The Princes' Brides. Sandra Marton
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 calmer. Still furious at the Blacks and the ugly game he’d been dragged into, but at least he had regained his equilibrium.
What he needed now was coffee, perhaps a bite to eat. Then he’d go to his hotel, phone his pilot, have him ready the Learjet.
A few hours, and he’d be home.
Goodbye, New York. Goodbye, James Black. Goodbye, acquisition of Stafford-Coleridge-Black.
He could live without all of them. The city, the crazy old man, the bank.
There were other private banks in the United States, maybe not quite as suitable for his purposes, but they would do. He still had the short-list from which he’d ultimately chosen SCB. As soon as he returned to Rome, he’d tell his people to begin researching them in depth all over again.
It wasn’t as if he’d fixated on this one financial institution…
As if he’d fixated on this one beautiful woman.
A lying, scheming, bitch of an immoral woman.
And, damn it, he didn’t know why what had happened should have made him react with such rage.
The bartender caught his eye. Did he want another drink? Nicolo shook his head, then mouthed the word, coffee. The guy nodded.
He’d been around long enough to know that the days of the old robber barons were not over. Scandals in the world of high finance erupted as frequently as squalls over the Mediterranean. Seemingly intelligent men did amazingly stupid things to advance their own interests.
James Black was no different.
Neither was his granddaughter, who had been willing to sleep with a stranger to whet his appetite for a dynastic merger.
“Your coffee, sir.”
Nicolo looked up. “Grazie.”
“Will there be anything else?”
“Si.” What was with all this Italian? When in Rome…or, in this case, New York…“Yes,” he said. “A sandwich.”
“What kind would you like?”
“Anything. Roast beef is fine.” He smiled. “Something to keep the bourbon company, si?”
More Italian, he thought as the bartender moved off. A clear sign he was still distressed, though surely not anywhere near as much as before. The whiskey, now some much-needed logic, were working their magic.
The simple fact was that Black was a man who would do whatever was necessary to get what he wanted.
So would his granddaughter.
Nicolo drank some coffee.
And, really, how different did that make her from some other women he’d known? Women who dressed in a way meant to gain a man’s interest. Who went to bed with a man and performed whatever tricks they imagined might win them points. Who lied to a man’s face, promised love and devotion forever, all in hopes of landing a suitable husband.
Of all the women he’d known, Aimee Black was the last woman in the world he would ever consider marrying. Her morals were lacking and it wasn’t because she’d slept with him that night.
It was because she’d done it as part of an act.
Nicolo took another mouthful of coffee.
Maybe his ego demanded it. Maybe his male pride required it. Whatever the reason, he’d wanted to believe that the woman with the violet eyes had felt the same uncontrollable hunger he had felt. That she could no more have kept from making love with him than she could have stopped breathing.
That what had happened that night was the most exciting memory of her life, and that they had created that memory with equal passion and desire.
He could see her now, that night in his bed. Eyes dark with pleasure. Skin fragrant with her need…
“Your sandwich, sir.”
Nicolo blinked. Had he ordered a sandwich?
“Would you like anything else? More coffee?”
Nicolo pushed the plate aside, rose to his feet and dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table.
“No,” he said brusquely, and added what he hoped was a polite smile and a hurried, “Grazie.”
It wasn’t the bartender’s fault that what he wanted, what he damned well would not be denied, could not be found in this bar.
Aimee sat slumped on the sofa in her apartment, face buried in her hands.
Her anger was gone, replaced by a terrible emptiness in her heart.
“Let me explain,” Grandfather had said.
Explain what? That he’d been willing to sell her to a foreigner to get what he wanted for his precious bank?
She’d fled his office, ignored his voice calling after her, stumbled into a taxi and gone home.
She’d never harbored any illusions about her grandfather’s feelings for her. His lack of feelings, she amended, with a bitter smile. She’d accepted it.
What other choice did she have?
He’d taken her in after she’d lost her parents. He’d raised her, or maybe it was more accurate to say he’d paid a series of nannies and housekeepers to raise her. He’d sent her to the best schools; he’d seen to it she had tennis and skiing and riding lessons, all the things his fortune could buy.
But he’d never really loved her.
What he loved was his bank and the dead Staffords, Coleridges and Blacks who’d founded it. Everything else, including her, was secondary.
Even so, she’d never dreamed him capable of such a cold-blooded scheme. That he’d want to marry her off to a stranger…
Except, Nicolo Barbieri—Prince Barbieri—was not a stranger. He was the man she’d made love with endless times in a few short hours.
How could she have done that? Climaxed in his arms when she hadn’t even known his name?
Nausea roiled in her belly. Aimee clamped her hand to her mouth, raced to the bathroom and reached it just in time. A couple of moments later, pale and shaken, she flushed the commode and sank down on the closed seat.
God, she felt awful. She was tired of throwing up, tired of just plain feeling tired.
This time, at least she had a reason for feeling so rotten. Who wouldn’t, after today?
That son of a bitch. Prince Barbieri. Prince of Darkness, was more like it. To call her a—a—
She couldn’t even think the word.
How could he believe she’d deliberately seduced him? Offered herself as bait for her grandfather’s vile proposition?
She’d slept with Nicolo Barbieri because—because she’d been upset. Anxious. Stressed.
Aimee groaned and put her face in her hands again.
She’d slept with him because she’d wanted to. Because