The Billionaires' Brides Bundle

by Sandra Marton

  He pulled his shirt over his head. Muscles rippled in his forearms and biceps. Don’t look, she told herself, but only a fool would have averted her eyes from the wide shoulders, the silky covering of coal-black hair on his broad chest, the washboard abs, the burgeoning male beauty she knew made up the rest of him.

  “Si. I am undressing. It’s what I generally do when it’s late and I’m tired.” His eyes met hers. “And ready for bed.”

  Her knees turned to water. Her heartbeat accelerated. Don’t look. Don’t answer. Don’t let him draw you into this game.

  “Aren’t you ready for bed, too, cara?” He came toward her, the look on his face more powerful than any aphrodisiac. Slowly he reached out, trailed a lazy finger the length of her throat. “Aimee,” he said in a low, husky voice, “come to bed.”

  She stared at him, hypnotized by his words, his eyes, by the intensity of her own desire because she wanted him, wanted him, wanted him….

  “No,” she said in a choked whisper and fled past him, into the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it.

  “Aimee.”

  Nicolo’s fist pounded against the door. Aimee dragged in a sobbing breath and closed her eyes.

  “Aimee. Open this door!”

  She shook her head as if he could see her. She would not open it. She would never open it or give herself to him because if she did—if she did, he would have everything. The respect she’d never been able to wrest from her grandfather. The bank that should have been hers. The child he’d put in her belly…

  And her.

  Most of all, worst of all, he’d have her. Her body, her soul, her passion…

  And what would remain of Aimee Black then? Nothing. She would disappear. Everything she’d worked so hard to be, the independent woman she was, would be consumed in the fire of their lovemaking.

  But she could survive that.

  She could thrive on it.

  Oh, she could…if only what Nicolo felt for her was more than desire. If what he felt was—if what he felt was—

  “Aimee, damn it!” The door shuddered under another blow. “When will you stop running? When will you admit what you want, what we both want?”

  Never, she thought, never!

  Another blow against the door. Not his fist this time. His shoulder. And the door swung open and banged against the tiled wall.

  Aimee cried out. Jumped back, fists raised. She would fight him to keep him from dominating her.

  “Damn you, Nicolo—”

  “Perhaps,” he said grimly, “but you are my wife. You will do as I say. And what I say, tonight, is that I’m tired of you pretending you don’t want me when we both know damned well you do.”

  He reached for her. Dragged her into his arms. She swung at him; he caught both her wrists, trapped her hands between them. Took her mouth…

  And tasted not her anger but her tears, just as he had on the plane.

  Dio, he thought. Dio, what was he doing?

  “Aimee.”

  He tried to lift her face to his. She wouldn’t let him.

  “Aimee. Mia cara…”

  The sound of her weeping was killing him. Nicolo cursed softly, swept his wife into his arms and held her close, his mouth against her temple.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered, “Aimee, il mio tresoro, I beg you, don’t cry.”

  She was pregnant, ill and exhausted. And all he’d thought about was himself.

  Slowly he gathered her to him. Rocked her against him. Pressed light kisses into her hair.

  Little by little, her weeping stopped.

  “Good girl,” he said softly.

  Nicolo stepped out of the bathroom and carried her to the bed. He sat down, his back against the silk pillows, his wife in his arms, his cheek pressed to the top of her head.

  “Forgive me, amante,” he whispered. “You were very brave today and I have repaid that bravery with terror.”

  Aimee drew in a staggered breath. Nicolo reached to the night table, took a handful of tissues from a box and brought them to her nose.

  “Blow,” he said softly.

  She did. The sound made him smile.

  “Such a big sound for such a delicate female,” he said.

  “I’m not delicate.”

  He smiled again. Her voice was small but still, she couldn’t let his throwaway remark pass without argument. The look of a tigress and the heart of one, as well.

  “More tissues?”

  Aimee shook her head.

  “You sure? I’m getting good at this. Paper towels, tissues…who knows? Someday, I might even work up to a handkerchief.”

