The Princes' Brides. Sandra Marton

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 not kidding! You—you unlock that door and get the hell out of here or so help me—”

      He started toward her. She let fly with the bottle but he dodged and it shattered against the wall.

      “Listen to me.” Her voice trembled; she hated herself for it but she knew damned well there was nothing she could do to prevent it. “This is a terrible mistake. You won’t—you won’t get away with—”

      “At first,” he said, his tone almost conversational, “I thought, ‘Well, that is just the way she deals with men.’ ”

      She’d noticed his accent this afternoon. You couldn’t miss that husky, sexy quality to his voice. It seemed more obvious now, his pronunciation more careful.

      “I told myself it was not important.”

      Aimee swallowed. “Look, what happened this afternoon—”

      “Still,” he said, in that same easy way, as if he were explaining the day’s news to a friend, “still, I admit, it bothered me. That a woman should be so impolite. So downright rude. But I put it out of my head.”

      “I didn’t do anything! It was—it was just something that happened.”

      “Just something that happened.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s an excellent way to put it. In fact, that is exactly the conclusion I reached.”

      He was inches away from her now, so close that she had to tilt her head up to see his eyes. Even in her heels, he was much taller than she. And, God, much bigger.

      “But then I saw you, here.”

      “You mean, you followed me here!”

      “You give yourself too much importance, cara. Do you really think I have nothing better to do than to spend my time following you?” A little muscle was ticking in his cheek. “I came here with friends. To enjoy the evening.” He paused. “And, it would seem, so did you.”

      “Yes. And—and my date will be looking for—”

      “Your date didn’t move a finger to prevent you from abandoning him. Or to keep me from going after you.” He paused, and she saw his eyes darken. “I noticed that you treated your gentleman friend differently than you treated me.”

      “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “Cara. Please, don’t try my patience. You laughed with him. Smiled when he spoke to you.”

      “Of course. I mean, I know him—”

      “Really? What’s his name?”

      “Ted,” Aimee said quickly.

      “No. It is not.”

      It had been a gamble, but a good one. Nicolo watched as the woman worried her bottom lip. He’d guessed right. She had no idea who she’d been dancing with. She’d picked the man up.

      For many of its patrons, that was the purpose of a place like this.

      Her business, of course.

      That was what he’d told himself, when he first saw her with the man.

      But he’d watched as she smiled. Flirted. Shook her hips, her breasts. Practiced the fine art of seduction.

      For another man.

      Not for him.

      Not for him, he’d thought, and suddenly he’d known that confronting her, kissing her, would not be enough.

      He wanted her.

      It didn’t make sense but it didn’t have to. His body, his blood, knew what he needed.

      And what he needed was this beautiful, condescending stranger dancing with him…

      Dancing in his bed.

      Slowly he reached out, laced one finger under the thin