Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
A New York City Apartment
Later that night
After developing an instant taste for Californian Chardonnay, Camille poured herself a second, more generous glass. The wine was the perfect antidote to her looming jet lag. Despite her father’s threats, she had kept walking. Then she’d got on a plane and flown to London where her cousin Bryce Royal currently lived.
Bryce had given her exactly five minutes to rant and rave about her father, after which they’d taken one of the Royal Resorts private jets and flown to New York City.
All these long hours later, seated on the floor of Bryce’s elegant Manhattan apartment, Camille was doing her best to drink herself into a state of comfortable numbness. Anything to silence her father’s words which still rang loudly in her head.
You are a disgrace to the Royal family name.
She knew it wasn’t true. But parental disapproval had always bit deep.
Bryce was in the kitchen, talking to someone on his phone. The terse tone of the conversation betrayed that whoever was on the other end of the line hadn’t called her cousin for a friendly chat.
“Ok, yes. I understand. Tell my father I will handle it. But this is family, and we don’t say no. Thanks Janice, I shall talk to you soon,” Bryce ground out.
He stepped back into the main living area and tossed his cell phone onto the nearby couch. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, along with a muttered, “Fuck”.
The instant she met Bryce’s gaze, Camille steeled herself for his next words.
“That was my father’s executive assistant, Janice. Dad’s at the Royal Resorts hotel in Houston, but he got wind that you and I are here. Apparently, your father is calling everyone in the family trying to track you down.”
Leaving London, Camille had put her cell on to airplane mode. She hadn’t turned it back to live, since she’d landed in New York. Her greatest concern was that the second she did, her phone would blow up with a thousand messages, all asking where she was, and for her to rethink her insane decision to leave France.
No. I’ve cut the ties, and now I have to go through with it.
Camille’s heart sank. She had always wondered what the senior members of the international Royal family would do if she struck out on her own. Would they close ranks against her? Make her come to heel?
If her father demanded it of him, Edward Royal, the CEO of Royal Resorts USA, and Bryce’s father, would have little option other than to bundle Camille onboard one of the Royal Resorts private jets and send her home to Paris. Anything to avoid an ugly schism in the family.
“What did your father say?” she asked.
They may as well get this over and done with, then everyone would know she wasn’t going to capitulate. She wasn’t going home. If there was one member of the family who could match Francois Royal for sheer stubborn strength of will, it was Camille.
Bryce sighed once more. “Edward doesn’t want me to get caught in the middle of a fight between you and Francois. But…”
“But what?”
A wry grin appeared on her cousin’s face. He pointed to the stack of papers which sat on a nearby coffee table. “Dad says that if you and I have already signed off on our business discussions and a final investment contract is in place, there isn’t much your father can do about it.”
Which means he can’t make me go home.
No one else in the Royal family had known that for some time now, Camille and Bryce had been working on an agreement for him to invest in her fledgling US based fashion design venture. Last Christmas, under the swaying palm trees of the private family retreat in Turks and Caicos, the two cousins had hatched a secret plan. If American born Bryce invested in the new business venture, then Camille as a French citizen would be able to access a working visa for the USA.
None of this sneaking around had sat well with her, she hated keeping things from her family. But her father’s incensed reaction when he’d finally discovered Camille designs had only served to confirm her long held fears. He’d made it plain that as far as he was concerned anything Camille did which went outside the boundaries of his strict myopic view of the world of fashion would never be good enough. In his eyes, her leaving was the ultimate betrayal.
Why can’t Papa understand that I don’t want to work in his haute couture business. That I want to design garments which I can see on ordinary women as they walk down the street. Clothes which are well made but don’t cost a fortune.
“I’m just glad that we got everything sorted out before Papa discovered I was planning to leave,” replied Camille.
She’d left her family. Left her country. Left her old life behind.
The previous October, on the eve of her twenty seventh birthday, Camille had come to an important realization. Her life was not her own. And if she remained working for her father, it never would be. Two months later, the plan to leave France and strike out on her own had been hatched over drinks with Bryce at Christmas.
And now here I am. In the Big Apple.
She had her working visa, a new line of business credit, and for the time being somewhere to live. Bryce, who’d be heading back to his job in London as CEO of Royal Resorts Europe, in a day or two, had not only put up the venture capital for her new business, but he’d also kindly offered Camille the use of his luxury apartment for as long as she needed it.
So why do I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a very tall cliff about to tumble over?
All the advantages of being a member of a family of billionaires were hers. She had been born into a world of privilege that few other people would ever experience. But even her fortunate life had been found wanting. She was determined to break free, and shape her own path forward.
New York City was a long way from Paris. From home. From everything she’d ever known. She was more than a little afraid of the future, but unwavering in her efforts not to show it.
I won’t cry. I swore I wouldn’t. I am brave. I am strong.
She stirred from her thoughts as Bryce dropped onto the lush, soft carpet next to her, clad in jeans and a t-shirt. He took one look at Camille, then gave her long blonde hair a teasing ruffle.
“Cheer up cuz. As we say here in the good old US of A, you’ve gone and ripped the band aid off. It’s going to sting for some time, but I promise I will do my best to make sure you don’t bleed.”
Camille’s brows furrowed. Her English was near perfect, but the odd idioms which the native language speakers sometimes used left her wondering. She was tempted to pick up her cell and google what ripping off the band aid meant , but that would mean taking her phone off airplane mode, so she resisted.
