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

“I see I am no longer that magnificent creature, the prince,” he said dryly.

“You are an intruder. And I want you to out of my home immediately.”

“What is this OB-GYN?”

“An obstetrician. Must I phone the police to get rid of you?”

“And tell them what, cara? That it annoys you to discuss your pregnancy with the man responsible for it?” He flashed a thin smile. “I suspect the officers who respond to your call would enjoy something to lighten their day.”

“Nicolo.” Her voice was weary. “Why are you doing this?”

He strode to her and cupped her elbows. “I am doing it,” he said sharply, “because you claim my child lies in your belly.”

“You asked for the truth. Don’t blame me if…” Aimee gasped and tried to catch his hands. “What are you doing?”

“Opening your robe,” he said calmly, as he undid the sash. “I want to see this pregnancy of yours.”

“I told you, it’s not…” Her breath caught as he spread the lapels of her robe wide. “Damn you, Nicolo—”

“It is my right,” he said coldly.

It was. Wasn’t it? The right of a man to see the body of a woman who claimed she carried his baby?

Dio, he had almost forgotten how beautiful she was.

The night they met, she’d worn something wickedly sexy under that incredible crimson dress. A black bra. A black thong. Both silky and small enough to hold in the palm of his hand.

Now, she wore sensible white cotton. A bra and panties. And it didn’t matter. She had the kind of body that didn’t need black silk to make it sexy.

Was it too soon to see the changes his child would bring? Her belly was still flat. Her breasts…were they already a little fuller?

“Nicolo.” Her voice was husky. “Nicolo…”

“I’m just curious, cara.” His voice was husky, too. And rough. As rough as the sudden pounding of his heart. He reached out, placed his hand over her belly again. “Still flat,” he said, as if it didn’t matter that he could feel the heat of her skin through the plain white cotton panties.

“Nicolo.”

He looked up, his eyes dark as they met hers. She was trembling; her lips were slightly parted and he remembered how they had parted for him that night. How greedily he had tasted her mouth. Her ineffable sweetness.

“What of your breasts?” he said in a low voice. Eyes locked to hers, he cupped one delicate mound of flesh. She gave a little moan; her eyes went from violet to black. “Have they changed yet?”

He felt her nipple engorge behind the cotton of her bra. She moaned again as he moved his thumb across the swollen tip and he knew he could have her. Take her again and again, until he’d rid himself of this need to possess her…

Dio, perhaps he had lost his mind! Quickly he stepped back.

“So,” he said briskly, as if nothing had happened, “we must discuss what to do next. What is right.”

Aimee pulled her robe together. She was shaken; he could see it, but he could see that she wasn’t going to admit it.

“What is right,” she said, “is for you to get out of my life.”

“I intend to as soon as we settle this.”

“It’s settled. This is my problem and I’ll decide what’s right.”

Nicolo nodded, but was that correct? Was the choice solely hers? What did a man do at a time like this? He’d never had to make the decision but he knew the obvious answers.

The trouble was that the obvious answers didn’t apply when you were the man involved in actually making the decision.

And what a hell of a decision this was.

He had made Aimee Black pregnant. Forget the nonsense about other men. He had always trusted his gut instinct in business; he trusted it now. He would own up to his responsibility, financially.

That was his decision.

What she did after that was hers.

Nicolo reached into his pocket, took out his checkbook and a gold pen.

“I don’t want your money!”

He looked up. Aimee was watching him, her eyes almost feverish in her pale face.

“You said you will do whatever is right. And so shall I.” He uncapped the pen. “Five hundred thousand. Will that be—”

“Five hundred thousand dollars?”

His eyebrows rose. “Is it not enough?”

Aimee flew at him and slapped the checkbook and pen from his hand. “Get out,” she growled. “Get out, get out, get—”

“Damn it,” Nicolo snarled, grabbing her wrists before she could slug him, “are you insane?”

“Do you think your money can change what’s happened? That it can buy back my dignity?” Tears of anger rose in her eyes to glitter like jewels on her lashes. “I don’t want your money, Nicolo. I don’t want anything from you except your promise that I’ll never see your face again!”

Her tears fell on his hand like the rain that had fallen on them both the day they’d met.

He suspected he would never forget that meeting, or Aimee.

Her defiance. Her passion. Her determination.

An inadvertent smile lifted the corner of his mouth. If ever a man wanted sons—even daughters—Aimee would be the woman to bear them. Such fire. Such courage…

His breath caught.

Suddenly he knew what was right. How had it taken him this long to see it?

He let go of Aimee’s hands. Then he picked up his checkbook, retrieved his pen, put them both back in his pocket. A roll of paper towels hung over the kitchen sink. He tore off half a dozen sheets and held them out to her.