The Princes' Brides: The Italian Prince's Pregnant Bride / The Greek Prince's Chosen Wife / The Spanish Prince's Virgin Bride

“Such perception!”

“—but, sarcasm aside, it’s inappropriate to address me by my title.”

Aimee burst out laughing. “Now you’re going to give me lessons in court etiquette? God almighty, what a horrible human being you—”

“I do not believe in such formality,” he said, cursing himself for a fool because he knew damned well a man couldn’t sound more formal than he did right now. He paused, took a breath and got on with it. “Particularly from the woman who is about to become my wife.”

Chapter Eight

MARRY HIM?

Marry Nicolo Barbieri.

The man who had seduced her. And he had, no matter what he claimed. He’d started it all. Followed her into that bathroom. Locked the door. Lifted her onto the marble vanity. Torn aside her panties.

Thrust deep into her…and even now, despite everything, just thinking of what it had been like made her body quicken.

What was the matter with her, that she should still feel desire for him? She couldn’t blame him for making her pregnant—she hadn’t been thinking any more clearly than he that night—but there was no escaping that he’d made love to her…

And then called her a slut because he believed she’d been part of some ugly scheme of her grandfather’s.

Why wouldn’t he think that? Nicolo was every bit as ruthless and driven as the coldhearted old man who’d raised her.

James was willing to sell her for the good of his kingdom. Nicolo was willing to buy her for the same reason. He’d probably been willing to do it from the instant her grandfather suggested it.

All that indignation this morning, the fiery show of contempt for her and her grandfather, had been a lie to placate his own ego. He’d needed to justify a devil’s bargain and she and her answering machine had handed it to him, all prettily gift-wrapped and tied with a great big bow.

She was pregnant with his baby. What better way to agree to marrying her than by making it seem a gallant gesture?

Except, she knew the truth.

The Prince of All He Surveyed was about as gallant as a fifteen-century monarch weighing the benefits of a royal marriage—except for one enormous difference.

No matter what he thought, she wasn’t governed by the rules of James Black’s kingdom. She was not a princess. She didn’t have to marry a tyrant she didn’t know, didn’t love, didn’t even like.

“Well, cara? Has my proposal swept you off your feet, or shall I take your silence as wholehearted agreement?”

Aimee looked up. Nicolo’s words were sarcastic but his eyes were cool and watchful. He had to know she wasn’t going to agree—or maybe he didn’t. He was just arrogant enough, imperious enough, to assume his proposal—and wasn’t that an amazing thing to call it—was everything a woman in her situation could want.

She almost laughed. He was in for one hell of a surprise!

Learning she was pregnant, having to make all the tough choices that came next without anyone to help her, was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened.

Only one thing could possibly be more frightening: marriage to a man like the Evil Prince.

Aimee tossed her head, as if none of this was worth discussion.

“I have lots to say,” she said evenly. “But for both our sakes, I’ll stay with thanks but no thanks and, oh, by the way, don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out.”

Good, she thought. Not original, but concise. She’d have liked it better if he showed some reaction but he didn’t. No look of surprise. Not even anger. All he did was smile and, God, she hated that smile, the all-knowing insolence of it.

“Perhaps ‘proposal’ is the wrong word,” he said smoothly.

“At least we can agree on that. ‘Decree’ is the word that came to my mind.” Aimee smiled, too, and lifted her chin. “There’s only one problem. You may be a prince but I’m not one of your subjects. Your ridiculous pronouncements don’t mean a thing to me.”

“So much for my attempt at being gallant.”

She’d been right. And what was that tiny twinge of regret all about? She knew she was a pawn in a game played between Nicolo and her grandfather.

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.

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 her child.

He paused outside her apartment, then rang the bell. He rang it again. She might be in the shower, getting ready for his arrival. Or, knowing Aimee, not getting ready.

It almost made him smile.

Whatever else she was, she was brave. He’d never known a woman to stand up to him before. He knew damned well yesterday’s argument wasn’t over. The second she opened the door and saw him, she’d lift her chin in that way she had and tell him what he could do with his marriage proposal.

He’d let her rant for a few seconds and then he’d say, There is no proposal, cara. I have decided I would sooner live with a scorpion than with you.

The door opened.

Everything he’d anticipated was wrong.

Aimee didn’t lift her chin. She didn’t rant. And, even though he’d shown up more than an hour early, he could see that she had been waiting for him.

She wore a simple yellow sundress and white sandals with little heels. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, her face was bare of makeup and her eyes were suspiciously bright as if she’d been crying.

She looked painfully young, heartbreakingly vulnerable—and incredibly beautiful.

