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

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—

Except, he hadn’t. She’d gone to him willingly. Eagerly. Making love with him was the most exciting thing she’d ever done. Sex had never been like that before. Sex would never be like that again, especially since she couldn’t imagine being with another man…

Aimee blinked.

She had more important things on her mind this morning.

Yesterday, she’d finally gone to her doctor for a checkup. He’d listened to her litany of complaints, examined her, had his nurse take blood and urine samples and told her he’d have lab reports in a few days.

“Not to worry, Ms. Black,” he’d said briskly. “I suspect whatever ails you is simple to deal with.”

Vitamins, she’d thought. More rest.

Fewer dreams.

Still, it was hard not to worry until the lab results were in and now, on top of everything else, she had this meeting Bradley had orchestrated, undoubtedly so he could crow with triumph as he told he’d taken permanent control of the reins.

When she was dressed—cotton summer suit, low heels, light makeup—Aimee looked in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was the woman she really was. Intelligent. Educated. Competent.

She bore no resemblance to the woman in the bathroom mirror that night at the club…

No. She would not let those memories take over this morning.

Bradley was about to knife her in the back, but she’d be damned if she’d let him see her bleed.

She would show absolutely no emotion today, no matter what happened.

That was the plan, and it would have worked…except for what she found waiting for her in the Stafford-Coleridge-Black boardroom.

Grandfather, not Bradley, sat ramrod-straight in his usual chair at one end of the long mahogany conference table.

The stranger she’d gone to bed with was seated at the other.

Nicolo was not in a good mood.

He was in New York for the first time since the episode three months before and he’d found the night had tainted his feelings about the city.

Unfortunate.

He’d always enjoyed spending time in Manhattan. Now, he couldn’t wait to see the last of it. And, he thought, with a not-so-discreet glance at his Tag Heuer watch as he sat waiting for the meeting in James Black’s office to begin, he would be doing that soon.

Just this one last session with Black and the deal he and the old man had worked on the past two weeks, via a volley of faxes and phone calls, would be completed.

Yesterday, when they’d met face-to-face, Black told him there was just one last point to agree upon.

“Just one,” he’d repeated, his voice quavering because of the stroke that had, it was said, almost killed him.

“And that is?” Nicolo had replied.

Black had wagged a bony finger. “Nothing a smart man won’t be willing to accede to, Prince Barbieri, I assure you.”

Nicolo had almost reminded him that he didn’t use his title, but he’d decided to play along. Black obviously liked the idea that Nicolo was royalty. Why do anything to spoil the finalization of the deal?

Not that he was concerned over this last point, especially since he was sure he knew what it was. They’d agreed on a price. On a takeover date. What could be left to discuss?

Only Black’s repeated concern that the company his ancestors had founded not lose its identity among Nicolo’s holdings.

The old man, he was sure, was going to want some sort of guarantee, and Nicolo had come up with one.