He’d tell her the rest, too, that he would support the child—and her, of course—and, in general, do the right thing.
Problem solved.
Nicolo folded his arms, sat back and smiled. He was soaked to the skin but he was happy.
Hours later, the bellman delivered a thin manila envelope from Nicolo’s attorney.
A note inside assured him that all he had to do in the morning was take the attached documents and his prospective bride to a building in lower Manhattan, ask for a particular judge and he and the lady in question would be married within the hour.
That there was no longer a prospective bride was beside the point. The papers were simply a reminder of how foolish he’d almost been, and he shoved them aside.
He went to bed at eleven. At midnight, he got up and paced the confines of the suite. When he lay down again more than an hour later, he fell into troubled sleep. His dreams were murky and unpleasant, involving a small boy wandering the somber halls of Stafford-Coleridge-Black in search of something nameless and elusive. Each time the child was on the verge of finding it, Nicolo woke up.
At dawn, he gave up, phoned down for coffee, rye toast and the Times and the Wall Street Journal. Showered, shaved and dressed in chinos and a navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he sat by the sitting room window to have his breakfast and read the papers.
The coffee was fine. The toast was dry. So was the writing in both the Times and the Journal. Why else would he be unable to focus on any of the articles?
Nicolo tossed them aside and checked his watch for what had to be the tenth time since he’d awakened. Seven-thirty. Too early to show up at Aimee’s door and tell her she could forget about marrying him.
He could imagine how happy that would make her. She might even smile, something he hadn’t seen her do since the night he’d taken her to bed.
He was happy, too. If he was feeling grim, it was only because he wanted to get the damned thing over with.
Seven forty-five.
Seven fifty.
Seven fifty-seven.
“Merda,” Nicolo snarled, and shot from his chair.
He could arrive at Aimee’s any time he wanted. There was no right time to deliver good news. Besides, she didn’t have to be ready. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Traffic was heavy and it was almost eight-thirty
when he climbed the steps to Aimee’s building. Yesterday’s rain hadn’t done much to clean the grungy stoop.
The first thing he’d do would be to buy her a condo in a decent neighborhood.
This was not a fit place to raise her child.
He paused outside her apartment, then rang the bell. He rang it again. She might be in the shower, getting ready for his arrival. Or, knowing Aimee, not getting ready.
It almost made him smile.
Whatever else she was, she was brave. He’d never known a woman to stand up to him before. He knew damned well yesterday’s argument wasn’t over. The second she opened the door and saw him, she’d lift her chin in that way she had and tell him what he could do with his marriage proposal.
He’d let her rant for a few seconds and then he’d say, There is no proposal, cara. I have decided I would sooner live with a scorpion than with you.
The door opened.
Everything he’d anticipated was wrong.
Aimee didn’t lift her chin. She didn’t rant. And, even though he’d shown up more than an hour early, he could see that she had been waiting for him.
She wore a simple yellow sundress and white sandals with little heels. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, her face was bare of makeup and her eyes were suspiciously bright as if she’d been crying.
She looked painfully young, heartbreakingly vulnerable—and incredibly beautiful.