For one wild moment, Nicolo imagined taking her in his arms, telling her she had nothing to be afraid of. That he would be good to her, that he would take care of her…

He frowned, then cleared his throat.

“Aimee. I have come to tell you—”

“What? More threats?” Her chin rose now, just as he’d expected. “Let me save you the trouble.” She took a shaky breath. “I thought it through.” She gave an unsteady laugh. “Actually, it’s all I thought about since you left yesterday. And—and you’re right, Nicolo. I have no choice but to marry you.”

He stared at her in disbelief. Say something, he told himself, tell her you’ve changed your mind!

“You were right. About my grandfather. I want to hate him but I can’t. He raised me. He gave me all the things he believed I needed and if I needed more, his love, his respect…”

Aimee stopped the rush of words. Why bare her soul? She was going to marry Nicolo Barbieri. That was enough.

“He’s old,” she continued, her voice low. “And growing frail. I don’t want to look back after he’s gone and know I denied him the only things he ever asked of me, the bank in your hands, and—” color rose in her cheeks “—and your child.”

Nicolo said nothing. After a few seconds, Aimee cleared her throat. “So, I’ll marry you.”

“But?” His smile was thin. “Don’t look so surprised, cara. One would have to be deaf not to have heard that unspoken word.”

“This marriage—it will be in name only. A legal convenience that will end on my grandfather’s death.”

Aimee waited, trying to read Nicolo’s expression, but it told her nothing.

“No sex,” he finally said, his voice silken.

She nodded. “None.”

“And tell me, cara. What am I to do when I want sex?”

The seemingly subservient woman of the last few moments disappeared. Aimee’s eyes flashed with her old defiance.

“You’ll do whatever you must but you’ll be discreet about it.”

Nicolo burst out laughing. She felt her hands ball. How she wanted to slap that laugh from his face!

“Let me be sure I understand this. I marry you. I give you my name. My title. And at some point in the future, we divorce and I end up with alimony payments and child support. In return for all this, you will not complain when I keep a mistress. Is that right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he swept her into his arms and drew her against him.

“Here is how it will be,” he growled. “You will be my wife. You will be available to me whenever I wish. Night. Day. Anywhere, anytime. If I also want a mistress, I will have one.”

“I won’t marry you under those conditions!”

“Si. You will. And if there is a divorce, it will be because I have wearied of you.” She tried to wrench free; his hold on her tightened. “And before you say, ‘no, Nicolo, I won’t marry you under those conditions,’ consider this.” He leaned toward her, eyes glittering. “I can take this child from you the day it’s born. Do not shake your head! I am Prince Nicolo Antonius Barbieri. No court would deny me the right to my own flesh and blood. Is that clear?”

“You no good, evil, vicious bastard,” she hissed, “you son of a—”

Nicolo captured her mouth with his, kissed her again and again until she trembled in his arms.

Then he picked up the small suitcase near her feet and jerked his head toward the door.

Chapter Nine

SOME WOMEN dreamed about their weddings.

Would the day be sunny? What kind of gown? Would it be sweet and romantic, like something Scarlett would have worn in Gone with the Wind, or would it be sexy and sophisticated? And then there was all the rest. The setting. The attendants. The guests. The flowers.

Aimee was glad she’d never wasted time on such silly dreams, otherwise—otherwise what was happening now might make her weep. A high-ceilinged room in a tired municipal building. A judge who’d seemed surprised to see them until his secretary whispered something in his ear. A pair of witnesses plucked from the clerical staff.

And Nicolo, her stern-faced groom, standing beside her.

Oh, yes. It was a damned good thing she’d been too busy studying to think about weddings.

Marriage had only been a distant possibility. Friends had married; Aimee had smiled and said all the right things but mostly she’d thought, Not me, not yet, maybe not ever.

She had things to do, a life to live, and if she ever did marry, it would be someone the exact opposite of her grandfather.

Yet today she was marrying a man who made her grandfather look like a saint, a stranger taking her as his wife as if they’d been sent back to a time when men and women married for reasons of—

“Miss?”

—for reasons of title and expediency that had nothing to do with love or romance or—

“Miss?”

Aimee blinked. The judge smiled in apology.

“Your name again, miss? I’m terribly sorry but—”

“No,” Aimee replied, “that’s all right, Your Honor. I understand.”

She did. She understood it all. The impersonal setting, the equally impersonal words. Why would he remember her name?

The only surprise came when it was time for Nicolo to put a ring on her finger.

The cold stranger who’d made it clear this would be a marriage on his terms, who’d undoubtedly browbeaten some poor soul at City Hall into issuing a marriage license in less than twenty-four hours, had neglected to buy a wedding ring.

Admitting his error made him blush. It was lovely to see, she thought with dour satisfaction.