The Princes' Brides: The Italian Prince's Pregnant Bride / The Greek Prince's Chosen Wife / The Spanish Prince's Virgin Bride. Sandra Marton
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the waiting had ended.
James’s secretary—Bradley’s secretary, now—had phoned and told her she was expected at Stafford-Coleridge-Black promptly at ten this morning.
“I’m sorry, Miss Black,” the woman said crisply when Aimee started to ask questions. “I can’t tell you anything except to assure you that you’ll have all the answers tomorrow.”
As if she needed them, Aimee thought bitterly. She knew exactly what would happen this morning. Her cousin, seated behind James’s imposing desk, would flash his oily smile and tell her he was in charge, permanently.
She’d fight him, of course, just on principle. But she’d lose. Bradley had that document and witnesses. She had nothing—certainly not the money for a protracted court battle.
Lately she didn’t even have the energy.
She was tired all the time. Exhausted, really. Plagued by bouts of nausea.
Stress, she’d told herself. Over her grandfather because, despite everything, he was her blood and she loved him. Over what would become of Stafford-Coleridge-Black, because she loved it, too.
And stress over that night. What she’d done. That she’d let a stranger seduce her—
Except, he hadn’t. She’d gone to him willingly. Eagerly. Making love with him was the most exciting thing she’d ever done. Sex had never been like that before. Sex would never be like that again, especially since she couldn’t imagine being with another man…
Aimee blinked.
She had more important things on her mind this morning.
Yesterday, she’d finally gone to her doctor for a checkup. He’d listened to her litany of complaints, examined her, had his nurse take blood and urine samples and told her he’d have lab reports in a few days.
“Not to worry, Ms. Black,” he’d said briskly. “I suspect whatever ails you is simple to deal with.”
Vitamins, she’d thought. More rest.
Fewer dreams.
Still, it was hard not to worry until the lab results were in and now, on top of everything else, she had this meeting Bradley had orchestrated, undoubtedly so he could crow with triumph as he told he’d taken permanent control of the reins.
When she was dressed—cotton summer suit, low heels, light makeup—Aimee looked in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was the woman she really was. Intelligent. Educated. Competent.
She bore no resemblance to the woman in the bathroom mirror that night at the club…
No. She would not let those memories take over this morning.
Bradley was about to knife her in the back, but she’d be damned if she’d let him see her bleed.
She would show absolutely no emotion today, no matter what happened.
That was the plan, and it would have worked…except for what she found waiting for her in the Stafford-Coleridge-Black boardroom.
Grandfather, not Bradley, sat ramrod-straight in his usual chair at one end of the long mahogany conference table.
The stranger she’d gone to bed with was seated at the other.
Nicolo was not in a good mood.
He was in New York for the first time since the episode three months before and he’d found the night had tainted his feelings about the city.
Unfortunate.
He’d always enjoyed spending time in Manhattan. Now, he couldn’t wait to see the last of it. And, he thought, with a not-so-discreet glance at his Tag Heuer watch as he sat waiting for the meeting in James Black’s office to begin, he would be doing that soon.
Just this one last session with Black and the deal he and the old man had worked on the past two weeks, via a volley of faxes and phone calls, would be completed.
Yesterday, when they’d met face-to-face, Black told him there was just one last point to agree upon.
“Just one,” he’d repeated, his voice quavering because of the stroke that had, it was said, almost killed him.
“And that is?” Nicolo had replied.
Black had wagged a bony finger. “Nothing a smart man won’t be willing to accede to, Prince Barbieri, I assure you.”
Nicolo had almost reminded him that he didn’t use his title, but he’d decided to play along. Black obviously liked the idea that Nicolo was royalty. Why do anything to spoil the finalization of the deal?
Not that he was concerned over this last point, especially since he was sure he knew what it was. They’d agreed on a price. On a takeover date. What could be left to discuss?
Only Black’s repeated concern that the company his ancestors had founded not lose its identity among Nicolo’s holdings.
The old man, he was sure, was going to want some sort of guarantee, and Nicolo had come up with one.
He would keep the bank’s name, Stafford-Coleridge-Black, intact.
In fact, he’d almost said so yesterday in hopes of avoiding this morning’s meeting, but he suspected that giving in without at least a small battle would only make Black ask for something more.
So he’d agreed to today’s meeting, which had meant spending another night in the city.
Another night plagued by memories of how he’d let a woman make a fool of him.
Dio, how ridiculous he was! He’d had a night of sex—the best sex of his life, and that was saying a great deal. A night of fantastic sex, with no morning-after to deal with. No female batting her lashes over coffee, telling him how wonderful he was, asking when she would see him again.
Ask half a dozen men what was wrong with that scenario and they’d laugh and say there wasn’t a thing wrong with it.
Mind-blowing sex. No names. No commitment. A man’s fantasy.
Then why was it driving him insane, that she’d left his bed while he slept? Why should it bother him?
He still winced when he recalled how he’d gone searching for her in the hall. Made a fool of himself with the elevator operator, the night clerk. Taken a cab to that damned club and demanded answers.
Embarrassing? A little…
Hell. A lot.
A woman should not be the one who walked out of a relationship. Even if that “relationship” only lasted a few hours. Yes, he knew all about the Age of Equality but a woman had never walked out on him, not under any circumstances.
This one had, and he didn’t like it.
That was why she was in his head, even now. Even when he was about to complete a deal he’d worked on, dreamed of, for years. Instead of concentrating on it, he was thinking about a woman who—
“Prince Barbieri?”
Who should consider herself fortunate he’d had no way to locate her because if he had—
“Prince Barbieri. Sir? If you please—”
“Si,” Nicolo said, and cleared his throat. “Are you ready to begin? I was, ah, I was just reading through my notes, and—”
And, he looked up.
The world tilted.
The woman with the violet eyes was standing in the doorway staring at him just as he was staring at her, as if one of them was an apparition.
He saw the color drain from her face. Saw her mouth drop open. Saw the swift rise and fall of her breasts beneath the jacket of a demure blue suit.
“Demure” was the word for her, all right.