The Princes' Brides: The Italian Prince's Pregnant Bride / The Greek Prince's Chosen Wife / The Spanish Prince's Virgin Bride. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
heels. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, her face was bare of makeup and her eyes were suspiciously bright as if she’d been crying.
She looked painfully young, heartbreakingly vulnerable—and incredibly beautiful.
For one wild moment, Nicolo imagined taking her in his arms, telling her she had nothing to be afraid of. That he would be good to her, that he would take care of her…
He frowned, then cleared his throat.
“Aimee. I have come to tell you—”
“What? More threats?” Her chin rose now, just as he’d expected. “Let me save you the trouble.” She took a shaky breath. “I thought it through.” She gave an unsteady laugh. “Actually, it’s all I thought about since you left yesterday. And—and you’re right, Nicolo. I have no choice but to marry you.”
He stared at her in disbelief. Say something, he told himself, tell her you’ve changed your mind!
“You were right. About my grandfather. I want to hate him but I can’t. He raised me. He gave me all the things he believed I needed and if I needed more, his love, his respect…”
Aimee stopped the rush of words. Why bare her soul? She was going to marry Nicolo Barbieri. That was enough.
“He’s old,” she continued, her voice low. “And growing frail. I don’t want to look back after he’s gone and know I denied him the only things he ever asked of me, the bank in your hands, and—” color rose in her cheeks “—and your child.”
Nicolo said nothing. After a few seconds, Aimee cleared her throat. “So, I’ll marry you.”
“But?” His smile was thin. “Don’t look so surprised, cara. One would have to be deaf not to have heard that unspoken word.”
“This marriage—it will be in name only. A legal convenience that will end on my grandfather’s death.”
Aimee waited, trying to read Nicolo’s expression, but it told her nothing.
“No sex,” he finally said, his voice silken.
She nodded. “None.”
“And tell me, cara. What am I to do when I want sex?”
The seemingly subservient woman of the last few moments disappeared. Aimee’s eyes flashed with her old defiance.
“You’ll do whatever you must but you’ll be discreet about it.”
Nicolo burst out laughing. She felt her hands ball. How she wanted to slap that laugh from his face!
“Let me be sure I understand this. I marry you. I give you my name. My title. And at some point in the future, we divorce and I end up with alimony payments and child support. In return for all this, you will not complain when I keep a mistress. Is that right?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he swept her into his arms and drew her against him.
“Here is how it will be,” he growled. “You will be my wife. You will be available to me whenever I wish. Night. Day. Anywhere, anytime. If I also want a mistress, I will have one.”
“I won’t marry you under those conditions!”
“Si. You will. And if there is a divorce, it will be because I have wearied of you.” She tried to wrench free; his hold on her tightened. “And before you say, ‘no, Nicolo, I won’t marry you under those conditions,’ consider this.” He leaned toward her, eyes glittering. “I can take this child from you the day it’s born. Do not shake your head! I am Prince Nicolo Antonius Barbieri. No court would deny me the right to my own flesh and blood. Is that clear?”
“You no good, evil, vicious bastard,” she hissed, “you son of a—”
Nicolo captured her mouth with his, kissed her again and again until she trembled in his arms.
Then he picked up the small suitcase near her feet and jerked his head toward the door.
Chapter Nine
SOME WOMEN dreamed about their weddings.
Would the day be sunny? What kind of gown? Would it be sweet and romantic, like something Scarlett would have worn in Gone with the Wind, or would it be sexy and sophisticated? And then there was all the rest. The setting. The attendants. The guests. The flowers.
Aimee was glad she’d never wasted time on such silly dreams, otherwise—otherwise what was happening now might make her weep. A high-ceilinged room in a tired municipal building. A judge who’d seemed surprised to see them until his secretary whispered something in his ear. A pair of witnesses plucked from the clerical staff.
And Nicolo, her stern-faced groom, standing beside her.
Oh, yes. It was a damned good thing she’d been too busy studying to think about weddings.
Marriage had only been a distant possibility. Friends had married; Aimee had smiled and said all the right things but mostly she’d thought, Not me, not yet, maybe not ever.
She had things to do, a life to live, and if she ever did marry, it would be someone the exact opposite of her grandfather.
Yet today she was marrying a man who made her grandfather look like a saint, a stranger taking her as his wife as if they’d been sent back to a time when men and women married for reasons of—
“Miss?”
—for reasons of title and expediency that had nothing to do with love or romance or—
“Miss?”
Aimee blinked. The judge smiled in apology.
“Your name again, miss? I’m terribly sorry but—”
“No,” Aimee replied, “that’s all right, Your Honor. I understand.”
She did. She understood it all. The impersonal setting, the equally impersonal words. Why would he remember her name?
The only surprise came when it was time for Nicolo to put a ring on her finger.
The cold stranger who’d made it clear this would be a marriage on his terms, who’d undoubtedly browbeaten some poor soul at City Hall into issuing a marriage license in less than twenty-four hours, had neglected to buy a wedding ring.
Admitting his error made him blush. It was lovely to see, she thought with dour satisfaction.
“I don’t need a ring,” she said coolly. Coolly enough so even the two bored witnesses looked at her.
“My wife needs a ring,” Nicolo said grimly, tugging one she’d never before noticed from his finger. “We will use this,” he said, his accent thick enough to trip over.
The ring was obviously old, its slightly raised crest almost worn away, and it was so big that Aimee had to clench her fist to keep it from falling off.
That was fine.
Clenching her fist helped keep her from screaming, “Stop!”
But there was no going back. In the dark hours of the night, agreeing to this marriage had seemed the only thing she could do. For her grandfather and, yes, for her baby. Her unborn child was entitled to be free of the stain of illegitimacy.
The arrangement could work, she’d told herself as she sat by the window, staring blindly out at the neighboring brick tenement that was her entire view. Her child would get his father’s name. Nicolo would get the bank. She would get the satisfaction of giving her grandfather the one thing not even his vast fortune could buy.
It would all be very civilized…and how could she have been stupid enough to believe that? If only she’d kept her mouth shut. Telling Nicolo she’d marry him but she wouldn’t sleep with him had been like waving a bone at a caged and hungry wolf.
It