The Billionaires' Brides Bundle

“To hell with the principe! Tell Giorgio to take me to the airport or I’ll go out the door and start walking.”

Anna swallowed audibly. So did Giorgio. Aimee ran down the rest of the stairs and brushed past them.

“Attesta!” Giorgio shouted. “I will do it.”

A moment later, they were speeding out the gates in the big Mercedes, the palazzo a blur on the horizon.

Aimee chose an airline at random.

Giorgio wanted to park the Mercedes so he could carry her suitcase inside but she told him to pull to the curb. Once he did, she got out of the car and ran into the terminal.

Soon, she knew, she’d be out of time.

Nicolo would come after her. It would put a dent in his pride if he let her run away.

Fate was cooperating. There was no one in line at the ticket counter. Yes, there was a flight to New York this morning. Yes, there was an available seat.

Thank goodness, Aimee still had her old credit card…But she didn’t have her passport.

“I am sorry, Ms. Black,” the clerk said politely, “but I cannot issue a ticket if you have no passport.”

“I have one,” Aimee said desperately, “but I can’t get at it. My husband—”

The clerk’s polite mask gave way to a look of empathy.

“I understand, but there’s nothing I can do. Are you American? Perhaps if you go to your embassy—”

“They won’t help me. My husband is—my husband is—”

“I am her husband,” an imperious voice growled.

Aimee spun around. Nicolo stood just behind her, his eyes black with tightly controlled anger.

“I am Principe Nicolo Antonius Barbieri,” he said. “And my wife is correct. Her embassy cannot help her.” His hand closed, hard, on Aimee’s elbow. “No one can help her,” he said coldly, “because she belongs to me.”

“Let go,” Aimee panted. “Let go, Nicolo, or—”

“Or what?” His lips drew back from his teeth. “Do you think making a scene will help you? I promise, it will not. Do you remember how Giorgio clicks his heels and salutes me?” His mouth twisted. “The police will do the same. This is my country, and I am a prince.”

Aimee stared at the cold, arrogant stranger who was her husband.

“I hate you,” she said in a low voice. “I despise you, Nicolo! Do you know that?”

He grabbed her suitcase, tightened his hold on her elbow and started walking. She had no choice but to follow.

He led her out of the terminal. His Ferrari was at the curb, the big Mercedes just ahead of it.

Giorgio sprang from the car, opened the rear door, took one look at his employer’s face and scrambled into his seat behind the wheel.

“Get in.”

“I will not get in! I’m leaving. There’s nothing you can do to stop—”

Nicolo snarled a word, picked her up and put her in the car. Then he climbed in beside her and banged a fist on the closed privacy partition. The Mercedes leaped away and merged into the traffic exiting the airport.

“Now,” he said, turning his hot, furious gaze on Aimee, “tell me what you think you are doing.”

“Tell Giorgio to turn this car around.” Aimee shot to the edge of her seat and pounded on the partition. “Giorgio? Take me back to the airport.”