“Are you always this gracious, cara, or is it something you reserve for me?”
Aimee jerked away from him and walked to the door. The pilot and copilot smiled and touched their hats.
“Buona notte, Principessa.”
Principessa. That was who she was now. Was the title supposed to make up for the loss of her independence?
She forced a smile, wished them a good evening, too, and went down the steps to the tarmac.
It was night. She’d known it would be; still, the sense of disorientation swept over her again. She must have swayed. Stumbled. Something, because Nicolo gave an impatient snort and put his arm around her waist.
“I said—”
“I know what you said.” He drew her close and led her toward a black Mercedes that waited a few yards away, a uniformed driver standing rigidly beside it. At their approach, he snapped his heels together, saluted and opened the rear door.
Apparently the sight of his employer half carrying a woman through the night was not unusual.
“Sede benvenuta, Principe.”
“Grazie, Giorgio. Aimee, this is my driver. Giorgio, this is mia moglie. My wife.”
Giorgio touched his cap again. “Principessa,” he said, but he didn’t so much as blink.
Why would he? Nicolo wasn’t just his boss, he was of royal blood. In America, especially in Manhattan, royals were just another species of celebrity. The gossip columns gushed over their doings but real people, New York people, hardly took notice.
This was not New York.
This was Rome. Nicolo’s turf. It meant something here, to be known as a prince.
Aimee shuddered. In that single moment, she finally understood what had happened to her.
She’d left more than her old life behind. She’d left who she was—and who she might have been.
Her husband was everything she’d fought against all her life, and she was all but helpless to fight his demands…though he’d learn soon enough that she’d damned well die trying.
And for all of that, she still melted when he touched her.
Aimee’s heart began to race. She wasn’t ready for this! No one could be. So many changes, so many pages torn out and discarded from the life she’d planned for herself…
She began to tremble and despised herself for it but the more she tried to stop, the more she shook. She tried covering it with a flippant remark about the great Prince Barbieri being too important to have bothered with Customs.
Nicolo wasn’t buying it.
“Are you ill?”
“I’m fine.”
Her teeth, clicking like castanets, spoiled the lie. Nicolo muttered something, put his arms around her and drew her into his lap.
“Don’t,” she said, but he ignored her, drew her closer until she was encased in his warmth.
She tried to sit up straight, even now that she was in his lap, but it was impossible. For one thing, she felt silly, perched like that.
For another, he wouldn’t permit it. His arms tightened around her and he gathered her closer to him.
“Stop being foolish,” he said sternly. “I am not about to sit here and listen to your teeth chatter.”
Finally she gave up fighting and lay back in his arms. As soon as she did, she knew it was what she wanted to do, despite her protests.