The Billionaires' Brides Bundle

by Sandra Marton

  Good morning didn’t seem to cut it.

  Especially when what you really wanted to do—what you really wanted was not to say a word but to clasp his face, bring his mouth to yours, kiss him and tell him that you’d changed your mind, you didn’t want to be his wife in name only….

  Aimee shut her eyes. Took a deep breath. Opened the door. With luck, Nicolo would have dressed and gone by now….

  He hadn’t.

  He was standing in the middle of the room, bare-chested, arms folded, eyes almost black as he looked at her.

  “Are you better?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine.”

  His gaze swept over her. The towel was big but that gaze made her feel naked.

  “We will see a physician today.”

  “Really, I’m—”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  His voice was husky. The sound of it, that look in his eyes, made her heart turn over.

  “No. I mean, I haven’t dried my hair. And I’m already gaining weight. And—”

  “Where is this weight?”

  “My breasts. My belly. Not much, but—”

  “I want to see.”

  A heavy silence descended on the room. Aimee’s eyes met Nicolo’s.

  “I want to see the changes my child has made in you,” he said softly as he started toward her. He stopped inches away, his hands now at his sides, his eyes hot on hers. “Let me look at you.”

  “Nicolo.” Her tongue felt thick. She swallowed, swallowed again. “I don’t think—”

  “That’s right. Don’t think.” He reached out, grasped the edge of the towel she clutched to her breasts. “It is a husband’s right to see his wife.” And before she could muster a shield of anger at that bit of arrogance, he added a single word that left her defenseless. “Please.”

  Aimee took a deep breath. Then, slowly, she let go of the towel.

  For what seemed an eternity, Nicolo stood still. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t do anything but sweep his eyes over her nakedness.

  Then he cupped her breasts. Feathered his thumbs over her nipples. Ran his hand down her ribs and over her belly.

  He looked up at her, and what she saw in his face made her heartbeat stumble.

  “Aimee,” he said thickly, “my wife. My beautiful, amazing wife…”

  The next instant, she was in his arms.

  He kissed her hungrily and she returned his kiss. Her arms wound around his neck as he carried her to the bed and lay her down among the sheets of softest Egyptian cotton.

  He kissed her hair, her temple, her throat. Her soft moans, the way she lifted herself to him, stoked the flames he’d tried so hard to control.

  He told himself he would be gentle. She was pregnant. She’d been ill. She needed tenderness, not the fire that burned within him….

  And then her lips parted. The tip of her tongue stroked into his mouth—and Nicolo was lost.

  He bent to her breasts, sucked the nipples deep into his mouth. Aimee cried out, arched toward him and it was all he could do not to part her thighs and bury himself inside her.

  She tasted of honey. Of cream. Of all the delicacies in the universe. He loved the sweetness of her skin, the tang of salt as it began to heat under his caresses.

  He loved everything about this. About her. The way she responded to him, without holding anything back.

  That first night, their coming together had been wild, almost savage, but now he realized she’d let him be the aggressor.

  Now, she was the one, telling him with every motion, every sigh, that she wanted him. Wanted this. Wanted all he could give her and more.

  Her hands explored his shoulders. His chest. She kissed his throat, touched her tongue to the hollow where he knew his heart must be racing.

  “Nicolo,” she whispered, and her fingers brushed the tip of his straining erection.

  He let her explore him, loving her touch, her caution, her, yes, her innocence, but when her hand closed around him, he knew it was time to take control of her and of himself.

  “No,” he said roughly and caught her wrists, pinned them high over her head, held her captive to his lips, his teeth, his kisses until she was sobbing with need.

  “Please,” she whispered, “please…”

  Nicolo tore off his pajama bottoms, kicked them away. Knelt between his wife’s thighs and kissed that tender flesh. She cried out, arched to him again and he brushed the back of his hand over the honey-colored curls that guarded her femininity.

  Aimee cried out. Bucked under him and he caught her wrists again, this time in one hand, and used the other to touch her.

  She was wet.

  Fragrant with arousal.

  She was sobbing. Pleading. And he—he was going to explode if he didn’t take her soon.

  Her clitoris was swollen with passion and when he finally let go of her wrists, slipped his hands under her bottom and brought her to his mouth, her taste was exquisite.

  Aimee cried out and he moved up her body, spread her thighs wide and she wrapped her legs around his hips.

  “Now,” he said, and entered her on a long, hard thrust.

  Her cry was high and sweet and all he had ever yearned for. He surged forward again and she screamed, flung her head back and came apart in his arms again and again as he held her, as he caught her mouth with his and drank in her sobs.

  “Nico,” she whispered against his mouth and he shot over the edge, let go of who he was, who he had been, all of it lost in the warm, welcoming body of his wife.

  A lifetime later, Nicolo stirred. Aimee was still beneath him and he began to roll away from her, but she put her arms around him and held him close.

  “Stay,” she whispered.

  He wanted to. He would stay like this forever, if he could.

  “I’m too heavy for you, cara mia.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She sounded so determined, it made him smile.

  “Let’s try reversing things.” He rolled onto his back and took her with him so that she was sprawled on top of him. “How’s that?”

