Sandra Marton - The Princes' Brides

Aimee snorted. Nicolo shot her a warning look.

“Do you find this amusing, signorina? ”

“I find it arrogant, signore . Can you actually believe my grandfather is naïve enough to think you’ve decided to keep a name that’s worth its weight in gold in financial circles as an act of kindness?”

Nicolo gave her a long, cold look. Then he turned to James.

“With all due respect,” he said, in a tone that made it clear the words were a polite lie, “I will not continue this meeting with your granddaughter present.”

“With all due respect,” Aimee snapped, “ you are the outsider here, Prince Barbieri.”

“You know nothing about this.”

“I know everything about it.”

Nicolo’s mouth thinned. “What you know,” he said slowly, “has nothing to do with boardrooms or corporations or responsibility. The only person here who does not know that is your grandfather.”

Aimee sprang to her feet. “You—you no good, insolent son of a—”

“Stop it!” James’s voice was sharp. “Aimee. You are to show the prince respect.”

“Respect? If you knew—if you only knew what this man is really like. If you knew the truth about him—”

“Tell him,” Nicolo said softly. “Go on, Miss Black. Why not explain things to your grandfather?”

Aimee stared at him, eyes glittering with angry tears, lips pouting with suppressed rage, breasts rising and falling with each breath.

It made him remember how she had looked that night, in his arms.

In his bed.

With a swiftness that stunned him, he felt his body harden.

“Why is he here?” she said, her voice rising. “I demand to know the reason!”

James Black looked from his granddaughter to the one man he was certain could guide the company he loved through the twenty-first century. Bradley couldn’t do it. Aimee had tried to make him see that, and she’d been right. In the short time the boy had been at the helm, the company had lost clients and come close to taking dangerous changes of direction.

That left only one other Black to head the bank.

Aimee.

In the endless weeks of his recuperation, James had finally reviewed the proposals she’d made and he’d ignored. They were, he’d been forced to admit, good.

Excellent, actually.

And Aimee was of his blood.

But she was also a woman. A young woman. Even if he managed to convince himself that her sex was not a drawback, her inexperience was.

How could he entrust her with the responsibility handed down by generations of Staffords, Coleridges and Blacks?

He’d put thoughts of Aimee aside. Concentrated on Nicolo Barbieri. The man had the intelligence, the courage, the experience to move SCB forward.

If only he carried the right blood, James had thought…

And the solution had come to him.

Barbieri was young. Thirty, thirty-two. Something like that. Aimee was in her midtwenties.

Once upon a time, nations had forged bonds through marriage. So had powerful institutions. Men and women had been joined in matrimony so they could produce children who carried the proud ancestry of both.

“Grandfather, I want an answer. Why is Nicolo Barbieri here?”

Black looked at the Italian prince, then at his headstrong American granddaughter.

“He is here,” he said calmly, “to make you his wife.”

FOR A MOMENT, no one spoke. No one moved. Even the dust motes hovered in the silence.

Then Aimee collapsed into her chair and made a choked sound. Was she laughing? One glance at her and Nicolo knew she wasn’t. She looked the way he felt, as if an elephant had suddenly appeared in their midst.

“A bad joke, Grandfather. Now tell me the real reason.”

“That is the real reason.” James was unsmiling as he met her eyes. “You have some good ideas, Aimee, but you’re too inexperienced to run SCB.”

“I’m fully capable of running SCB. And in the event I needed advice, I’d turn to you.”

“If I could rely on lasting long enough to do that,” her grandfather said bluntly, “I wouldn’t be handing my company to someone else.”

“I’m not someone else. I’m your granddaughter!”

“You need guidance, Aimee.” The old man paused. “And you need a husband. A woman’s function is to marry and bear children.”

Fascinated, not yet believing what was happening, Nicolo sat back and became a silent observer.

“You’re a century behind the times, Grandfather.”

“So it would seem. Which is why I’m willing to see you as second-in-command to a man capable of running my company.”

“Second-in-command?” Aimee’s voice rose. “Do you actually think I’d agree to such an arrangement?”

“Stafford-Coleridge-Black needs strong, proven leadership. It also needs, as you have pointed out many times, new blood. His Highness can provide both those things.” Black fixed her with an autocratic eye. “He can also provide our bank with a new generation of leaders.”

A flush rose in her cheeks. “You speak as if—as if I’m a broodmare!”

“I speak sense, child,” Black said, somewhat more gently. “You know I do. This is the perfect solution to everything.”

A muscle knotted in Nicolo’s jaw as silence fell over the room again. The offhand comment about providing the bank with a new generation was, perhaps, the most infuriating of all the infuriating things the old man had said.

If he took Aimee Black to bed, breeding a future generation of bankers would not be the reason.

What about the night you spent with her, Nicolo? A man who doesn’t use a condom is a man flirting with fatherhood.

A knot formed in his belly. He’d 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.