A lie.
He wanted to touch her, all right. Take her in his arms and kiss her until her lips were warm and softly swollen. Tear that demure-looking sundress off her body, bare her breasts to his eyes and mouth.
Bare her belly to his caress.
Her belly. Her womb. His child.
His child. That was why he’d married her. Of course it was. Why else would a man tie himself to a beautiful, hardheaded, ill-tempered woman he didn’t know?
Nicolo glanced at Aimee again.
Why else, indeed?
He had phoned his pilot before the ceremony; when they reached the airport, the plane stood ready for departure.
He took Aimee’s hand as they stepped out of the terminal. She didn’t fight him. He almost wished she would. That might be better than letting her hand lie limply in his.
The pilot was already on board. The copilot and the cabin attendant were waiting on the tarmac, both of them smiling.
Nicolo had told them of his marriage.
“Congratulazioni, Principe, Principessa,” the attendant said.
“Best of luck to you both,” the copilot chimed in.
“Thank you,” Nicolo replied.
Aimee said nothing.
Nicolo gritted his teeth. When they were alone in the cabin, he swung her toward him.
“I expect you to treat my people with courtesy!”
“What would you know of courtesy?” she said.
Their eyes met, hers daring him to ask her what she meant, but he knew better.
“Take a seat,” he growled.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what seat?”
Nicolo gritted his teeth again. At this rate, he would be toothless in a week.
“Do not test me, cara. I don’t like it.”
She smiled brightly, then sank into the first seat on the portside.
“Put the seat-back up.”
She did.
“Close your safety belt.”
She closed it.
“Damn it to hell, are you a robot?”
Aimee widened her eyes. “Isn’t that what you want?”