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

“I couldn’t regret anything more than being with you that horrid night!”

She was shaking now, her eyes glistening with hatred for him. That was fine. Let her hate him. God knew, he hated her and the despicable old man who sat watching them.

James Black was sick, all right, but it had nothing to do with his stroke. His sickness was moral depravity.

The old man loved his damnable bank more than his granddaughter, who he’d sent to seduce him.

The night had been a travesty of passion. All of it. The deep kisses. The sighs. The way she’d framed his face with her hands and brought his mouth to hers while her dark-gold hair spread in abandon over his pillow.

Cursing, Nicolo reached for her now, dragged her to her toes and crushed her mouth beneath his. She cried out and it only made him more furious, hearing the cry, remembering how differently she had cried out in his arms that night.

The old man said something in a sharp voice. Nicolo ignored him. He went on kissing Aimee Black until her cry became a moan, until her mouth softened and clung to his.

Then he flung her from him, grabbed his briefcase and strode from the room.

Amazing, what an hour in a quiet place could do for a man’s disposition.

An hour—and three bourbons, straight up.

Nicolo looked at the half inch of amber liquid that remained in his glass, sighed and pushed it away.

He was much calmer. Still furious at the Blacks and the ugly game he’d been dragged into, but at least he had regained his equilibrium.

What he needed now was coffee, perhaps a bite to eat. Then he’d go to his hotel, phone his pilot, have him ready the Learjet.

A few hours, and he’d be home.

Goodbye, New York. Goodbye, James Black. Goodbye, acquisition of Stafford-Coleridge-Black.

He could live without all of them. The city, the crazy old man, the bank.

There were other private banks in the United States, maybe not quite as suitable for his purposes, but they would do. He still had the short-list from which he’d ultimately chosen SCB. As soon as he returned to Rome, he’d tell his people to begin researching them in depth all over again.

It wasn’t as if he’d fixated on this one financial institution…

As if he’d fixated on this one beautiful woman.

A lying, scheming, bitch of an immoral woman.

And, damn it, he didn’t know why what had happened should have made him react with such rage.

The bartender caught his eye. Did he want another drink? Nicolo shook his head, then mouthed the word, coffee. The guy nodded.

He’d been around long enough to know that the days of the old robber barons were not over. Scandals in the world of high finance erupted as frequently as squalls over the Mediterranean. Seemingly intelligent men did amazingly stupid things to advance their own interests.

James Black was no different.

Neither was his granddaughter, who had been willing to sleep with a stranger to whet his appetite for a dynastic merger.

“Your coffee, sir.”

Nicolo looked up. “Grazie.”

“Will there be anything else?”

“Si.” What was with all this Italian? When in Rome…or, in this case, New York…“Yes,” he said. “A sandwich.”

“What kind would you like?”

“Anything. Roast beef is fine.” He smiled. “Something to keep the bourbon company, si?”

More Italian, he thought as the bartender moved off. A clear sign he was still distressed, though surely not anywhere near as much as before. The whiskey, now some much-needed logic, were working their magic.

The simple fact was that Black was a man who would do whatever was necessary to get what he wanted.

So would his granddaughter.

Nicolo drank some coffee.

And, really, how different did that make her from some other women he’d known? Women who dressed in a way meant to gain a man’s interest. Who went to bed with a man and performed whatever tricks they imagined might win them points. Who lied to a man’s face, promised love and devotion forever, all in hopes of landing a suitable husband.

Of all the women he’d known, Aimee Black was the last woman in the world he would ever consider marrying. Her morals were lacking and it wasn’t because she’d slept with him that night.

It was because she’d done it as part of an act.

Nicolo took another mouthful of coffee.

Maybe his ego demanded it. Maybe his male pride required it. Whatever the reason, he’d wanted to believe that the woman with the violet eyes had felt the same uncontrollable hunger he had felt. That she could no more have kept from making love with him than she could have stopped breathing.

That what had happened that night was the most exciting memory of her life, and that they had created that memory with equal passion and desire.

He could see her now, that night in his bed. Eyes dark with pleasure. Skin fragrant with her need…

“Your sandwich, sir.”

Nicolo blinked. Had he ordered a sandwich?

“Would you like anything else? More coffee?”

Nicolo pushed the plate aside, rose to his feet and dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

“No,” he said brusquely, and added what he hoped was a polite smile and a hurried, “Grazie.”

It wasn’t the bartender’s fault that what he wanted, what he damned well would not be denied, could not be found in this bar.

Aimee sat slumped on the sofa in her apartment, face buried in her hands.

Her anger was gone, replaced by a terrible emptiness in her heart.