Sandra Marton
THE ITALIAN PRINCE’S PREGNANT BRIDE

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

SHE came hurrying along the sidewalk, enveloped from head to toe in black suede, stiletto-heeled boots clicking sharply, her head bent against the rain-driven wind, and barreled into Nicolo just as he stepped from the taxi.

The doorman moved forward but Nicolo had already dropped his briefcase and caught her by the shoulders.

“Easy,” he said pleasantly.

Her hood fell back as she looked up at him. Nicolo, always appreciative of beauty, smiled.

She was beautiful, with elegant bones, a mouth that looked soft and inviting, and eyes the deep blue of spring violets, all that framed by a mass of honey-colored loose curls.

If someone had to run you down, this was surely the woman an intelligent man would choose.

“Are you all right?”

She pulled out of his grasp. “I’m fine.”

“My fault entirely,” he said graciously. “I should have watched where I was—”

“Yes,” the woman said, “you should have.”

He blinked. She was looking at him with total disdain. His smile faded. Though he was Roman, he’d spent a good part of his life in Manhattan. He understood that civility was not an art here but it was she who’d run into him.

“I beg your pardon, signorina, but—”

“But then,” she said coldly, “I suppose people like you think you own the street.”

Nicolo lifted his hands from her shoulders with exaggerated care.

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but—”

“You,” she said crisply, “are my problem.”

What was this? A Mona Lisa with the temperament of a hellcat. Innate old-world gallantry warred with new-world attitude.

Attitude won.

“You know,” he said brusquely, “I apologized to you when there was no need, and you speak to me as if I were scum. You could use some manners.”

“Just because I’m a woman—”

“Is that what you are?” His smile was as cold as his words. “Let’s see about that, shall we?” Temper soaring, logic shot to hell, Nicolo pulled the blonde to her toes and kissed her.

It lasted less than a second. Just a quick brush of his mouth over hers. Then he let go of her, had the satisfaction of seeing those violet eyes widen in astonishment…

And caught the rich, sweet taste of her on his lips.

Sweet heaven. Had he gone un po’pazzo?

He had to be. Only a crazy man would haul a mean-tempered woman into his arms on Fifth Avenue.

“You,” she said, “you—you—”

Oh, but it had been worth it. Look at her now, sputtering like a steam engine, that icy demeanor completely shattered.

She jerked free of his hands. Her arm rose. She was going to slap him; he could read it in those amazing eyes, eyes that flashed lethal bolts of lightning. He probably deserved it—but he’d be damned if he’d let her do it.

He bent his head toward hers. “Hit me,” he said softly, “and I promise, I’ll make your world come crashing down around your ears.”

Her lips formed a phrase he would not have imagined women knew. Not the women in his world, at any rate, but then none of them would have accused a man of something clearly their fault.

Why be modest? The truth was, not a woman he’d ever met would have blamed him even if he were at fault.

The hellcat glared at him. He returned the look. Then she swept past him, honey-blond mane glittering with raindrops, black suede coat billowing after her like a sail.

He watched her go until she was lost in the umbrella-shrouded crowd hurrying through the chilly March rain.

Then he took a deep breath and turned his back to her.

His eyes met the doorman’s. Nothing. Not the slightest acknowledgment that anything the least bit unusual had happened but then, this was New York. New Yorkers had long ago learned it was wisest not to know anything.

And a damned good thing for him.

Kissing her had been bad enough. Challenging her to call the police…

Nicolo shuddered.

How stupid could a man be? He could have ended up with his face spread across Page Six. Not exactly the publicity one wanted before a meeting with the ninety-year-old head of an investment firm that prided itself on decorum and confidentiality.

The rain was coming down harder.

The doorman already had his suitcase. Nicolo picked up his briefcase and walked into the hotel.

His suite was on the forty-third floor, which gave him an excellent view of the park and the skyline beyond it.

When he started looking for a permanent place to live in the city, he’d want a view like this.

Nicolo tossed his raincoat on a chair. If all went well, he’d contact a Realtor after Monday’s meeting.

If? There was no “if” about it. The word wasn’t in his lexicon. He never went after something without making damned sure he knew when, where and how to get it. That approach was a key to his success.

He toed off his shoes, stripped away his clothes and headed for the shower.

He was fully prepared for Monday’s meeting and his long-anticipated buyout of Stafford-Coleridge-Black.

His financial empire was huge, with offices in London, Paris, Singapore, and, of course, Rome.

It was time for Barbieri International to move into the New York market. For that, he wanted something that would be the crown jewel of his corporation.

