huge dark eyes with the thick tangle of lashes that cast a shadow each time she glanced down at her plate. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain-smooth, with a patch of high color riding across each cheekbone.

It suddenly hit him that she wasn't half as smart or sophisticated as she wanted him to believe. She 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 Maud Frizons. 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. She thought she was in love, even though Bronson could have told her that sooner or later the fog would lift and she would see Eric Malraux for the nobody he was. People often mistook loneliness for love and, unless he missed his guess, this was one of those times. Trouble was, if he told Isabelle right now, she wouldn't believe him.

Just because he was too old and too jaded to believe in happily-ever-after was no reason to deny the girl her dreams. He'd had a first time himself and dreamed those same 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 Bronson in a way that made him feel both powerful and vulnerable at the same time. Something that went beyond the allure of her cascade of dark curls or the sweet curves of her ripe young 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.