The Princes' Brides. Sandra Marton

and female. Yin and yang. Poets made the balance sound romantic but it wasn’t. Men led. Women followed. That was what the world expected, and what too many women accepted.

      She’d always known that. She’d watched her father treat her mother like an amusing, if sometimes trying, possession.

      Her grandfather had done his best to deal with her the same way but she hadn’t permitted it. She’d never permitted it…

      Until the night she fell into the arms of this stranger who stood watching her through accusing eyes.

      At least she had herself under better control now. She took a steadying breath—there was no point in letting him see how upset she was—and looked straight back at him.

      “Goodbye, Prince Barbieri.”

      It was like speaking to a statue. “Explain yourself,” he growled.

      Explain herself? The cold demand chased away whatever remained of her nerves.

      She didn’t need to explain herself to anyone.

      “It’s a small apartment,” she said evenly. “Do you really need me to explain how to get to the front door?”

      Her attempt at sarcasm backfired. The look on his face grew even colder.

      “That call.”

      “That private call, you mean.”

      That, too, got her nowhere. “You are pregnant,” he said flatly.

      Aimee said nothing. Nicolo took a step toward her.

      “Answer me!”

      “You didn’t ask a question.”

      His eyes narrowed. “I warn you, this is not a time for games.” He jerked his head toward the telephone. “That message. Does it mean you are with child?”

      Such an old-fashioned phrase. Another time, she might have found it charming. Now, she found it a measure of how much Nicolo Barbieri belonged in a world that was as far from her own as Earth was from the moon.

      “That message was for me. I have no intention of discussing it with—”

      He was on her before she could finish the sentence, his hands hard on her elbows as he lifted her to her toes.

      “You are three months pregnant!” His grasp on her tightened. “Three months ago, you slept with me.”

      “I told you, I am not going to discuss this!”

      “You will discuss whatever I wish, when it concerns me.” He lowered his head until his eyes were on the same level as hers. “How many other men were you with three months ago?”

      Oh, how she hated him! And yet, he had every right to think that way about her. She’d gone into his bed with no more planning than the slut he’d called her. With less planning, she thought, or she wouldn’t be pregnant!

      “I asked you a question.”

      “And I told you to get out.” Aimee’s voice trembled; she hated herself for the show of weakness. “You have no right—”

      “You will answer me! How many others were there?”

      She wrenched free of his hands. “A hundred. A thousand. Ten thousand! Are you satisfied?!”

      The expression on his face was terrifying. She didn’t care. Let him think whatever he liked. Let him think anything, so long as he went away and left her alone.

      “I assume,” he said, his voice clipped, “that is an exaggeration. Still, all things considered, do you actually know who the father is?”

      She’d asked for the insult by her behavior that night and by her answer a moment ago. Still, it took all her control not to launch herself at him and claw out his eyes.

      “Whoever it is, it isn’t your problem.”

      “That is not an answer.”

      “It’s the only one you’re going to—”

      He caught her again, pulled her roughly into his arms and kissed her savagely.

      “Does that shake your memory, Aimee? Does it remind you that I have every right to demand answers—or have you forgotten I spent half the night spending myself inside you three months ago?”

      Her face flamed. “I hate you,” she said, struggling against his iron grip. “You’re a bully. You’re disgusting. You’re—”

      He kissed her again, harder than before, his lips, his teeth, his hands all a harsh reminder of his power.

      “I am all that and more. Now answer the question. Who fathered the child you carry? Was it me?”

      Her mind raced. All she had to do was say no. That would be the end of it.

      And yet, how could she?

      She didn’t care about lying to Nicolo. But lying to the tiny life within her…

      There was something terrible in that.

      She knew thinking that way was crazy but everything that had happened today was crazy. Why not this, too?

      Besides, the truth wouldn’t change anything. This was her responsibility. She wasn’t naïve; she knew how these things went. In school and then here in the city, she’d known women who’d been in the same fix. Things always ended the same way. The men denied being responsible. Or, if confronted by irrefutable proof, made some kind of settlement to avoid a nasty legal action and then went on with their lives.

      The women ended up making decisions that would affect them forever. Abortion. Adoption. Single-mother-hood. Choose the one you hoped would be best for you, for your baby, then live with it.

      This would be no different. Considering that Nicolo hadn’t already run out the door, his solution to the problem was surely going to be money.

      Not that she gave a damn.

      She was not weak. She could handle this on her own, and to hell with Nicolo Barbieri.

      The sooner he understood that, the better.

      “Is this baby mine?” he demanded.

      Aimee looked up in defiance. “You’re goddamned right it is.”

      Except for the almost-painful tightening of his hands on her flesh, he showed no emotion.

      “You are certain?”

      An ugly question, but she didn’t flinch. “Absolutely.”

      “There was no one else who could have—”

      “No.”

      “Because, I promise you, Aimee, I will demand blood tests.”

      “What you’d want is a DNA test,” she said coldly. “They’re a much more reliable proof of paternity, according to a law class I took in college.” She smiled thinly. “But bothering with the test would be a waste of time.”

      His lips drew back from his teeth in what might have been an attempt at a smile.

      “That decision will be mine. It will not be yours.”

      His accent was growing more and more pronounced. She’d already figured out that was a sure sign he was having trouble controlling his temper.

      Too bad.

      She had a temper, too. And there was a limit to how many insults a woman, even an imprudent one, had to take.

      “Believe me, Prince Barbieri. I’ve only done a few foolish things in my life.” Aimee jerked free of his hands. “And going to bed with you rates as number one.”

      His face darkened. “Insulting me at a time like this is not wise.”

      “Then don’t insult me by calling me a liar! You asked