In the rarefied echelon of private banking, that could only be Stafford-Coleridge-Black, whose client list read like a Who’s Who of American wealth and power.

Only one thing stood in the way: SCB’s chairman, James Black.

“I have no idea what you’d think to discuss with me,” the old man had said when he’d finally agreed to take Nicolo’s phone call.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Nicolo had answered carefully, “that you are considering a change.”

“You mean,” Black had said bluntly, “you’ve heard that I’m going to die soon. Well, I assure you, sir, I am not.”

“What I have heard,” Nicolo had said, “is that a man of your good judgment believes in planning ahead.”

Black had made a sound that might have been a laugh.

“Touché, Signore Barbieri. But I assure you, any changes I might make would be of no interest to you. We are family owned and have been for more than two hundred years. The bank has been passed from one generation to another.” A brief, barely perceptible pause. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand the importance of that.”

Nicolo had thought how good it was that they were not face-to-face. Even so, he had to work hard to control his temper. Black was an old man but he was in full command of his faculties. What he’d said had to be a deliberate, if thinly veiled, insult.

This high up the ladder, the international financial community was like an exclusive club. People knew things about each other and what Black knew was that Nicolo’s wealth and stature, despite his title, had not come from legacy and inheritance but had been solely self-created.

As far as the James Blacks of this world were concerned, that was not a desirable image.

Probably not desirable as far as Fifth Avenue honey-blondes were concerned, either, Nicolo mused, and wondered where in hell that thought had come from?

What mattered, all that mattered this weekend, was his business with Black. It had mattered enough during that phone call to keep his tone neutral when he responded to the flinty old bastard’s gibe.

“On the contrary,” Nicolo had said. “I do understand. Completely. I believe in maintaining tradition.” He’d paused, weighing each word. “I also believe you would do your institution a disservice if you refuse to hear what I have to say.”

He’d gambled that Black would bite. Not that it was all that much of a gamble, considering what Nicolo knew.

SCB had, indeed, always been family-owned and operated. The problem was that the old man was facing his ninetieth birthday and his sole heir was a grandchild still in school.

Still in school…and a girl.

Nicolo was sure that “tradition,” to James Black, meant handing the reins of the company to an heir, not an heiress. Black had never made a secret of his feelings about women in business.

And that was probably the one thing the two men could agree on, Nicolo mused as he stepped from the shower. It was what he would build his argument on, Monday morning.

Women were too emotional. They were unpredictable and undisciplined. They did well as assistants, even, on occasion, as heads of departments, but as ultimate decision-makers?

Not until science figured out a way women could overcome the dizzying up-and-down ride of their hormones.

It wasn’t their fault—it was simply a fact of life.

And that, Nicolo thought as he dressed in gray flannel trousers, a black cashmere turtleneck and mocs, was his ace in the hole.

Nicolo was the only investor who could afford the indulgence of buying SCB privately. That meant that Black had nowhere to turn except to him, unless he wanted to sell his venerable institution to one of the giant conglomerates hungering for it, then live long enough to see it disappear within the corporate maw.

He was the old man’s salvation and they both knew it. The moment of truth had come last week when Black’s secretary phoned and said her employer would agree to a brief meeting solely as a courtesy.

“Of course,” Nicolo had said calmly but when he hung up, he’d pumped his fist in victory.

The meeting meant only one thing: the old man had admitted defeat and would sell to him. Oh, he’d undoubtedly make him dance through a couple of hoops first, but how bad could that be?

Nicolo slipped on a leather bomber jacket and shut the door to his suite behind him.

He wouldn’t dance, but he’d move his feet in time to the music. Do just enough to placate the old bastard.

Then Stafford-Coleridge-Black would be his.

Not bad for a boy who’d grown up in not-so-genteel poverty, Nicolo thought, and pressed the button for the elevator.

The rain had stopped, though the skies were gray and soggy.

The doorman flagged a cab.

“Sixty-third off Lexington,” Nicolo told the driver.

He was meeting friends at the Eastside Club. The three of them had agreed, via e-mail yesterday, on the benefits of a quick workout, especially since both Nicolo and Damian had just flown in.

Private planes or not, a man felt his muscles tighten after a seemingly interminable international flight.

Then they’d go somewhere quiet for dinner and catch up on old times. He was looking forward to that. He, Damian and Lucas had known each other forever. For thirteen years, ever since they’d met at a pub just off the Yale campus, three eighteen-year-old kids from three different parts of the world, all of them wondering how in hell they’d survive in this strange country.