  She gave the kind of long sigh that reached straight into his heart.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  Oh, it was. More than wonderful, he thought, wrapping his arms even more tightly around her. They lay that way for a few minutes, until his heartbeat and hers had slowed. Then he cupped the back of her head and brought her mouth to his for a tender kiss.

  “Are you all right?” he said softly.

  Her lips curved against his. “I’m very all right.”

  Nicolo grinned. “I agree completely, Principessa. In fact…” Another kiss, longer than the last. “You are wonderfully all right.

  “I liked what you called me,” he said, stroking the curls back from her face.

  Aimee propped her chin on her hands. “What I called you?”

  “Si. Nico.” He smiled. “No one ever called me Nico before.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. My governesses always referred to me as Principe.” He chuckled. “Except for one daring Englishwoman who called me Master Nicolo.”

  “Were there many governesses?”

  He nodded. “My parents were always traveling. My great-grandmother lived with us but she was already very old when I was born, so I was raised by governesses. And whenever my parents came home, they’d find fault with the governess of the moment and fire her.”

  “They were that awful?”

  “Some were better than others but none were ‘awful.’”

  “Then, why?”

  Nicolo sighed. “It took me a while to figure it out but I finally realized it was jealousy. My mother would see my attachment to a governess and that was the kiss of death.”

  Aimee framed his face between her hands.

  “If your mother wanted you to love her, why didn’t she stay home and take care of you herself?”

  “It was just the way they were, cara, she and my father. Their lives were all about self-gratific
ation. No responsibility. No money, either. The palazzo was falling down around my ears by the time I inherited it—but that was how they lived, on their titles and the largesse of their friends.”

  “And now?”

  Nicolo lifted his mouth to hers for a kiss. “And now, amante mia, it no longer matters. They are both gone. A plane, taking them to a polo match in Palm Springs…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart. To tell the truth, I didn’t know them well enough to miss them.”

  “A child shouldn’t grow up that way.”

  The fervor in her voice made him smile.

  “No. I agree.” He stroked his hand down her back. “And you, cara? How was life with James Black…Or do I not have to ask?”

  Aimee sighed. “He took me in when my parents died. I’ll always be grateful to him for that. I was very little, you see, and there was no money…My father had married a woman Grandfather didn’t find suitable, and…”

  “And,” Nicolo said, trying to control his sudden anger, “he did his best to make your father pay for it and to hell with how it affected you or your mother.”

  There was a time Aimee would have defended her grandfather. She’d have said he’d done what he thought was right, but now she’d married a man who had done what he thought was right and it had nothing to do with what he’d wanted for himself but only with what he wanted for others.

  For her and their unborn child.

  “Yes,” she said softly, “he didn’t care about anyone but himself. But my parents were happy, Nicolo. They adored each other and they adored me. I loved them so much and then—and then they died and I went to live with Grandfather, and—and—” She gave a sad little laugh that almost broke his heart. “There he was, stuck with the child of a woman he’d never acknowledged. A girl child, at that.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t hide his disappointment,” Nicolo said, his voice harsh.

  “I wasn’t what he wanted. I had no desire to learn to become the perfect wife to his idea of the perfect husband.”

  “A man he’d choose,” Nicolo said, rolling her beneath him. “A captain of industry, with blood as blue as your grandfather’s.”

  Aimee ran her fingers through Nicolo’s tousled black curls. “Were you listening to all those conversations?” she said with a little smile.

  “A man who could control you, as he had not been able to do.”

  Her smile faded. How quickly he’d understood. “Yes.”

  “And who would love Stafford-Coleridge-Black more than he loved you.”

  Aimee tried to look away. Nicolo wouldn’t let her. He caught her face between his palms and held it steady under his gaze. Her eyes glittered, but she forced a smile.

  “And he got what he wanted,” she said lightly, “from the blue blood all the way to Stafford-Coleridge-Bl—”

  Nicolo silenced her with a deep, passionate kiss.

  “I married you,” he said fiercely, “not your grandfather’s financial empire.”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to try to make it sound as if—as if—”

  “I married you because you carry my child. And because you are a strong, beautiful, fascinating woman.”

  “Please.” Her voice trembled. “You don’t have to lie.”

  “No lies, cara. Not now, not ever. Do you really think I’d have married you to get my hands on that damned bank?”

  Even as he spoke the words, he knew they were true. He had married Aimee because she was going to bear his child, and because—because—

  Because what? The answer was tantalizingly close.

  For now, all he could come up with was the way to prove to his wife that he wanted her.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “I will contact your grandfather. I will tell him that I do not want his bank.”

  “But you do want it! I won’t let you do that for me.”

  “I am doing it for me, cara. Because—because I am—I am happy.” He saw the smile that lit his bride’s face and his heart seemed to expand within his chest. “I am very happy,” he said softly, “and it has nothing to do with your grandfather’s bank.” Nicolo shifted his weight so Aimee could feel what lying against her had done to him. “I’m happy because of this,” he whispered. “My child in your womb. And you, anima mia, forever in my arms.”

  “What does that mean? Anima mia?”

  He smiled. “It means that you are my soul.”

