Though it made no sense, being in Nicolo’s arms made her feel safe.
They rode in a silence broken only by the soft purr of the car’s engine through the dark, winding streets of a sleeping Rome.
After a while, Aimee realized the Mercedes was climbing a hill.
“The Pallatine,” Nicolo said, as if he’d read her mind. “My home—our home—is on its crest.”
Ahead, a high gate swung slowly open. The car moved through it, then along a straight, narrow road that lay like a ribbon of black velvet. Tall Roman pines on either side blocked out the sky.
Suddenly a building loomed up before them.
“The Palazzo Barbieri,” Nicolo said softly. “It has been in our family since the time of Caesar.”
The night was too dark, the palazzo still too far away to see clearly, but Aimee didn’t have to see the details to know the palace would be a hulking, joyless paean to antiquity.
It would swallow her whole.
She shuddered, and Nicolo cupped her face and turned it to his.
“Cara,” he said softly, “don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not,” Aimee answered quickly, as if the lie might make it true. “I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life.”
Nicolo looked at her defiant expression and thought it might be true. Or, at least, that she had learned, early, that showing fear could be dangerous.
It was a lesson he understood.
Courage, a show of it, anyway, was the conqueror of demons. It was how he had overcome poverty and, he suspected, how his wife had survived James Black’s attempts to control her life and undermine her spirit.
His wife.
This beautiful, brave woman was his wife. Had he taken a moment to tell her he was proud to have made her his principessa? To tell her that he knew theirs was a rocky start but he would do his best to make her happy? To tell her—to tell her that he was not sorry he’d made her pregnant, because he wasn’t. He wasn’t. He—
“Principe Nicolo. Siamo arrivato.”
Nicolo blinked. The car had stopped; Giorgio stood beside the open rear door, eyes straight ahead, back rigid, chauffeur’s cap square on his head.
How many times had he told the man he didn’t want him to show subservience or, even worse, to wear that ridiculous cap?
All right. Time to take a deep breath. This was becoming a habit, letting his anger at himself turn into anger at others.
He stepped from the car, Aimee still in his arms. She struggled; he tightened his grasp.
“Really, Nicolo, I’m all right now.”
“Really, Aimee,” he said in near-perfect imitation of her tone, “you are not all right. It is late, you are tired and you are with child.”
She shot a look at the driver.
“Nicolo!”
“My wife is pregnant, Giorgio,” Nicolo said, and started up the wide steps to the door of the palazzo.
A quick smile tugged at the driver’s lips. Aimee felt her face flame.
“Shh,” she hissed.
“Tomorrow, first thing, we shall see an OB-GIN.”