Survive? They’d flourished. And formed a tight friendship. They saw each other less frequently now, thanks to their individual business interests, but they were still best pals.

And still single, which was exactly how they all wanted it. In fact, they always began the evening with the same toast.

“Life,” Lucas would say solemnly, “is short.”

“And marriage,” Damian would add even more solemnly, “is forever.”

The last part of the toast was left to Nicolo.

“And freedom,” he’d say dramatically, “freedom, gentlemen, is everything!”

He was smiling as his cab pulled up in front of the Eastside Club. It was housed in what had once been a block of nineteenth-century brownstones that had been gutted, completely made over and combined into one structure.

A very exclusive health club.

The Eastside didn’t advertise. No plaque or sign identified it to passersby. Membership was by invitation only, reserved for those who valued privacy and could afford the steep fees that guaranteed it.

For all that, the club was completely lacking in pretension. There were no trendy exercise gadgets, no bouncy music, and the only part of the gym with a mirrored wall was the free-weight area so that you could check your reflection to see if you were lifting properly.

What there were, in addition to the weights, were punching bags, a pool and a banked indoor track.

Best of all, the Eastside was for men only.

Women were a distraction. Besides, Nicolo thought as he inserted his key card in the front door lock, it was a relief to get away from them for a while.

He had enough women to deal with in his life. Too many, he sometimes thought, when ending a relationship led to tears. He was, he’d heard whispered, “an excellent catch.” He scoffed at that but to himself, he admitted it was probably true.

Why not be honest?

“Good evening, Mr. Barbieri. Nice to see you again, sir.”

“Jack,” Nicolo said amiably. He signed in and headed for the locker room.

He had money. A private jet. Cars. He owned a ski lodge in Aspen, an oceanfront estate on Mustique, a pied-a-terre in Paris and, of course, there was the palazzo in Rome, the one that had supposedly come to the Barbieri family through Julius Caesar.

That was what his great-grandmother had always claimed.

Nicolo thought it more likely it had come to them through a thief in Caesar’s time, but he’d never contradicted her. He’d loved the old woman as he’d never loved anyone else. He’d always been grateful he’d made his first million and restored the ancient but decrepit Palazzo di Barbieri before she’d died.

Her pleasure had brought joy to his heart.

He’d liked making her happy. In fact, he liked making most women happy.

It was only when their demands became unreasonable, when they began to talk of The Future, of The Importance of Settling Down—and he could almost actually feel the physical weight they put into the phrase when it tumbled from their lips—that Nicolo knew that Making Them Happy wasn’t as important as Not Making a Commitment.

No way. Not him. Not yet.

For an evening? Of course. A week? Yes. Even a month. Two months. Hell, he wasn’t the kind of man to jump from bed to bed….

What would the woman in the black suede coat be like in bed? A honey-maned tigress? Or an ice queen?

Not that he gave a damn. It was simply a matter of intellectual curiosity.

He liked women who enjoyed their femininity. Enjoyed being appreciated by a man.

Nicolo hung his things in his locker.

It didn’t take a psychiatrist to figure out that the tigress was not such a woman. Although, in the bed of the right man, perhaps she could be.

The mane of hair. The delicate oval face. The amazing eyes, that tender mouth. And, yes, he’d felt its tenderness even in that brush of his lips against hers…

Fantastico.

Hell. He was giving himself a hard-on over a woman who’d insulted him, who he would never see again. He didn’t want to think about her or any woman. Not this weekend. No distractions. No sex. Like an athlete, he believed in abstinence before going mano a mano.

He needed to focus on Monday’s meeting.

Nicolo pulled on gray cotton running shorts, a sleeveless, ancient Yale sweatshirt and a pair of Nikes.

A hard, sweaty workout was just what he needed.

The gym was almost empty. Well, it was Saturday night. Only one other guy was in the vast room, pounding around the track with the lonely intensity of the dedicated runner.

Damian.

Nicolo grinned, trotted over and fell in alongside him.

“Any slower,” he said, picking up the pace, “we’d be walking. You getting too old to run fast?”

Damian, who at thirty-one was exactly the same age as Nicolo, shot him a deadpan look.

“I’ll call the paramedics when you collapse.”

“Big talk.”

“A hundred bucks says I can beat you.”

“Twenty times around?”

“Forty,” Nicolo said, and shot away.

Moments later, they finished in a dead heat and turned to each other, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear.

“How’s Rome?” Damian said.

“How’s Athens?”

