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

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 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 strap of her red dress and tugged. She stumbled toward him, arms raised, hands balled into fists.

He caught her wrists in one hand.

“Don’t struggle,” he said in a low voice. “It will only make things worse.”

“Please.” Her voice trembled. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I told you this afternoon, you lack manners, cara.”

“Let me go! Damn you—”

“The next time ‘something happens,’ as you called it, between you and a man, you will know how to respond.”

“If you’re after an apology…”

“And if I were, would you finally offer one?”

She was terrified; he could see it in her face, feel it in the trembling of her body. Her gaze locked on his, and he felt a rush of disappointment.

She was desperate, desperate enough so she was, in fact, going to apologize. And then, as a civilized man, he’d have to let her go…

Wrong.

Her chin lifted; terrified or not, her eyes blazed with defiance.

“Only a barbarian would think that taking a woman by force is the way to get even for damage to his ego.”

“Is that what you think? That I’m going to rape you?” The muscle flickered in his jaw again; he cupped her face with his free hand and held it steady. “You know better.” His voice was low and husky. “I saw the way you looked at me a few minutes ago.”

Color stained her cheeks. “I don’t know what you—”

“Yes,” he said, “you damned well do.”

His head lowered to hers, and he kissed her.

His mouth was hard. Hungry. Hot against hers. Aimee jerked against the restraint of his hand, tried to twist her face away but he wouldn’t permit it.

Instead he brought her closer, crushing her tightly against him so that she could feel the strength of him, the power…

The thrust of his straining erection.

A whimper rose in her throat.

“Stop,” she said, against his mouth, but he went on kissing her, his fingers sliding into her hair, twisting the curls around his hand, backing her against the wall so that now she was pressed against him from breast to groin.

“Kiss me back,” he said in a thick whisper.

No, she told herself frantically. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t…

Aimee gave a strangled cry, rose to him and opened her mouth against his.

He groaned. Let go of her wrists and threw his arm around her hips, lifting her against him. His tongue teased her lips, slipped between them and she tasted his hunger, his need, his rampant masculinity.

“Say it,” he growled against her mouth. “Tell me what you want. What you’ve wanted ever since this afternoon.”

Blind to logic, to reason, blind to anything but the feel of him, the scent of him, Aimee gave up lying.

“You,” she whispered. “Only you. All day. All evening. I couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t get you out of my head—”

He cupped her face in his hands. Kissed her, deeply. Thrust his leg between hers and she moaned at the feel of it against the tender flesh between her thighs.

She moved against him. Moved again, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough…

She moaned.

The sound damned near sent Nicolo over the edge.

The taste of her was exquisite. She was strawberries and cream, spring rain and summer sun. She was everything a man could imagine a woman might be, if only in a dream.

He lifted her from the floor. Her arms rose; she wound them around his neck.

“Yes,” he said, and he grasped her slender thighs and brought them around his hips.

He thought of taking her to his hotel. To her apartment. To a place where he could undress her, touch her, watch her eyes as he entered her.

But not now.

Now, he needed this. Needed her. Needed to bury himself in her, needed it more than his next breath.

Locked in a dance as old as time, mouths fused in mutual hunger, Nicolo carried Aimee to the marble vanity. Sat her on its edge. Fumbled between them. Unzipped. Freed himself. Put his hand between her thighs, groaning as he felt the wet heat of her against his fingers, and tore aside the scrap of silk that kept her from him.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She did, fixing those incredible violet eyes on his face.

“Yes,” she said, and he thrust forward, sank into her, felt her close around him.

She cried out instantly; he felt the pulse of her muscles as she came and then he exploded within her, came in a rush of almost unbearable ecstasy.

She trembled.

Then she gave a little sob and dropped her head on his shoulder.

Nicolo put his arms around her. Stroked her silken hair. Whispered to her, his native language soft on his tongue while he tried to figure out what in hell had just happened.

This was not the first time he’d had quick, hot sex. It was not the first time he’d had sex in the hidden heart of a public place.

Both could be exciting.

The truth was, sex was always exciting. But this, what had just happened…He’d never experienced anything like it.

He didn’t even know this woman’s name.

He hadn’t used a condom.

Madre del dio, was he losing his mind?

And then she sighed. Her breath tickled his throat. She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes filled with uncertainty, her mouth gently swollen from his kisses, and Nicolo forgot everything but the soft, sweet feel of her mouth, her arms, her thighs.