  Tears glittered on Aimee’s lashes. Was it possible to go from despair to joy so quickly?

  The answer came a heartbeat later, when Nicolo slid deep inside her. Yes. Oh, yes, it was possible.

  “Nico,” Aimee whispered, “Nico…”

  Then, for a very long time, there was no sound but the gentle patter of the rain and the softness of the lovers’ sighs.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “BUON GIORNO,cara mia.”

  Nicolo’s soft voice was the first thing Aimee heard as she awakened. She was lying close to him; he was on his belly, smiling down at her as her eyes fluttered open.

  Her heart turned over. What a perfect start to a new day. To a new life.

  “Buon giorno, Nicolo,” she said softly.

  She almost laughed at the look on his face. “You speak Italian?”

  “Of course,” she said, as if there could be no question about it. “Buon giorno. Buono notte. Grazie. Per favore. Oh, and, of course, espresso, cappuccino, and, um, gelato.” She grinned. “See? All the essentials. Good morning. Good evening. Thank you, please, two kinds of coffee and the best ice cream in the world. How’s that for speaking the language?”

  Nicolo grinned back at her. “Ah. A high school trip to Italy.”

  “A Miss Benton’s Academy trip to Five Famed Cities of Europe, if you please.” She touched the tip of her finger to his lips, smiling when he caught it between his teeth and took a mock ferocious bite. “Twelve very proper young women, three even more proper chaperones, five cities, fifteen days.” She rolled her eyes. “Truly memorable, but not in the way Miss Benton would have preferred. Evelyn got sick from too much onion soup in Paris, Louise sneaked ouzo into her room in Athens and got snockered—”

  “Snockered?”

  “The only slang word Miss Benton would have permitted as a descriptive,” Aimee said primly, laughter dancing in her eyes.

  “And you, cara? Did you dine on too much soup? Did you get snickered—”

  “Snockered.”

  “Si. Did you get snockered on ouzo?”

  “I behaved like the obedient little girl I was.” Aimee’s smile slipped a notch. “Not that it mattered.”

  “You mean, your grandfather still paid you no attention,” Nicolo said, wrapping her in his arms as he rolled onto his side.

  “I mean, obedient or not, I was still the wrong sex for a Black grandchild.”

  Nicolo wanted to rise from the bed, fly to the States and grab the old man by the collar, hoist him to his toes and tell him what a selfish, stupid, coldhearted SOB he was….

  Instead he did the next best thing.

  “I think you’re the perfect sex,” he murmured, and ran his hand slowly down her body.

  She smiled, as he’d hoped she would.

  “Mmm. Right now, I think so, too.”

  “So, aside from being a good girl, what were you like when you were a teenager?”

  “Shy. Quiet. Skinny as a stick.”

  He caressed her again. “Seems to me you’ve grown up since then.”

  That won him another smile. “Grazie.”

  “Would you like to learn more Italian?”

  Aimee wound her arms around his neck. “For instance?”

  “Sei molto bella.”

  “Which means?”

  “It means, you are very beautiful.” Nicolo’s voice grew husky. “Incredibly beautiful, cara.”

  “Grazie.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Thank you is the wrong answer?” He nodded
. “Well, what should I have said in response?”

  “You should have said, Baciami, Nico, per favore.”

  Her lips curved. She’d caught on to the game.

  “Baciami, Nico, per favore,” she said softly.

  “With pleasure,” he whispered, and kissed her.

  Another kiss. And another, kisses that grew deeper and longer until Nicolo knew that soon, there’d be no turning back.

  He groaned, kissed her one last time and rolled onto his back. Aimee made a sound of protest that went straight to his heart, and he gathered her closely against his side.

  “We have things to do this morning.”

  “More important than this?”

  “Nothing is more important than this…Except, perhaps, our ten o’clock appointment with Dr. Scarantino.”

  She rose up on her elbow. “Who?”

  “I spoke with my physician about a doctor for you and the baby.”

  “Already?”

  “I made the call hours ago,” he teased, “while you lazed in bed.”

  “And why was I lazing in bed, do you think?”

  Nicolo’s eyes darkened. “If I answer that question, we’ll miss our appointment with the best OB-GIN in all of Roma.”

  Aimee brushed a lock of dark hair from her husband’s forehead. She smiled, loving the way he mangled the abbreviation.

  “After that, we’ll stroll along the Via Condotti. Do you like Armani, cara? Valentino?” He smiled. “Who are your favorite designers, hmm? Tell me, and we will visit their shops today.”

  Her favorite designers were whatever was on sale in So Ho. Not taking money from her grandfather had long ago become a way of life.

  “Nicolo. I brought a suitcase. I don’t need—”

  “And,” he said, “then a stop at Bulgari for a proper wedding band. One that fits you and will tell the world that you are mine.” He paused; his expression grew serious. “I did something else this morning, as well. I sent a fax to your grandfather, informing him that I do not wish to purchase his bank.”

  “No. I’ve thought about that. And I can’t let you—”

  “The choice is mine, cara. And I have already made it.”

  The words were arrogant, masculine…and wonderful. Aimee sighed and lay her head against her husband’s shoulder.