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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never done such a foolhardy thing before, forgotten protection in the rush to take a woman, but then, he’d never done anything as crazy as making love to a stranger, either.
He looked at Aimee.
Nothing to worry about, he thought coldly. A woman who slept with a nameless man would be using protection of her own. She looked innocent now, in that demure outfit, tears glittering in her eyes, but it was all an act.
An act, he thought, and felt anger overtake surprise. What a pair they were, the old man and his granddaughter.
Did they really take him for such an easy mark?
Perhaps it was time to remind them of who he was.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, “but perhaps I might say a word…Or would that spoil this rather amusing little scene?”
“Your Highness.” James Black cleared his throat. “Maybe I should have mentioned this to you during an earlier meeting, but—”
“Indeed, signore. Maybe you should have.”
“I considered it, but—”
“But, you were afraid I’d laugh in your face.”
“I admit, I thought it possible you might see my idea as…unpalatable.”
The woman gave a soft moan, as if she’d only just remembered his presence. Nicely timed, Nicolo thought, and decided the game had gone on long enough.
“There is more than that possibility,” he said coldly, as he pushed back his chair. “There is that certainty.”
“Your Highness—”
“Yes,” Nicolo said through clenched teeth, “that is who I am. I am Prince Nicolo Antonius Barbieri, of a lineage much older and far more honorable than yours, and you would do well to remember it.”
Had he really said that? Dio, he had. And his speech was going from lightly accented to the way it had been when he’d first come to this country to attend university, thirteen years ago.
It was a measure of his rage, and rage was not a good thing. A man could only succeed when his emotions were under control.
Nicolo stood and wrapped his hands tightly around the top rung of his chair.
“You were right, Signore Black. I would have brought this bank the leadership it needs. And, someday, I will surely produce the sons who will succeed me.” He flashed a look at Aimee, whose cheeks were crimson.
Good, he thought with savage pleasure. It was a joy to see her humiliated.
“But I will do that with a woman of my choosing, who brings pride to my name and not dishonor.”
Aimee’s chair fell back as she scrambled to her feet and rounded the table to face him, head high, lips drawn back in a snarl.
“You—you no good, dissolute son of a bitch!”
“I am dissolute?” Nicolo let go of the chair and pounded his fist on the table. So much for self-control. “No, Miss Black. I hardly think it’s I who should bear that label.”
“You think, because you’re a man, you can keep to a different level of morality? Let me tell you something, Prince Whoever You Are—”
“Do not think to lecture me about morals, Miss Black. Not unless you want me to tell your grandfather about the night we spent together.” He paused, and his mouth twisted. “Or does he already know the salient details?”
All the color drained from her face. “What?”
“Your grandfather gives as good a performance as you. Not quite as enjoyable as the one you gave this spring, but still more than acceptable.”
James looked from one of them to the other. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Of course you understand.” Nicolo gathered his papers together and stuffed them into his briefcase. “I am Italian. My people go back to the time of Caesar. My bloodlines flow with conspiracy.”
“What conspiracy?” Black sputtered.
“Which of you planned this?” A smile slashed across his face. “No matter. It comes to the same thing—though I admit, I choose to believe the added touch of seduction was the lady’s idea.”
“Don’t,” Aimee said, reaching out her hand. “I beg you. Don’t say anymore.”
“She and I would meet, seemingly by accident. I would find her coldness enticing.”
“Aimee? What is he talking about?”
“Then the sex. Incredible sex, but then, nothing less would do. And the coup de grâce. The disappearing act and the hope that I’d want more of what I had that night, enough so that when I learned the identity of my seductress, this little melodrama could be played for its full impact.” He looked at Aimee. “That was a nice touch, by the way, that ‘I’d never marry this man’ routine. My compliments. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have believed it.”
Her eyes, the color of pansies in the rain, pleaded with him to stop.
For one brief moment, he remembered how terrified she’d been when he followed her into the bathroom at Lucas’s club. How worried that someone would see them.
And he remembered what he had not permitted himself to remember until now, the way she’d trembled when he took her to his bed, the way she’d looked up at him when he made love to her, really made love to her, kissing her slowly, savoring her taste, taking all the time in the world to caress her and stroke her and, at last, enter her, how her face, her whispers, her caresses had told him that what she was feeling, what he was making her feel, was new and incredible and had never happened to her before.
Liar, Nicolo thought, and anger became rage so fierce it slammed into him like a fist.
“Wasted effort,” he said roughly. “You understand, Black? I’m not interested in you or your bank or your slut of a granddaughter.”
Aimee whipped her hand through the air and slammed it against his jaw. Nicolo grabbed her wrist and put enough pressure on it to make her yelp.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice soft with malice. “Do you hear me? Don’t do anything you will regret.”
“I couldn’t regret anything more than being with you that horrid night!”
She was shaking now, her eyes glistening with hatred for him. That was fine. Let her hate him. God knew, he hated her and the despicable old man who sat watching them.
James Black was sick, all right, but it had nothing to do with his stroke. His sickness was moral depravity.
The old man loved his damnable bank more than his granddaughter, who he’d sent to seduce him.
The night had been a travesty of passion. All of it. The deep kisses. The sighs. The way she’d framed his face with her hands and brought his mouth to hers while her dark-gold hair spread in abandon over his pillow.
Cursing, Nicolo reached for her now, dragged her to her toes and crushed her mouth beneath his. She cried out and it only made him more furious, hearing the cry, remembering how differently she had cried out in his arms that night.
The old man said something in a sharp voice. Nicolo ignored him. He went on kissing Aimee Black until her cry became a moan, until her mouth softened and clung to his.
Then he flung her from him, grabbed his briefcase and strode from the room.
Amazing, what an hour in a quiet place could do for a man’s disposition.
An hour—and three bourbons, straight up.
Nicolo looked at the half inch of amber liquid that remained in his glass, sighed and pushed it away.
He was much