Sandra Marton - The Princes' Brides

Now, he knew that she knew it.

Dark Knight takes pawn. Checkmate.

“That’s unfortunate, Aimee.” Another of those quick, infuriating smiles lifted one corner of his mouth. “The easiest path to a goal is generally the preferable one.”

“And the easiest path to the door is right behind you. Goodbye, Nicolo. I hope I never have the misfortune of seeing you again.”

Still no reaction. Damn it, she wanted one! Didn’t the man know when he was being insulted?

Apparently not.

Instead of heading for the door, he picked up the things he’d dropped and took a little black notebook from his pocket, flipped it open, found the page he wanted and frowned.

“Wednesday,” he said briskly. His frown deepened. “No. On second thought…” Another glance, a nod, and then he scrawled something with the pen. “I must be in Rome by Wednesday but I am free tomorrow.” The pen and notebook went back into his pocket; he folded his arms and looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Will ten in the morning be suitable?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“For our marriage, cara. What else have we been discussing?”

Aimee laughed. That, finally, got a reaction. Oh, if looks could kill…

“You find this amusing?”

“Actually I find it incredible. I’m sure people trip over their feet in an effort to please you but here’s a news flash, Prince.” Her laughter faded; her face became as stony as his. “I am not marrying you.”

“You are pregnant.”

“I am pregnant. I am pregnant,” she repeated, pounding her fist between her breasts for emphasis. “And I am perfectly capable of handling the situation myself.”

“What happened is my responsibility.”

“A little while ago you were busy saying it was mine.”

“I was wrong.” He drew himself up. “I am the man and such things are a man’s duty.”

Another time, the ridiculous speech might have made her roll her eyes. Not now. He meant it. Or wanted to think he meant it. Or wanted her to think he meant it.

Anything, to get his hands on her grandfather’s bank and extend the scope and power of the Barbieri empire.

“How nice,” she said softly. “And how amazing, that you should turn into this—this ethical creature instead of the son of a bitch we both know you—”

A cry broke from her throat as he clasped her shoulders.

“Call me whatever you like. Hate me as much as pleases you. It changes nothing. I live by a set of rules that necessitate I accept responsibility for my actions.” His grasp on her eased. “Perhaps it took me a while to accept that but what I learned just now took me by surprise.”

“Have you ever counted how many times you use the words ‘I’ and ‘me’ and ‘my’? Try it sometime. You might be surprised. Oh, and here’s another thing that might surprise you.” She pulled free of his hands. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice that marrying me will drop Stafford-Coleridge-Black right into your hands?”

“An undeniable fact, I agree.”

“Then, let me be more direct.” Aimee’s eyes were hot with warning. “I will not marry you under any—”

Nicolo cursed, grabbed her, hauled her into his arms and captured her mouth with his. It was sudden; she had no time to think, no time to do anything except let it happen…

No time to keep her lips from parting hungrily under the pressure of his.

When he drew back, she stood motionless, heart racing, body tingling, while he watched her through narrowed eyes.

“There is an American expression,” he said softly. “Win-win. Do you know it, cara? It is the perfect way to describe what I have in mind.”

“I know what you have in mind. And I don’t want any part of it.”

“Your grandfather wants an heir. I want SCB.”

“And you’d marry me to get it.”

“James says you are an intelligent woman. Can’t you see beyond your pride?”

Did he think that was why she wouldn’t agree? Because of her pride? Did he think that if he’d wanted her— her, not an expansion of his empire—she’d have agreed to this outrageous marriage?

“You’re right,” she said, her voice shaking, “I do have too much pride to marry someone like you.”

His eyes went cold. “This discussion is over.”

“You said that before. And I agree. It’s over. So are your pathetic attempts to convince me to marry you.”

“I was going to tell you that I would be willing to let you try your hand at helping me run SCB, once it is mine.” His mouth thinned. “Now, I would not even allow you to play at being in charge of the mail room.”

“What a coldhearted bastard you are.”

“No,” he said calmly, “not at all. For all intents and purposes, I had no father. I would wish better for my child.”

“Such a noble sentiment! Too bad I know that this is all about SCB. Well, I don’t give a damn for SCB! And nothing you say or do can make me change my mind.”

Nicolo smiled thinly. “I wonder if you’ll feel that way when I tell your grandfather that you carry my child, that I have offered to marry you and that you have refused.”

“Do it,” she said recklessly. “I hate you. I hate him—”

“You may hate me, cara, but you don’t hate that old man. If you did, you wouldn’t have been so hurt by the things he said this morning.” His gaze hardened. “Your grandfather hasn’t much longer to live,” he said bluntly. “Would you have him die knowing you denied him the things only you can give him?”

Aimee knotted her hands. “Is there anything you won’t do to get your own way?”

“Win-win, cara, ” he said softly. “A peaceful close to your grandfather’s long life. Legitimacy for our child.” He drew her against him, his arousal swift and obvious against the V of her thighs. “And a bonus,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Or must I remind you what it was like when we made love?”

“It was sex, not love. And if you really think I’d ever let you touch me again—”

Nicolo laughed, gathered her against him and kissed her.

She struggled. Fought. But his kiss was deep and all-consuming and in a heartbeat, she was kissing him back.

It was the same as the night they’d met.

The fire. The hunger. The heavy race of her heart. The only way she could keep from falling was to clutch his jacket, rise on her toes, cling to him and cling to him until he let go of her.

It took a moment to catch her breath. By then, he had strolled to the door.

“Ten o’clock,” he said over his shoulder. “And be prompt. I don’t have time to waste.”

“You—you—”

Blindly she snatched a glass from the counter and flung it. It shattered against the wall an inch from his head but he didn’t turn around. If he had—if he had, he thought grimly as he yanked the door open and went into the hall, God only knew what he’d have done.

There was a limit to how much of a woman’s anger a man had to take.

Halfway down the stairs, he took out his cell phone and called his attorney.

“This is Nicolo Barbieri. I wish to be married tomorrow,” he said brusquely, aware and not giving a damn that this was exactly the kind of arrogance Aimee had accused him of. “The woman’s name is Aimee Stafford Coleridge Black.” He listened for a moment, then made an impatient sound. “Rules and regulations are your concern, signore, not mine. Find a way around them, make the necessary arrangements and send a report, the paperwork, whatever is necessary, to me at my hotel. No, not as soon as you can. Tonight.”

Nicolo snapped his phone shut and stepped into the street. It was raining again. Dio, what was with this combination? Rain, and Aimee Black. It was as if the skies were trying to tell him something. He had no coat, no umbrella and from what he could see, there wasn’t a subway station in the vicinity. No bus stops, either, and as always when it rained in Manhattan, the taxis seemed to have vanished.