“I don’t—I don’t know what happened.” Her voice was shaky, her face white except for two spots of color high on her cheeks. “I never—God, I never—”

“No. Nor have I.”

She started to speak again and he knew what she would say, that this was wrong, that he had to let her go.

He knew of only one way to keep her from saying those words.

He kissed her.

Gently at first but then—then, the fierce wave of desire swept over him. And over her. He felt her swift intake of breath, the whispered plea against his lips, and suddenly he was deep inside her again, rocking against her, swallowing her cries, coming when she came and knowing that it still wasn’t enough, that he needed more…

Someone pounded on the locked door.

The woman in his arms blanched.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, but she shook her head.

“No. Someone’s outside. They’ll see—”

He brushed his lips over hers. Then he set her on her feet and did what needed to be done to make himself presentable. She did the same, but he saw that her hands were shaking.

“Cara. Don’t be—”

“Hey, you gonna be in there all night?”

Nicolo looked down into the face of the woman he’d just made love to. “It’s time we introduced ourselves,” he said softly. “My name is—”

She put her palm over his mouth. “No. No names. This was—it was only a dream.”

He caught her hand, pressed his lips to it, then closed her fingers over the kiss.

“A dream. Si. And there is no need for the dream to end so soon.”

“No. I can’t. I—”

“We can,” he said fiercely. “We can do anything, if this is a dream.”

She shook her head but he drew her into his arms and kissed her, telling her without words how it could be between them, how it would be when they had all the time and privacy they needed.

Her lips softened. Clung to his. She sighed, and he cupped her face with his hands.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

She shook her head again; he kissed her again.

“Is there another man?”

“No,” she said quickly. “But—”

“We’re adults, cara. Both of us are free. Come with me. Be with me tonight.”

He kissed her and the world spun around them. Then he lifted his head and looked down into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said softly.

Nicolo felt his heart soar. He encircled her waist with his arm, drew her against him, led her to the door and unlocked it.

A man was waiting outside.

“It’s about time. I mean, how long did you…” His gaze fell on Aimee and he raised his eyebrows. “Oh. I get it. Hey, no problem. I had a babe like this with me, I’d—”

“Watch your mouth,” Nicolo said, his voice cold and flat.

The man’s face went pale. He stepped out of their way. And Aimee thought, What am I doing?

She’d just had sex with a stranger. A stranger she knew nothing about, except that he could be hard and cold and terrifying…

Her nameless lover drew her close. “Don’t think,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “Not tonight.”

She looked up at him, into those blue eyes that could go from winter ice to summer sun. Remembered the feel of his hands on her. The feel of him in her, and let the last vestige of sanity slip away.

There was a taxi at the curb. It took them uptown, to a hotel on the park.

He had a suite. It was huge. Luxurious.

Was money a good character reference? she thought, and would have laughed but he was taking her into his arms, slipping the straps of her dress from her shoulders. Cupping her breasts, tasting them, ohgod,ohgod,ohgod…

The hours after that were a blur of excitement. Of whispers and sighs and explorations. Aimee lost herself in a sea of sensation…

And shot awake in the gray hours before dawn, suddenly aware that she was wrapped in the embrace of a man she didn’t know.

A hot tide of shame engulfed her.

Trembling, she disentangled herself from the possessive curve of his arm. Dressed in the dark, slipped from the sumptuous suite and sneaked down the service staircase because the thought of facing the elevator operator made her feel ill.

Moments later, Nicolo came awake and reached for his lover.

The bed, the sitting room, the bathroom were empty.

He cursed, pulled on trousers and shirt, hurried out into the corridor, but she was gone. He rang for the elevator. No, the operator said, he hadn’t taken anyone down to the lobby.

He went to the reception desk, demanded to know if the clerk had seen a woman with honey-blond hair and violet eyes. The answer there was the same.

She had vanished.

As the sun rose over the city, Nicolo paced his rooms while he tried to figure out how in hell he would find a nameless woman in a city of eight million people.

The one certainty was that he would find her.

Nicolo Barbieri did not believe in defeat.

By Sunday evening, Nicolo had learned an ugly lesson.

A man didn’t have to believe in defeat to be subjected to it.

You couldn’t find a woman without a name, not even if you slipped hundred-dollar bills to the club’s bouncer and all its bartenders.

