Aimee was exhausted. She was pregnant. And he had no wish to risk the fragile peace that had sent her into his arms hours before by doing something foolish.
Except—except, he hadn’t expected her to drape herself over him like this. To sigh so sweetly each time she shifted against him. He hadn’t expected to want to wake her with his kisses, with his caresses, and tell her that somewhere between yesterday and today, he had gone from feeling like a man in a trap to a man who had—who had met his destiny.
A destiny he welcomed.
Nicolo frowned into the darkness.
How could that be? His life was perfect. The pauper prince had made himself one of the world’s richest men. He was respected. Admired. He had everything a man could possibly want….
And now, he had more.
A child on the way. And a wife.
Aimee. Bright. Articulate. And exasperating. But Dio, what courage she had! Choosing a life she didn’t want, a life that was the opposite of the one he knew she’d desired, because it was the right thing to do.
Aimee, who excited him more than any woman he’d known.
Was she his destiny?
Not that he believed in such things. A man was born into the world. Beyond that, the life he lived was his own. You made choices, walked a path you controlled.
Or maybe not.
Was there a force people called fate? Did it wait for the chance to scoop you up and put you on a different path? A path you’d never intended to follow?
Was that what had happened to him?
Two days ago, he’d been Nicolo Barbieri, prince of a royal house of Rome. A man who headed a financial empire. Who answered to no one.
Aimee sighed and burrowed closer.
Now, he was Nicolo Barbieri, husband and soon-to-be father. It was an impressive responsibility, one he surely hadn’t planned or wanted….
And yet, it felt right. The baby in Aimee’s womb. Aimee in his arms. In his bed.
Aimee, his bride. His wife. His—his—
Nicolo frowned. Carefully he eased his arm from her shoulders, his leg from beneath her thigh. He needed a cup of espresso. Or a walk around the garden. Or maybe he’d turn on his computer, check his e-mail. Yes. That was what he would do. In the confusion of the last few days, he’d damned near lost touch with his office.
He had never done that before.
He sat up, rose from the bed and ran his hands through his hair.
This was not good, this disruption in his life. He had a company to run, people who looked to him for direction. He had to get back on track. He would shower, turn on the computer. His housekeeper would be up soon; over a quick breakfast, he’d talk with her, ask her to explain the functions of his household to Aimee when she came down, arrange for Giorgio to drive her to whatever shops she wished. Oh, and he would contact his physician, ask him to recommend the best OB-GYN in Rome.
No more of this nonsense. Of putting everything aside just because he’d made a woman pregnant and married her—
“Nicolo?”
He swung around. Aimee was sitting up against the pillows. He could see her clearly in the rain-washed light of dawn. Her eyes filled with uncertainty. Her cascade of tousled curls. The outline of her breasts under his pajama top.
This was his wife. His woman. His Aimee.
Everything else flew out of his head. Something swept through him, an emotion so powerful it made his breath catch.
“Yes, cara,” he said softly. Smiling, he went to the bed and sat down next to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Aimee pushed he