  Did her lips curve in a smile? He wanted to believe they had.

  “Aimee.” He tilted her face to his. This time, she let him do it. “Cara, I am sorry.”

  Nothing. Well, what had he expected? She hated him.

  “It is something I do, this—this thing of making quick decisions, of not asking advice.”

  Not true. He made decisions that seemed quick but only after he’d done his homework. He didn’t ask advice often but when he did, he respected the answers he received.

  He was not a man given to impulse, especially in his private life. He’d seen too many men with money and power make spur-of-the-moment choices about women, and end up paying for it for the rest of their lives, financially and emotionally.

  To give in to impulse was dangerous. A sure road to disaster. Emotion had no part in decision-making…

  Except when it came to Aimee. To wanting her. Needing her. Desiring her, in his arms, his bed, his life…

  Nicolo frowned.

  Aimee was exhausted, but she wasn’t the only one. So was he. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be having such strange thoughts.

  Carefully he eased her from his arms, onto the bed beside him, then rose to his feet.

  “Sleep here tonight,” he said carefully. “We can discuss our room arrangements tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll ring for Anna. She’ll help you undress and get to bed.”

  He looked down at his wife. Her hair was spread across the pillows—his pillows—in a wild, honey-soft tangle. Her face was still pale, her eyes glittered from the tears she’d shed, her mouth trembled….

  And he knew that he wanted her for more than the child she carried, certainly for more than the bank her grandfather owned. He wanted her for reasons he couldn’t understand and that made it all the more important to step back, walk away….

  But he didn’t.

  Instead he took her hands in his.

  “Or,” he said gruffly, “I can undress you. I can put you to bed and lie with you, cara. Not to make love to you but to hold you in my arms as you sleep…and to promise you that I will honor you, care for you, that I will not frighten you again.”

  He wasn’t sure what he expected her to say. Anything from “no” to “are you insane?” would probably have suited…But when she finally answered him, it was in a whisper so soft he had to bend his head to hear it.

  “I—I feel safe when you hold me.”

  He swallowed. “You should, cara. After all, I am—I am your husband.”

  Their eyes met. Aimee smiled. Nicolo smiled back. Then he went to his closet and returned with a pair of burgundy-colored silk pajamas.

  “Stand up,” he said softly.

  Aimee obeyed. Turned her back so he could unzip the yellow dress. Strip it from her. Under it, she wore only a scrap of white lace.

  Nicolo swallowed again. Decided that leaving the bit of lace would probably be the only intelligent thing to do, but why worry about intelligence?

  A man who stripped a woman naked, then didn’t touch her, had no claim on intelligence.

  Carefully he hooked his thumbs in the panties. She gave a little gasp and he acted as if it were important that he was easing them down her hips, her long legs.

  “Lift your foot. Now the other,” he said and that gave him away. Was that thick, rough voice really his?

  He tossed the scrap of lace aside. Rose to his f
eet. Did his best not to look at his wife but how could he not, when she was so exquisite? He had not seen her naked since the night they’d met but he remembered, oh, yes, he remembered….

  Her body had changed. He would not have imagined it possible but it was even more beautiful now that she carried his baby. Her breasts were larger, her nipples darker. And her belly…Was he wrong, or was it just slightly fuller?

  By all the saints, he was going to lose his sanity if he didn’t cup her breasts, lift them to his lips and kiss them. Kneel before her, put his mouth to her belly, to her feminine delta…

  Nicolo dropped the burgundy pajama top on the bed and turned his back. “There,” he said briskly. “That’s for you. I’ll wear the bottoms. Okay?”

  He sensed her nod of acquiescence; he was not fool enough to look at her to make sure. As it was, he was doing mental multiplication tables to try to keep from becoming erect.

  He had promised all he’d do was hold her in his arms and that was what he would do.

  Quickly he took off what remained of his own clothes, stepped into the PJ bottoms and tied them.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Aimee said softly.