They all said the same thing. Lots of women came through the doors on a Saturday night. So what if one had hair the color of honey and eyes the color of violets? That didn’t mean much to them.

All right, Nicolo told himself coldly.

It didn’t meant much to him, either.

A woman had let him pick her up and take her to bed. She’d probably done the same thing dozens of times before. So what if he never saw her again? All that bothered him was that she’d slipped from his arms without a word.

It didn’t, she didn’t, mean a thing.

He told himself that as he showered Monday morning. Told himself, too, all that mattered was what had brought him to New York. The meeting at SCB with James Black. The acquisition of the old man’s kingdom. Nothing was as important as—

The phone rang.

Nicolo flung open the shower door and grabbed for the receiver.

The woman. It had to be.

But it wasn’t. It was Black’s secretary, calling to cancel the meeting. Black was indisposed. The secretary would be in touch when he was available again.

Nicolo said all the right things. Then he hung up the phone and stared blindly at the mirror over the vanity.

Was it true? Or had Black simply decided not to see him? The old man had a reputation. He liked to treat people like marionettes.

The woman with the violet eyes was the same. She seduced a man, gave him a few hours’ taste of what it was like to possess her and then she slipped away.

Nicolo’s hands knotted into fists.

Black would pay by selling him SCB. As for the woman…She would pay, too. Somehow, he would find her and teach her what it meant to walk out on him.

He was as certain of that as he was of his next breath.

Chapter Four

SUMMER had finally arrived.

No more chilly wind and soaking rain. Instead the city was wrapped in soft breezes and warm sunshine.

The weather was so spectacular that even New Yorkers smiled at each other.

Aimee didn’t notice.

Memories of what she’d done, that she’d gone to bed with a stranger, haunted her, intruded when she least expected.

Walking down the street, she’d turn a corner and see a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and her heart would skip a beat.

Or she’d be in bed, asleep, and suddenly he’d materialize in her dreams.

She’d see his beautiful, hard face. His powerful body. And he’d touch her, kiss her, do things to her no one had ever done, make her feel things she’d never felt…

Until one night in a stranger’s arms.

She tried not to think about that because it seemed so wrong. Still, in her sleep, she’d moan at his touch and awake, shaken and breathless, her skin hot, her body aching for his possession even though her conscious mind knew she despised him, despised herself…

No. It was not turning out to be a good summer, she thought as she stepped from the shower on a balmy June morning. The man. The ugliness of what she’d done.

Then, that same weekend, her grandfather’s stroke.

Her mouth tightened.

Good old Bradley had rushed to the rescue. By the time she reached the hospital, her cousin was there with two of his SCB cronies. He had a piece of paper in his hand, James’s signature scrawled across it.

Something that he and his pals swore was James’s signature, anyway.

“Uncle has made me his surrogate until he recovers,” he’d told her with ill-concealed triumph.

Aimee tossed aside her bath towel and went to the closet.

She should have fought him. Hired an attorney. But she’d felt such despair that Sunday, such self-loathing, that fighting Bradley was the last thing she’d wanted to do.

Bradley settled into James’s office and immediately began making decisions that left her reeling, but there was nothing she could do. He was in charge until Grandfather recovered. She’d thought of going directly to James, but she had no way of knowing what condition he was in. He was in seclusion at his home, surrounded by doctors, nurses and therapists, and supposedly had left strict orders that he did not want to see visitors.

Hands tied, Aimee had only been able to wait. And wonder.

Yesterday, the waiting had ended.

James’s secretary—Bradley’s secretary, now—had phoned and told her she was expected at Stafford-Coleridge-Black promptly at ten this morning.

“I’m sorry, Miss Black,” the woman said crisply when Aimee started to ask questions. “I can’t tell you anything except to assure you that you’ll have all the answers tomorrow.”

As if she needed them, Aimee thought bitterly. She knew exactly what would happen this morning. Her cousin, seated behind James’s imposing desk, would flash his oily smile and tell her he was in charge, permanently.

She’d fight him, of course, just on principle. But she’d lose. Bradley had that document and witnesses. She had nothing—certainly not the money for a protracted court battle.

Lately she didn’t even have the energy.

She was tired all the time. Exhausted, really. Plagued by bouts of nausea.

Stress, she’d told herself. Over her grandfather because, despite everything, he was her blood and she loved him. Over what would become of Stafford-Coleridge-Black, because she loved it, too.

And stress over that night. What she’d done. That she’d let a stranger seduce her—