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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he?
God oh God, what was she doing?
What had she been thinking?
Aimee swung toward Nicolo, oblivious to the judge, the witnesses, the ceremony.
“Nicolo,” she said urgently, “wait…”
“…husband and wife,” the judge said, and offered an election-year smile. “Congratulations, Prince Barbieri. Oh, and Princess Barbieri, of course. Sir, you may kiss your bride.”
Nicolo looked at her. His eyes told her he knew exactly what she’d been about to say; the proof came when he bent his head and put his mouth to her ear.
To the onlookers, it probably looked as if he was whispering something tender but it was hardly that.
“Too late, cara,” he murmured, the words a steel fist in a velvet glove.
Then he shook the judge’s hand, thanked the witnesses and drew Aimee’s arm through his.
“Time for the newlyweds to be alone,” he said, with a little smile.
The judge and the witnesses laughed politely.
Aimee trembled.
He’d told the taxi driver to wait by circling the block; the cab appeared just as they came down the courthouse steps.
Nicolo opened the door, motioned Aimee inside and climbed in next to her.
“Kennedy,” he said. “The General Aviation facility.”
Aimee stared at him as the cab pulled into midmorning traffic. “What?”
“The airport. The area where corporate jets are—”
“I know what Kennedy is,” she said impatiently. “But why are we going there?”
Nicolo raised a dark eyebrow. “Where did you think we would go, cara?” His smile was silken. “Are you in such a rush to be alone with me that you hoped we’d go to my hotel?”
No way was she going to let him draw her into that kind of conversation! Aimee folded her hands in her lap.
“I asked you a question. Do you think you could give me a straight answer?”
His smile faded. “We’re going home.”
Home? She stared at him blankly. They hadn’t discussed where they’d live but then, they hadn’t discussed much of anything.
“Did you think we would live in New York?”
That was precisely what she’d thought.
“My home is in Italy,” he said brusquely. “In Rome. My house is there, my corporate headquarters…Don’t look so stricken, cara. New York isn’t the center of the world.”
It was the center of her world. Didn’t he see that?
“But—but—”
“If you’re concerned about not packing enough clothes, you can shop tomorrow.”
Did he think this was about clothes? She would have laughed, except laughter was too close to tears.
“I’m not concerned about that.”
“If it’s because we haven’t told your grandfather, don’t be. I’ll call him from the plane.”
“Nicolo.” Aimee swallowed dryly. She had to find the right way to say this without sounding as if she was begging. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
“And I,” he said coolly, “have lived in Rome.”
“Yes, I know that, but—”
“You are my wife.”
His voice had turned hard; even the cabbie, sensing something, reached back and closed the privacy partition.
“But surely—”
“If you wish, I will consider the purchase of a flat in New York.” Why tell her he’d decided on that when he first became interested in buying SCB? “But my primary residence—our primary residence—will be Roma.”
“But—but—”
“Stop sounding like a motorboat,” Nicolo said impatiently. “You are my wife. You will behave as such, and you cannot do that from a distance of thirty-five hundred miles.”
Aimee felt the blood drain from her head. “Nicolo. Please—”
“This discussion is at an end.”
Nicolo folded his arms and turned his face to the window.
“What discussion?” Aimee said bitterly. “You don’t discuss things, you make pronouncements.”
He gave her one final, unyielding look. “Get used to it,” he said.
After that, there was silence.
Hell.
Nicolo glowered as he stared blindly out the window.
He was certainly doing his best to prove Aimee right and be just what she had called him. A no-good bastard. A son of a bitch. He was sure she’d have used other names, far more colorful ones, if only she’d known them.
But what did she expect?
First she told him how much she hated him. Then she told him she’d marry him. Then she said he was never to touch her.
He was the one with a title but his wife had been a princess long before she’d met him. A Park Avenue princess, accustomed to giving orders and getting her own way.
And he had married her.
He must have been out of his mind! How in hell had he let it happen?
He’d come to his senses last night, realized he didn’t have to marry this woman. He didn’t need her grandfather’s bank. He hadn’t needed a child, either, but since one was on the way, he’d finally figured out that he could do the right thing for it without marrying its mother…
It.
Not much of a way to think about one’s bambino but then, he didn’t know the sex. Damn it, he didn’t even know if it was his child.
What in hell had happened to him, to make him do something so impetuous as marrying Aimee? Just because she said the baby was his…
Why believe her? Anything was possible with a woman who screwed like a bunny and wouldn’t even exchange names.
Except, he knew he was the father. Knew it in his bones, and to hell with how ridiculous that sounded. He knew it, that was all, and because he hadn’t been fast enough on his feet this morning, now he was stuck with the consequences.
He glanced at Aimee, sitting stiff and silent in the corner of the taxi, as far from him as she could get.
I feel the same way about you, he wanted to tell her. I’m no happier about what we just did than you are. I don’t want to look at you, talk to you, touch you…
A lie.
He wanted to touch her, all right. Take her in his arms and kiss her until her lips were warm and softly swollen. Tear that demure-looking sundress off her body, bare her breasts to his eyes and mouth.
Bare her belly to his caress.
Her belly. Her womb. His child.
His child. That was why he’d married her. Of course it was. Why else would a man tie himself to a beautiful, hardheaded, ill-tempered woman he didn’t know?
Nicolo glanced at Aimee again.
Why else, indeed?
He had phoned his pilot before the ceremony; when they reached the airport, the plane stood ready for departure.