The Princes' Brides. Sandra Marton
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.
He was at least forty blocks from his hotel.
He began walking. The exercise would do him good. Maybe he could work off some of his anger.
Aimee wasn’t the only one who was furious.
He was, too.
At her. At himself. At how easily she could make him lose his grip on logic and self-control, the very qualities that had helped him build what she so disparagingly referred to as his kingdom.
He knew men who lived on the largesse of those impressed by a useless title.
Not Nicolo.
He had worked hard for all he had, though Aimee made it clear she didn’t think so. She didn’t like him. Didn’t respect him.
Why in hell was he going to marry her?
To gain Stafford-Coleridge-Black? Ridiculous. He wanted it, yes, but not enough to tie himself to a woman he didn’t love.
To give her unborn child a name? He wasn’t even sure the child was his. How had he forgotten that?
And even if it was, he didn’t need to marry Aimee to accept the responsibilities of paternity. He could even make it a point to be part of the child’s life.
Well, as much as he could.
If he’d been calmer, he’d have seen all this right away. But Aimee had forced a confrontation. Her anger had fueled his and he’d let her wrest control of the situation from him.
She was good at that.
The only time he’d been in command was the night he’d made love to her. She had been his. Moaning at his touch. Sighing at his kisses. Trembling under his caresses.
Nicolo cursed.
It had been nothing more than sex, as she’d so coldly pointed out. It was just that the passage of time had made it seem more exciting than it had actually been.
And even if it had been extraordinary, why would he want to tie himself to her? To any woman, but especially to this one, who had the disposition of a tigress?
That was fine in bed but out of it a man wanted a sweet-tempered, obedient woman. He knew dozens like that, every one beautiful and sexy and a thousand times easier to handle.
Which brought him back to reality and the knowledge that he couldn’t come up with a single, rational reason to go through with this wedding, and what a hell of a relief that was.
Nicolo slowed his steps. The rain had stopped. The sun was out. Taxis prowled the streets again. He hailed one, got inside and told the driver the name of his hotel.
He would go to Aimee’s apartment at ten tomorrow morning because he had said that was what he would do, but when he arrived, he’d tell her he’d changed his mind, that he didn’t want to marry her.
He’d tell her the rest, too, that he would support the child—and her, of course—and, in general, do the right thing.
Problem solved.
Nicolo folded his arms, sat back and smiled. He was soaked to the skin but he was happy.
Hours later, the bellman delivered a thin manila envelope from Nicolo’s attorney.
A note inside assured him that all he had to do in the morning was take the attached documents and his prospective bride to a building in lower Manhattan, ask for a particular judge and he and the lady in question would be married within the hour.
That there was no longer a prospective bride was beside the point. The papers were simply a reminder of how foolish he’d almost been, and he shoved them aside.
He went to bed at eleven. At midnight, he got up and paced the confines of the suite. When he lay down again more than an hour later, he fell into troubled sleep. His dreams were murky and unpleasant, involving a small boy wandering the somber halls of Stafford-Coleridge-Black in search of something nameless and elusive. Each time the child was on the verge of finding it, Nicolo woke up.
At dawn, he gave up, phoned down for coffee, rye toast and the Times and the Wall Street Journal. Showered, shaved and dressed in chinos and a navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he sat by the sitting room window to have his breakfast and read the papers.
The coffee was fine. The toast was dry. So was the writing in both the Times and the Journal. Why else would he be unable to focus on any of the articles?
Nicolo tossed them aside and checked his watch for what had to be the tenth time since he’d awakened. Seven-thirty. Too early to show up at Aimee’s door and tell her she could forget about marrying him.
He could imagine how happy that would make her. She might even smile, something he hadn’t seen her do since the night he’d taken her to bed.
He was happy, too. If he was feeling grim, it was only because he wanted to get the damned thing over with.
Seven forty-five.
Seven fifty.
Seven fifty-seven.
“Merda,” Nicolo snarled, and shot from his chair.
He could arrive at Aimee’s any time he wanted. There was no right time to deliver good news. Besides, she didn’t have to be ready. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Traffic was heavy and it was almost eight-thirty when he climbed the steps to Aimee’s building. Yesterday’s rain hadn’t done much to clean the grungy stoop.
The first thing he’d do would be to buy her a condo in a decent neighborhood.
This was not a fit place to raise