The men’s grins widened and they clasped each other in a bear hug.

“Man,” Damian said, “you’re a sweaty bastard.”

“You’re not exactly an ad for GQ.”

“How was your flight?”

Nicolo took a couple of towels from a stand beside the track and tossed one to Damian.

“Fine. Some weather just before we landed, but nothing much. Yours?”

“The same,” Damian said, wiping his face. “I really like this little Learjet I bought.”

“Little,” Nicolo said, laughing.

“Well, it’s still not as big as yours.”

“Mine’s always going to be bigger than yours, Aristedes.”

“You wish.”

It was an old line of banter and made them grin again.

“So,” Nicolo said, “where’s Lucas?”

“We’re meeting him in—” Damian looked at his watch. “In two hours.”

“You guys picked a restaurant?”

“Well, more or less.”

Nicolo raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Damian said, “our old friend bought himself a club. Downtown. The club of the minute, he says.”

“Meaning, crowded. Noisy. Lots of music, lots of booze, lots of spectacular-looking women out for a good time…”

“Sounds terrible,” Damian said solemnly.

Nicolo smiled as he draped his towel around his shoulders. “Yeah, I know. But I have an important meeting Monday morning.”

“Well, so do I.”

“Very important.”

Damian looked at him. “So?”

“So,” Nicolo said, after a moment, “I’m hoping to finalize a deal. With James Black.”

“Whoa. That is important. So, tonight we celebrate in advance, at Lucas’s place.”

“Well, I want to stay focused. Get to bed at a decent hour tonight and tomorrow night. No liquor. No distractions—”

“Thee Mou! Don’t tell me! No sex?”

Nicolo shrugged. “No sex.”

“Sex is not a distraction. It’s exercise. Good for the heart.”

“It’s bad for the concentration.”

“That’s BS.”

“We believed it when we played soccer, remember? And we won.”

“We won,” Damian said dryly, “because the competition was lousy.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Giving up sex is against the laws of nature.”

“Idiot,” Nicolo said fondly. The men walked to the free weights area and made their selections. “It’s just a matter of discipline.”

“Unless, of course, there was such an instant attraction you couldn’t walk away.” Damian grunted as he lifted a pair of twenty-pound weights. “And how often is that about to happen?”

“Never,” Nicolo answered—and, unbidden, the image of the blonde with the hot eyes and the cold attitude flashed before his eyes.

He had been reaching for the twenty-pound weights, too. Instead he lifted a pair of heavier ones and worked with them until his mind was a pain-filled blank.

Farther downtown, in a part of Manhattan that was either about to be discovered or still a slum, depending on a buyer’s point of view, Aimee Stafford Coleridge Black slammed her apartment door behind her, tossed her black suede coat at a chair and kicked off her matching boots.

The coat slid off the chair. The boots bounced off the wall. Aimee didn’t give a damn.

Amazing, how a day that began so filled with promise could end so badly.

Aimee marched into the kitchen, filled the kettle with water, put it on to boil and changed her mind. The last thing she needed was a caffeine buzz.

She was buzzing enough without it, thanks to her grandfather.

Why had he summoned her to his office, if not to make the announcement she’d been anticipating?

“I shall retire next May,” he’d told her almost a year ago, “when I reach ninety, at which time I shall place Stafford-Coleridge-Black in the charge of the person who will guide it through its next fifty years. A person who will, of course, carry on the Stafford-Coleridge-Black lineage.”

Lineage. As important to James as breathing but that was fine because she, Aimee, was the only person with both the necessary lineage and the proper education to assume command.

She had a bachelor’s degree in finance. A master’s degree in business. She’d spent her summers since high school interning at SCB.

She knew more about the bank than anyone, maybe even including Grandfather, who still believed in a world devoid of computers and e-mail.

Aimee marched into the bedroom and methodically stripped off the gray wool suit and white silk blouse she’d deemed appropriate for the meeting with Grandfather this afternoon. She’d wanted to look businesslike, even though she knew damned well you could do as much business in jeans as you could in Armani.

She’d even worked up a little speech of assurance about how she wouldn’t change a thing, though she’d mentally crossed her fingers because there were things that definitely needed changing.

She’d presented herself at his office precisely at four. James was a stickler for promptness. She’d kissed his papery cheek, sat down as directed, folded her hands…

And listened as he told her he had not yet reached a decision as to who would replace him.

Be calm, she’d told herself. And she had been, or at least she’d managed to seem calm as she asked him what decision there was to make.

“You already said it would be me, Grandfather.”

