The Italian Prince's Pregnant Bride. Sandra Marton

an eternity, swept by. Then the blonde raised her head and looked directly at him.

      He let a tight smile curve his mouth. Whatever beat its wings within him must have been in that smile, because the color drained from her face.

      She took a step back.

      He thought, again, of the doe.

      Run, he thought.

      And, just as if she’d read his mind, the woman with the violet eyes swung away from him and fled.

      Nicolo didn’t hesitate. He went after her.

      CHAPTER THREE

      YOU COULDN’T end up in the same place with the same man twice in one day. Not in a town the size of New York.

      At first, when she saw him, Aimee told herself it had to be some other tall, dark-haired guy. There were tons of dark-haired, good-looking men in the city.

      A second glance and that hope vanished. It was the overbearing, supermacho jerk who’d kissed her. It had to be. The truth was, nobody else would be as…

      All right. No other man could possibly be as easy on the eyes. He was despicable—but he was gorgeous.

      The last few minutes, she’d felt…What? A premonition? She didn’t believe in any of that stuff, but how else to explain that tingle at her nape? That feeling that eyes were following her as she danced with Tom or Tim or, dear God, she couldn’t even remember the name of the guy who’d bought her a drink, then led her onto the dance floor.

      He was nice enough. Good-looking enough. And he was working hard at making an impression.

      And he wasn’t the stranger from this afternoon.

      No way would Tom, or whoever he was, grab a woman and kiss her, look at her through icy deep-blue eyes in a way that would make the memory of him lodge itself in her brain.

      She hated men like the Neanderthal, no matter how hot-looking a Neanderthal he might be.

      So, yes, it was good that the guy dancing with her wasn’t like that…Wasn’t it?

      Of course it was.

      He’d been coming on to her like crazy. And she’d tried her best to respond. Smiled. Laughed. Gone onto the dance floor and did her best to lose herself in the music, working off her frustrations to its insistent beat the way she’d have worked them off in the gym.

      And then, suddenly, she’d felt a tingle, as if someone was watching her.

      Well, of course, someone was watching her! People danced, other people watched.

      Aimee had danced harder, throwing herself into the music with abandon, and the guy with her kept saying things like, “Wow, you’re good, baby,” and “That’s it, babe, way to go,” as if he were cheering her on.

      Objectifying her, she’d thought with detached clarity—except, wasn’t that part of the deal tonight?

      She’d come here to have fun, she’d thought grimly. To pick up a man. She was going to have a good time.

      Except, she wasn’t.

      She despised places like this. Not the club itself: it was, she had to admit, spectacular. It was what went with the place. The noise. The lights. The crowd. The desperate pickup lines.

      And this was not the time to turn into an anthropologist studying the natives.

      So she’d agreed when Jen said it was absolutely fantastic, laughed at what she assumed were jokes, let a nice-looking guy buy her a margarita, tell her she was the most beautiful woman in the place and lead her to the dance floor.

      And tried not to cringe each time Ted or Tim or Tom called her “baby.”

      And worked really, really hard at pretending she was having fun when the truth was, she didn’t belong here, didn’t want to be here, certainly didn’t want to go home with Ted-Tom-Tim or anybody else for a night of meaningless sex.

      She’d never treated sex casually. Never had a one-night stand. Never, not once.

      Why on earth had she thought she’d want to now?

      Because, a sly voice inside her had whispered, you thought it just might make you forget the stranger. The one with the hard, beautiful face and the body that was all muscle.

      The one who kissed you as if he had the right, as if he could kiss you, do anything to you that he wanted.

      That you wanted.

      And that was when Aimee felt the tingling, looked around…And saw him. The stranger from this afternoon. Watching her with what could only be fury in his eyes.

      He was angry? At her? That was crazy. She was the one who was angry. And “angry” wasn’t the word. She’d been the one harassed by him. By his attitude. His arrogance. His unwanted kiss.

      His eyes met hers. Everything faded. The insistent throb of the music, the people around her, everything.

      Aimee stopped dancing.

      It was all she could do not to run.

      The look in his eyes terrified her…but the slow heat spreading through her veins terrified her even more.

      She took a long, deep breath. Or tried to. For some reason, she couldn’t seem to get any air into her lungs.

      Suddenly the rage in his expression changed. Something else glittered in his dark blue eyes. Something male that she despised.

      The innate male determination to dominate.

      To dominate, in bed and out.

      With breathtaking swiftness, she felt a rush of heat sweep through her. Her nipples tightened; a honeyed warmth spread low in her belly.

      No, she thought frantically, no! She’d never want someone like him to put his hands on her. His mouth on her. To take her, hard and fast, again and again until she collapsed in his arms….

      He started toward her, heedless of the people in his way, everything about him focused, with hot intensity, on her.

      And she turned and ran.

      She went through the crowd blindly, banging into people, ignoring their indignant protests. Her heart was racing.

      God, oh God, oh God!

      He was the hunter. She was his prey. A sob rose in her throat and, just in time, she spotted the flashing neon sign that marked one of the club’s unisex bathrooms.

      Jen had dragged her into it earlier.

      “Doesn’t look like a bathroom at all,” Jen had bubbled.

      Right now, it looked like a sanctuary.

      Aimee pulled open the door. Slammed it after her. Started to turn the lock…

      Bang!

      The door flew open and the man burst into the room. She shrieked and fell back, reached behind her to the vanity. Wrapped her hand around a heavy bottle of something. Hand lotion. Body oil. Who gave a damn what it was? It was a weapon.

      That was what counted.

      “Don’t,” she said.

      Her voice shook. Was that the reason for the little smile that began at the corner of his mouth?

      “Get out of here! Do you hear me? Go away or I’ll scream.”

      He laughed. She couldn’t blame him. There wasn’t a chance in the world anyone would hear her. You wouldn’t hear a siren above the music. It was muted here, but it still filled the room like the beat of a giant heart.

      She raised the bottle over her head. “One step,” she panted, “just one, and I’ll smash you with this!”

      He laughed. “You already tried that, remember?”

      “I’m