The Billionaires' Brides Bundle

She’d slept with Nicolo Barbieri because—because she’d been upset. Anxious. Stressed.

Aimee groaned and put her face in her hands again.

She’d slept with him because she’d wanted to. Because he was the most exciting man she’d ever seen and because she’d fantasized about him all that afternoon.

That was why she’d refused to exchange names.

To make what had happened real would have meant despising herself for what she’d let him do….

And ever since that night, she’d wanted him to do it all again.

No wonder he’d looked at her with such loathing today. She loathed herself. But to believe she’d deliberately—

The ringing of the phone made her jump.

She didn’t want to talk to anybody. Especially her grandfather and that was probably him calling. He was furious at her. She’d walked out of his office without a word, ignored his demand that she come back.

Let the answering machine deal with him. She wasn’t going to.

Another ring. Then the machine picked up.

Hi. You’ve reached 555-6145. Please leave a message after the tone.

“Ms. Black, this is Dr. Glassman’s office. Your test results are in. Please call our office between the hours of eight and—”

She ran for the phone, snatched it up. “I’m here! I mean, this is Ms. Black.”

“Ms. Black? Please hold for the doctor.”

Aimee held, imagining the worst. Why not, on a day like this? A brain tumor. A rare blood malady. Or—her breath caught at how stupid she was not to have thought of it sooner.

Or an illness of the kind people got these days, from having unprotected sex.

No. Not that.

Whatever else he was, she could not imagine the Prince of Darkness having that kind of disease.

“Ms. Black? Dr. Glassman here…”

Aimee listened. And listened. Then she put down the phone and stared blankly at the wall.

She’d thought right.

Nicolo Barbieri hadn’t give her a disease.

He’d given her a baby.

She sat motionless for hours, wrapped in her robe, oblivious to the passage of time.

What to do? What to do?

She was single. Unemployed. Living on temporary jobs because she refused to let her grandfather support her.

No money, no prospects, this small apartment in a not-very-good neighborhood….

This time, it wasn’t the phone that beat shrilly against the silence, it was the doorbell.

Aimee ignored it. Whoever it was would go away. The UPS man with a package, the super to drill a peephole in the door, somethin