“I said it would be someone capable,” James said briskly. “Someone of my lineage.”

“Well—”

The look on his face had frozen her with horror. “You don’t mean…Bradley?”

Bradley. Her cousin. Or her something. Who understood the complexities of second cousins twice removed, or whatever the hell he was? Bradley had been wimping around the bank for years, interning the same as she had, except he’d never done a day’s work, never done anything except try to grope her in the stockroom.

“Not Bradley,” she’d finally breathed.

“Bradley has a degree in economics.”

Yes. From a college that probably also gave degrees in basket-weaving.

“He’s well-spoken.”

He was, once he had three or four straight vodkas in him.

“And,” her grandfather had said, saving the best for last, “he is a man.”

A man. Meaning, nature’s royalty. A prince, whereas she was a lesser creature because she was female.

Grandfather had risen to his feet, indicating that she was no longer welcome in the royal presence.

“Be here Monday morning, Aimee. Ten o’clock sharp. I’ll announce my decision then.”

Dismissed, just like that.

Sent out the door, down the wheezing old elevator, into the street where she’d walked blindly, no idea where in hell she was or where she was going, which was why she hadn’t seen the man and he’d almost knocked her down.

That despicable, horrible man who’d insisted it was she who’d walked into him. Who’d accused her of not being a woman when, damn him, it was the very fact that she was a woman that was going to deny her the one thing she wanted in life.

What a fool she’d been. What an idiot. She’d turned down two wonderful job offers because she’d believed—she’d been stupid enough to believe—

She’d been anguishing over that when the man charged into her.

As if she were invisible, which she undoubtedly was because she was female. Oh, the arrogance of men. Of him. The way he’d clasped her shoulders and looked down at her from the lofty heights of his lofty maleness.

“Easy,” he’d said, and smiled, and that—the smile, the slight foreign huskiness to the word, the broad shoulders, the ink-black hair, the midnight-blue eyes and the face that was the male equivalent of what had launched a thousand ships, that was supposed to make up for his rudeness?

Aimee had told him what she thought of him.

Men didn’t like honesty. She’d learned that a long time ago. And this one, this—this bad-mannered stranger, had decided she needed a lesson, that she needed a graphic reminder of her place in the universe…

He’d kissed her.

Kissed her! Put his mouth on hers, the arrogant, miserable son of a bitch….

His firm mouth. His soft mouth. His mouth that was, any woman could tell, made for long, deep kisses…

God, she was in bad shape. Anger, adrenaline, whatever you called it, was pumping through her veins. She was completely stressed out.

A man would know what to do to ease such stress.

He’d go to a gym and sweat it out. Actually that would work for her, too, but her gym, a gym for women, was closed. Hey, it was Saturday. Date night for the fairer sex, right?

“Such crap,” Aimee said.

She could almost feel the steam coming out of her ears.

Or a man would call up his buddies, meet them someplace crowded and noisy and guzzle beer. That’s what men under pressure did, didn’t they? Go out, drink, talk about stupid things, pick up women?

Sex was the great relaxer. Everybody said so. Okay, not her because she’d had sex and it had been far from memorable but according to everything she’d read, sex could lower your stress levels every time.

Aimee snorted.

Imagine if a woman did that. Called a friend, went someplace loud to drink and looked for a guy to pick up. Went to bed with him, no strings, no ridiculous exchange of names and phone numbers. Just bed.

Just sex.

Of course, some women did. They went looking for sex.

Sex with a stranger. A stranger with dark hair. Blue eyes. A square jaw, straight nose, firm mouth. And that little accent…

The phone rang. Let it. Her voice mail could take the call.

Hi, her recorded voice said briskly. You’ve reached 555-6145. Please leave a message after the tone.

“Aimee, it’s Jen.”

The last person she wanted to talk to! Jen had taken a job with Fox and Curtrain after Aimee pointed her toward it.

“I’m not going to take it,” she’d said, “so why shouldn’t you?”

Why, indeed?

“Aimee, look, I know this isn’t your thing but a new club opened right near me and it’s supposed to draw a hot crowd. And it’s Laura’s birthday, remember her, from the second floor in our dorm? She’s in town and a bunch of us are getting together to, you know, check out the club…” There was giggling in the background and Aimee rolled her eyes. “Okay, Laura’s right. To check out the guys, see if they’re as hunky as everybody says.”

“Jen?” Aimee said, picking up the phone.

“Oh, you’re there! Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing tonight, but—”

“I’m not doing anything. I’ve had—it’s been one of those days, you know?”