  A deep, deep breath. Then he swung around. Her sandals stood neatly beside the bed; her panties were on the night table.

  She was under the blanket.

  God was merciful, after all.

  Nicolo forced a smile, lifted the covers and slid in beside her. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then he turned, and she turned, and suddenly she was in his arms.

  She smelled of flowers.

  Her skin was silky.

  Her hair was soft.

  Eight times three is twenty-four. Twenty-four times two is forty-eight. Forty-eight times two is ninety-six. Ninety-six times, Dio, ninety-six times ninety-six is—is—

  Nicolo shut his eyes, gathered Aimee into his embrace. She sighed, her breath a susurration of sweet warmth against his throat.

  Please, he thought, please, let her fall asleep quickly. Once she did, he’d get up, read a book. Do some work. Anything but lie here with Aimee in his arms because, of course, he would not sleep. This was too much. She was half-naked, they were completely alone…

  He smiled.

  And she had not called him a name in easily half an hour. That was a first.

  It was a night of firsts. He’d never had a wife before, never even had a woman in this bed until now. He’d never slept with one without making love to her and most of all, most of all, he’d never held a woman against him and felt—and felt—

  He drew back a little. Another minute, he’d carefully push back the covers, leave the bed—

  “Nicolo?”

  His wife’s voice was soft as the touch of a feather.

  “Yes, cara?”

  “Did I fall asleep in your arms on the plane, or was it a dream?”

  Nicolo brushed his lips lightly over hers. “It was not a dream, amante. You slept just like this…and I hated to leave you.”

  “I’m sorry you did,” she whispered.

  A second later, she was asleep.

  Get up, Nicolo told himself, you damned fool, get out of this bed right now.

  Instead he rolled onto his back, taking Aimee with him, her head nestled in the curve of his shoulder, her arm thrown lightly over his chest.

  He stared up at the ceiling, at a tiny bit of moonlight caught in the ancient fresco of cherubs and fauns.

  “Ninety-six times ninety-six,” he whispered into the darkness, “is—is nine thousand two hundred and sixteen.”

  Then, to his amazement, he closed his eyes and slept.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SOMETIME JUST before dawn, it began to rain.

  The windows were all open; a breeze ruffled the curtains and brought with it the scent of the gardens that surrounded the palazzo.

  Aimee was warm and safe in Nicolo’s arms, her body sprawled half over his, hearts beating in unison.

  She was asleep.

  He was awake.

  Awake, and enduring the sweetest kind of torture. The feel of her against him. The whisper of her breath against his naked shoulder. The gentle weight of her thigh over his.

  Nicolo was trapped halfway between the heaven of holding his beautiful wife in his embrace and the hell of knowing he had promised he would not touch her.

  It had seemed an easy promise to make.

  Aimee was exhausted. She was pregnant. And he had no wish to risk the fragile peace that had sent her into his arms hours before by doing something foolish.

  Except—except, he hadn’t expected her to drape herself over him like this. To sigh so sweetly each time she shifted against him. He hadn’t expected to want to wake her with his kisses, with his caresses, and tell her that somewhere between yesterday and today, he had gone from feeling like a man in a trap to a man who had—who had met his destiny.

  A destiny he welcomed.

  Nicolo frowned into the darkness.

  How could that be? His life was perfect. The pauper prince had made himself one of the world’s richest men. He was respected. Admired. He had everything a man could possibly want….

  And now, he had more.

  A child on the way. And a wife.

  Aimee. Bright. Articulate. And exasperating. But Dio, what courage she had! Choosing a life she didn’t want, a life that was the opposite of the one he knew she’d desired, because it was the right thing to do.

  Aimee, who excited him more than any woman he’d known.

  Was she his destiny?

  Not that he believed in such things. A man was born into the world. Beyond that, the life he lived was his own. You made choices, walked a path you controlled.

  Or maybe not.

