The Princes' Brides. Sandra Marton

There was just—there was just you, and me, and some kind of insanity…”

      Her voice faded away but she had said enough. Nicolo had what he’d come for: her admission that she’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her.

      The rest didn’t matter. He knew that now.

      He no longer gave a damn whose idea the meeting had been, hers or the old man. What mattered was that once he’d kissed her, once he’d touched her, she had belonged to him.

      “Please. Go away now. I—I’m tired. I want to lie down.”

      His brow furrowed. She was more than tired. She looked…What? Ill? Frightened?

      Terrified.

      Of him? That was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? That she be afraid of him? And yet—and yet, suddenly, he wanted something more. Something just out of reach…

      “Aimee.” Nicolo squatted beside her and took her hands in his. Her fingers were ice-cold. “Cara. You need a doctor.”

      “No.” She shook her head; the lustrous honey curls shifted like strands of heavy silk around her pale face. “I don’t. Really. I’m fine.”

      Plainly, something was wrong. She needed help. He wanted to grab her and shake some sense into her.

      Or take her in his arms and kiss her. Tell her she had nothing to fear, not from him. Not from anything, as long as he was here to protect her…

      Dio, was he losing his mind?

      Nicolo shot to his feet. “Tea,” he said briskly.

      She looked up at him as if he’d lost his sanity. Perhaps he had but she wouldn’t let him call a doctor and he’d be damned if he’d leave her when she looked like a ghost.

      “Tea cures everything, or so my great-grandmother used to say.”

      Aimee didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was human after all. He had to be, if he’d had a great-grandmother.

      She stood up. He reached out a steadying hand but she ignored it.

      “Thank you for the suggestion,” she said politely. “I’ll make myself a cup of tea as soon as you—What?”

      “I will make the tea.”

      He would make the tea. Aimee bit back another wave of what she knew was hysterical laughter.

      This arrogant prince, this stranger who’d fathered the collection of cells in her womb, would make the tea.

       That’s all they were, at this point, weren’t they? Just cells?

      “You will drink some tea, and then I will leave.” He smiled. “Agreed?”

      His mood had changed. He’d gone from threatening to charming, and she knew the reason. It was because he’d gotten his way. He’d wrung a humiliating admission from her.

      Oh, but his smile was devastating.

      Maybe the realization showed in her face, because he moved closer and looked at her through eyes gone as dark as the sea.

      “Aimee.” His hands framed her face. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

      “You don’t have to explain.”

      He shook his head, lay a finger lightly over her mouth.

      “I was angry. At you. At your grandfather.” He took a breath. “At myself, for wanting you so badly that night.”

      “Please—”

      “I never wanted a woman as I wanted you.” His voice roughened. “I think I might have died if you had turned me away.”

      What did a woman say to such an admission? That she’d have died, too, if he hadn’t made love to her? That he’d made her feel things she’d never imagined? That she’d never forget that night in his arms?

      All true—and now she carried his baby. For one moment, she’d forgotten that.

      Aimee took a quick step back.

      “The kettle’s on the stove. The tea’s in the cupboard over the sink. I’ll—I’ll just—I’ll just go and wash my face…”

      “Damn it, we have to talk about that night! You can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen.”

      Aimee shook her head, turned and fled. Just as she had that night, Nicolo thought, and thought, too, of what had happened when he caught her.

      It would be the same now. All he had to was go after her…

      “Damn it!”

      He swung away, marched into the kitchen and grabbed the kettle. She had fainted. She was ill. What kind of animal was he to think of sex now?

      Besides, he wasn’t interested in getting involved with Aimee Black. As beautiful as she was, as much as he might want to make love to her, he’d never fully trust her.

      No matter what she claimed, he would always see James Black’s hand in all that had—

      The telephone rang.

      Nicolo glanced toward the bathroom. The door was still closed; he could hear the sound of water running.

      The phone rang again. Should he take the call? No. Surely she had voice mail…

       Click.

       Hi. You’ve reached 555-6145. Please leave a message after the tone.

      A short metallic ring. Then a voice.

       Hi, Ms. Black, this is Sarah from Dr. Glassman’s office.

      Nicolo put down the kettle. He knew he shouldn’t listen to a private message but what was he supposed to do? Put his hands over his ears? Besides, this was from a physician.

      Now, perhaps, he’d know why Aimee had fainted.

       …vitamins. And iron. I meant to tell you that when we spoke earlier. Also, the doctor thought you might want a recommendation for an OB-GYN…

      An OB-GYN? What in hell was that?

       …absolutely fine, but it’s always a good idea to start with an obstetrician early in your pregnancy and, of course, you’re already in your third month…

      The floor tilted under Nicolo’s feet. Pregnant? Three months pregnant? What did it mean? What in hell did it mean that a woman he’d had sex with three months ago was—

      Aimee flew past him and slapped the machine to silence. Her face had gone from white to red.

      “Get out,” she said. Her voice trembled as she pointed her finger at the door. “Damn it, Barbieri, do you hear me? Get out! Get out! Get—”

      And with cold, relentless clarity, Nicolo knew. He knew exactly what it meant.

      He had put a child in Aimee Black’s belly.

      Chapter Seven

      AIMEE TRIED to tell herself this was all a bad dream.

      Any second, she’d wake up, safe and in bed.

      No phone messages from a receptionist who didn’t understand the meaning of privacy. No Nicolo Barbieri staring at her like a man who’d just seen his life flash before his eyes.

      Most of all, God, most of all, no baby growing inside her belly.

      But it wasn’t a dream.

      Everything that was happening was hideously real, from the red light blinking with impersonal determination on her answering machine to the man standing in her tiny kitchen, dwarfing it with his size.

      With his fury.

      As if