“All the more reason to go with us. Have a drink, listen to some hot music—”

“Get picked up by some hot guy,” a female voice in the background said, to another round of giggles.

“That’s the last thing I need,” Aimee said. “I mean, is that all I’m good for? To go to a club where the music’s so loud I won’t be able to think? To let a guy pick me up, buy me a drink—”

“Yeah. I know. It’s a meat market out there—but sometimes, well, sometimes that can be fun. You know. No BS. Just an evening of fun and games.”

“It’s bad enough men think that’s what we’re all about. That we’re useless except in the kitchen or the bedroom. We don’t have to play into their stupid fantasy.”

Silence. Then Jen cleared her throat. “Okay,” she said carefully, “so just forget that I—”

“Not that I couldn’t be some jerk’s idea of a centerfold playmate, if I wanted.”

“Uh, Aimee, look, I have to run, so—”

“I could go to this club with you. Dance, drink, let some guy pick me up for a night of mind-blowing sex!”

The telephone line hummed with silence again. Then Jen spoke.

“So, uh, are you saying you want to go with us?”

Aimee took a deep, deep breath. “You’re damned right I am,” she said.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in a red silk dress she’d bought on sale and never had a reason to wear, ditto for a pair of strappy gold sandals, Aimee took a last look in the mirror, gave her image a quick salute, then headed out the door.

CHAPTER TWO

LUCAS’S CLUB was everything Damian had promised.

Like most hot Manhattan nightspots, it was in a neighborhood that had once been grungy and commercial and now was grungy and upscale. Streets that had once been relegated to the nitty-gritty of daily life now came alive after dark. Warehouses had given way to expensive, exclusive clubs.

Lucas’s place was located in a dark brick building with shuttered windows. There was no sign to indicate that what had once been a factory was now Le Club Hot.

No sign. No published telephone number. You either knew the club existed or you didn’t, which went a long way toward sorting out the clientele, Nicolo thought wryly as he opened a heavy, brass-hinged door and stepped, with Damian, into what might have been the small lobby of an upscale hotel.

The behemoth who greeted them was not someone you’d ever find behind a reception desk. They gave him their names, he checked a list, then smiled.

He pressed a button, and the wall ahead of them slid back.

“Wow,” Damian said softly.

Nicolo had to agree. “Wow” summed it up.

The first thing you noticed was the noise. Music, heavy on bass, went straight into your blood.

Then you realized that the room you’d walked into was huge.

The designer had carefully left the exposed overhead pipes and old brick walls but everything else—the lighting, the endless Lucite bar, the elevated dance floor and the music—was dazzlingly modern.

“You could play American football in here,” Damian murmured. “Especially since the place comes equipped with so many cheerleaders.”

He grinned, and Nicolo grinned back at him. It was true. The room was filled with people, more than half of them women. Young. Stunning. Sexy. Faces recognizable from European and American magazine covers and movies.

What an idiot he’d been, letting what happened this afternoon get him worked up. Damian had it right. This was what he needed. Lights. Music.

Women.

This was the way to relax.

“Barbieri! Aristedes!”

Lucas was making his way through the crowd toward them. The men exchanged handshakes and then Lucas rolled his eyes and grabbed them both in a bear hug.

“Ugly as always,” he said, raising his voice over the pulsating beat of the music, “but not to worry. I’ve told a bunch of lies about you both and made you sound so interesting that people are willing to meet you, despite your looks.”

The three of them grinned. Then Lucas pointed toward a suspended, transparent staircase.

“My table’s up there,” he shouted. “On the mezzanine. It’s quieter…and the view is óptimo!”

He was right. The table overlooked the dance floor and the sound level dropped from deafening to ear-shattering.

And the view was, indeed, excellent.

“What scenery,” Damian said.

He meant, of course, the women. Nicolo nodded in agreement. He’d already acknowledged that the scenery was spectacular. All those lithe, gyrating bodies. The lovely faces…

Was there a woman on the dance floor with eyes the color of violets? With hair the honey-gold of a tigress?

“Nicolo? Which do you prefer?”

Nicolo blinked. Lucas and Damian were looking at him, along with a girl in gold hot pants and a skimpy black tank top.

“To drink,” Lucas said, with a little laugh. “Whiskey? Champagne? The club special? It’s a Mojito. You know, rum, lime juice—”

“Whiskey,” Nicolo said, and told himself to stop being a fool and start having a good time.

But that was a problem.