  Was there a force people called fate? Did it wait for the chance to scoop you up and put you on a different path? A path you’d never intended to follow?

  Was that what had happened to him?

  Two days ago, he’d been Nicolo Barbieri, prince of a royal house of Rome. A man who headed a financial empire. Who answered to no one.

  Aimee sighed and burrowed closer.

  Now, he was Nicolo Barbieri, husband and soon-to-be father. It was an impressive responsibility, one he surely hadn’t planned or wanted….

  And yet, it felt right. The baby in Aimee’s womb. Aimee in his arms. In his bed.

  Aimee, his bride. His wife. His—his—

  Nicolo frowned. Carefully he eased his arm from her shoulders, his leg from beneath her thigh. He needed a cup of espresso. Or a walk around the garden. Or maybe he’d turn on his computer, check his e-mail. Yes. That was what he would do. In the confusion of the last few days, he’d damned near lost touch with his office.

  He had never done that before.

  He sat up, rose from the bed and ran his hands through his hair.

  This was not good, this disruption in his life. He had a company to run, people who looked to him for direction. He had to get back on track. He would shower, turn on the computer. His housekeeper would be up soon; over a quick breakfast, he’d talk with her, ask her to explain the functions of his household to Aimee when she came down, arrange for Giorgio to drive her to whatever shops she wished. Oh, and he would contact his physician, ask him to recommend the best OB-GYN in Rome.

  No more of this nonsense. Of putting everything aside just because he’d made a woman pregnant and married her—

  “Nicolo?”

  He swung around. Aimee was sitting up against the pillows. He could see her clearly in the rain-washed light of dawn. Her eyes filled with uncertainty. Her cascade of tousled curls. The outline of her breasts under his pajama top.

  This was his wife. His woman. His Aimee.

  Everything else flew out of his head. Something swept through him, an emotion so powerful it made his breath catch.

  “Yes, cara,” he said softly. Smiling, he went to the bed and sat down next to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Aimee pushed he
r hair away from her eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”

  “No, sweetheart, it isn’t late at all. The sun’s barely up. I just—I just couldn’t sleep anymore.”

  “Jet lag,” she said, with a little smile.

  “Si,” he said, because that was easier than explaining what had driven him from the bed.

  And what had now brought him back to it.

  “Go back to sleep, cara. You need your rest.”

  “No. No, I’m—I’m—” She went white. “Oh. Oh…”

  She shot from the bed so quickly that he had only risen to his feet by the time she slammed the bathroom door after her.

  “Go away,” she gasped when he flung it open, and then she bent over the commode and retched.

  Nicolo’s heart turned over. He cupped her shoulders, steadied her until the spasm passed. Then he turned her in his arms, despite her protests.

  “I will take you back to bed,” he said firmly. “And you will stay there until the doctor arrives.”

  “I’m not sick. This is just a thing that happens to some women when they’re pregnant.” She looked up with a shaky smile. “I’ll be fine once I wash up. You’ll see.”

  She was right about the vomiting. He knew that much. He also knew that he’d been terrified, seeing her suffer.

  “Nicolo. Please. Go away and let me clean up.”

  Aimee watched him consider the situation and wondered if this was how he looked in his office, so dark, determined and brooding. Finally he nodded curtly, took a new toothbrush from a drawer in the vanity, showed her where the towels were, the comb, the hairbrush….

  “Nicolo,” Aimee said gently. “I’ll find everything on my own. I promise.”

  She had to swear she would call him if she felt ill, that she wouldn’t lock the door so he could reach her quickly if necessary.

  Finally she was alone.

  She showered. Washed her hair, brushed her teeth, wrapped herself in a huge towel….

  And tried not to think about the man waiting in the next room.

  Her husband.

  She had slept in his arms all night. Close to him. Warmed by him. Comforted by his presence.

  She’d also been awake when he’d awakened this morning.

  She’d wanted to tell him that, but she’d been mortified to find herself draped half over him. Besides, what did you say to your husband when you didn’t know him?