“A band aid is what we call a sticky plaster or a pansement here in America. You know what it’s like when you just tear one off a wound after a few days. It hurts but you do tend to heal faster.”
I’m not so sure that my father would agree with Bryce about the healing bit, but it’s all too late now.
She topped up Bryce’s wine glass, and handed it to him. “This day has been the longest day of my life. I don’t know how to thank you enough for all you’ve done for me, Bryce. Merci seems such a small word.”
He raised his glass to her in salute. “We are family, so a simple thank you is always enough. Though if you decide to publicly thank me when your clothes are being worn by the headliners at the Met Gala in a couple of years, I won’t complain.”
The first smile of the day finally made its way to her lips. That sort of success could be many years away, if ever, so Camille simply offered, “How about I design your wife’s wedding gown when you finally find a woman to share your life with.”
Bryce’s easy grin faltered. Her cousin had had a girlfriend when he’d first moved from New York to London, but the long distance relationship hadn’t survived his first year in the UK. As far as Camille knew Bryce had then put his love life on the back burner, and focused solely on his career.
“Yes, well marriage seems a long way off for me, Cam. I’m not planning on looking for any sort of serious relationship until I return permanently to the United States. I simply don’t have time.”
Her cousin never did things by half. Whatever it was in his life, Bryce was all in. Business. Family. Sport. Relationships. He was the sort of success story the rest of the international Royal family always talked about.
While there’s every chance, I’ll be spoken about in whispers at this year’s Christmas family gathering on the island. A cautionary tale of what happens when you can’t control your children .
The fact that Christmas was still some eight months away was little comfort. Francois Royal was a man more than comfortable with carrying a grudge.
She was twenty seven years old, but anyone under the age of forty in her extended family was still considered a child. Still incapable of making sensible life decisions.
“What about you Camille, did you leave behind a trail of broken hearted young men when you left Paris?” asked Bryce. The grin on his face had returned, and she sensed he was doing his best to lighten the mood.
Camille rolled her eyes and muttered, “Ciel non.” She took a sip from her wineglass. “Papa made it all too hard for me to have a long term boyfriend and keep up with working in his studio. The best I could manage was the occasional hook-up.” She paused. “That’s what you call it here isn’t it—a hook-up? When you meet someone at a nightclub and go off together for a couple of hours of sweaty sex.”
Bryce winced. “Yes, but I wouldn’t go using that sort of language too much here in the US. It might give people the wrong idea. Americans don’t talk about sex as openly as the French do.”
Fitting in was going to be her biggest and hardest challenge. She had to be French in her designs and mannerisms, but not too French. Different but not too different. Her future clients and customers had to be able to relate to her.
Ok, good advice. Don’t talk about sex.
A yawn escaped Camille’s lips. It had been an emotional and exhausting day. It was eight thirty at night in New York, and she’d been up since six am in Paris. She attempted a rough calculation.
Any wonder I’m exhausted, I’ve been awake for over twenty hours.
Her body and brain couldn’t yet decide which time zone they were in. Or if they were in the same one as each other.
“What do you think about seeing if Jordan or Matthew are in town tonight, I could give them both a call and see if they want to come around,” said Bryce.
Bryce’s brothers, Jordan and Matthew Royal, both lived in this Manhattan office and apartment tower, and Camille could well imagine her cousins would be keen to hear all the gory details about her fight with her father.
But not tonight.
“I’m utterly drained, so maybe I could see them both tomorrow for a late breakfast. But if you want to go out don’t worry about me. I’m more than happy to stay here and watch some mindless television,” replied Camille.
It would be useless going to bed and attempting to sleep. Her overtired brain flatly refused to switch off. Not to mention the swirl of emotions which were yet to simmer down.
Her father should be relieved that Camille had turned off her phone. There were things they might say to one another right now that they would both later regret. They’d already said more enough horrible words in the heat of battle this morning.
As Bryce got to his feet, he bent and picked up the TV remote. He handed it to Camille. “Press the green button to turn the unit on, and the big button in the middle to select the channels. The home button will take you to all the streaming services.”
Camille hit the on button. Her head rocked back as the massive TV screen flared to life. It took up most of the far wall of the living room. She laughed. “Oh my god, how big is that screen!”
Her cousin chuckled. “Ninety eight inches in imperial measurements. Welcome to America, Camille.”
While Bryce made quick calls to each of his two brothers, Camille remained on the floor, scrolling through the channels. An American football game. A cooking show. A baseball game. A photomontage of hot guys.
Her fingers stopped tapping on the remote.
Camille leaned forward.
“I’m your host Derick Stad, and tonight we will be meeting the twelve bachelors who are all vying to win the gorgeous and very single Kaylee’s heart. The last man standing will be crowned the winner of Bachelors on the Beach !”
“Oh god, don’t watch that rubbish, it will rot your brain,” huffed Bryce, in a voice that sounded eerily like his aristocratic British father.
Camille set the remote on the floor, her gaze remaining firmly fixed on the screen. The host of the tv show was flashing a pair of pearly white teeth which were so perfectly straight they had to have cost him a great deal of money.
She waved Bryce’s protests away. After the day she’d endured, this cotton candy reality tv show was exactly what Camille needed.
“Let’s meet our bachelors.”
With her attention focused on the group of hunky guys filling up the enormous tv screen, Camille barely noticed the loud click when the door of Bryce’s apartment closed behind him.
“Hello boys. Welcome to America indeed,” she whispered.