It turned out you couldn’t have a good time just by telling yourself to have one. You had to relax before you had fun, and now that the woman with the violet eyes had pushed her way into his head, he knew damned well “fun” wasn’t going to happen.

No matter how much he tried.

He ate. He drank. He listened while Lucas and Damian caught up on old times. The three of them hadn’t seen each other in months; there was a lot to talk about and he forced himself to join in the conversation.

After a while, his thoughts drifted. To the woman. To how he’d dealt with her. The more he thought, the angrier he became.

At her.

At himself.

What kind of man let a woman make a fool of him?

“Nicolo?”

Another blink, this time at Damian, who was watching him through slightly narrowed eyes.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Sure. I told you, it’s—it’s this meeting Monday, and—”

Lucas snorted. “My friend, you’re as transparent as glass. What’s on your mind is a woman.”

No. It wasn’t true. Well, yes. There was a woman on his mind but not in the way Lucas meant.

There were no women in his life to think about.

He’d ended an affair a month ago, and grazie a Dio that he had. The lady in question had been like so many others, beautiful and accommodating at first, then simply beautiful and boring.

But then, that was in the nature of things—or was it? Somehow, he couldn’t envision the blonde with the violet eyes ever being accommodating or boring.

She would always be a challenge.

Any other woman, given the situation, would have accepted the apology he’d offered. Hell, any other woman would have done more than that.

He was always lucky with women. They liked him and he liked them. So, any other woman would have smiled and said it was nice of him to say it was his fault but, really, it was hers.

And he’d have understood her smile, returned one of his own and said, well, perhaps they might have a drink while they decided who owed whom an apology….

Nicolo brought his bourbon on the rocks to his lips and took a long drink.

Damn it, the woman was haunting him and for a reason that was insulting.

Such insolence! Why had he tolerated it? Such audacity! And he’d let her get away with it.

His eyes narrowed.

What she’d needed was a real lesson in how a woman should behave. Not that pale excuse of a kiss but something she would have remembered, something that would have shaken her loose of that cold disdain.

He should have dragged her against his body. Taken her mouth, parted her lips with his and filled her with his taste. Let her understand that she was female and he was male and despite the ridiculous conventions of this misbegotten century, what that meant was that he held supremacy when it came to things such as this.

But he had done none of those things. And now, for all he knew, somewhere in this vast city she was laughing at him. At how easily she’d cut him down to size.

Laughing, perhaps, with her lover.

A woman with a face like a madonna’s would surely have a lover.

Would he be a man she could command? Yes. Of course. And what a pity that was because what the lady needed was a lover whose touch would make her tremble. Whose kisses would melt her icy hauteur. Who would make love to her until she begged for mercy…

“Barbieri!”

Nicolo forced the darkness away, looked at the expressions on his friends’ faces—and realized that he had held his glass so tightly it had shattered.

Whiskey puddled on the table.

“Merda,” he growled, and dabbed furiously at the spreading pond of golden liquid with a napkin.

“Never mind that. Did you cut yourself?”

Had he? Nicolo checked.

“No. Not a scratch.” He forced a laugh and held out his hand. “See? Relax, Reyes. There won’t be a lawsuit.”

But Lucas wasn’t buying into the poor attempt at humor.

“Amigo, I’m not the one who needs to relax. You’re wound tighter than a spring.”

Nicolo thought about denying it but what was the point? These men knew him too well.

“You’re right. I am, and I’m sorry I’m spoiling your evening.” He pushed back his chair. “The truth is, I can’t keep my mind on things tonight, so I’m going to head back to my hotel. I told you, that meeting—”

“We’ve known you too long to fall for that. Tough negotiations don’t stress you, Barbieri. You live for them.” Laughing, Damian nudged Lucas in the ribs with his elbow. “It’s a woman. Admit it.”

Nicolo gave a deliberately careless shrug. Maybe if he made light of it…

“Okay,” he said, “it is. But I’ll get over it.”

“Of course you will.” Lucas leaned closer. “And I know the quickest way to do it. It’s like drinking, Nicolo. Remember, back in college? The hair of the dog cure after too much partying? You wake with a hangover, you get rid of it by taking a drink. Well, you have a woman on the brain, you cure that by—”

“Lucas,” a soft voice purred, “darling Lucas, here you are! We’ve been looking everywhere.”

Five women had materialized beside the table. All stunning. All smiling as if they’d found the lost treasure of the Amazons.

“The hair of the dog, my man,” Damian whispered, and Nicolo thought, Why not?

Chairs were dragged over. Introductions were made. Champagne corks popped. After a few minutes, one of the women—her name was Vicki—turned to Nicolo.

“Lucas tells me you’re a royal”

Nicolo looked over her shoulder. Lucas grinned and winked.

“Lucas is a comedian,” he said.

“I’m famous, too.” She giggled. “Well, not yet but someday. Maybe you’ve seen me? I’ve been in—”

A list of plays. Or TV shows. Or something. He didn’t know, didn’t care, and stole a surreptitious glance at his watch. When could he get out of here without insulting the lady or putting a damper on the party?

Not that she wasn’t beautiful. And friendly. She smiled a lot. Put her hand on his arm. Asked him the questions a man likes to be asked.

It was an old game, one he’d played often. The outcome was always understood. And pleasant.

Amazingly pleasant.

He felt his blood tingle. Damian was right. Lucas, too. This was what he needed. A willing, beautiful woman. A game with a predictable ending. A night’s pleasure.

Wasn’t it bad enough the woman with the violet eyes had made a fool of him once? Was he going to let her do it again by keeping him from what waited for him now?

Nicolo pushed back his chair. Took Vicki’s hand.

“Dance with me.”

He led her down the steps to the dance floor. Salsa music blasted the air, its insistent beat almost as sexual as the moves of Vicki’s ripe body lightly brushing his.

Yes. This was good. This was what he needed…

But it wasn’t. It was the wrong body, teasing his. The wrong face, lifted to his and smiling. The wrong eyes, filled with heat and desire.

Basta, he thought in disgust, and he put his arms around the woman and brought her tightly against him as the music segued into something slow and sexy.

She settled close against him as if she’d been waiting for the invitation. Her hair tickled his nose. It was stiff and smelled of hairspray.

Those honeyed curls this afternoon had been soft and fragrant with rain.

“It’s terribly noisy here,” Vicki said, her breath warm against his ear.

Why don’t we find a quieter place? That was the next line. His, or in these days of supposed equality, it could be—

“Why don’t we find a quieter place?” she whispered.

Nicolo cleared his throat.

“You know,” he said, “I think that’s—I think it’s—” An excellent idea. “I think I’ll have to take a rain check on that,” he heard himself say.

She looked as surprised as he felt but, damn it, he didn’t want this woman.

No substitutes, he thought as the music began to pound again, and the need, the desire he’d been suppressing all these hours ignited and threatened to consume him.

He knew what he wanted. What he needed. And there had to be a way, had to be something he could do to—

Nicolo caught his breath. He stopped dancing, let the other dancers and the music swirl around him.

There she was!

Honey-colored curls. Violet eyes. The woman who was driving him insane. No black suede coat. No hood. No boots. Instead she wore a clinging scrap of crimson silk that barely covered her body. Gold sandals, all straps and sky-high, needle-sharp heels. She was dancing, if you wanted to call it that. Moving in a man’s arms. Breasts swaying. Hips rotating. Head up, eyes locked to the man’s face, mouth turned up in a smile…

A smile she had denied him.

“Nicolo?”

Vicki, whatever her name was, said his name. Said something more and put her hand on his chest. He brushed it aside. Stepped away. Abandoned her in the middle of the crowded dance floor.

The part of his brain that was of this century knew all that. Knew, too, that his response to the events of the afternoon might not be entirely rational.

But the part that was as old, as savagely male, as time whispered, This is what I want. And I’m going to have it.

And Nicolo heard nothing else.

The music had turned wild; the throbbing pulse matched the insistent thump of his blood, the beat of his heart….

The fury eating inside him.

Fate, always capricious, had decided to favor him tonight. The woman who’d made a fool of him was here.

Now, he could even the score.

He shouldered his way through the crowd, eyes locked to his quarry. She was oblivious to him. Good, he thought grimly. He wanted to reach her before she had time to think.

But halfway there, she suddenly stopped dancing. Her partner said something; she didn’t answer. Instead she moved out of his arms and stood like a doe at the edge of a clearing, sensing the presence of a hungry predator.

Later, Nicolo would wonder if it weren’t the whole world that had gone still and waited, waited, waited.

A minute, an eternity, swept by. Then the blonde raised her head and looked directly at him.

He let a tight smile curve his mouth. Whatever beat its wings within him must have been in that smile, because the color drained from her face.

She took a step back.

He thought, again, of the doe.

Run, he thought.

And, just as if she’d read his mind, the woman with the violet eyes swung away from him and fled.

Nicolo didn’t hesitate. He went after her.

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