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“So,” he said briskly, as if nothing had happened, “we must discuss what to do next. What is right.”
Aimee pulled her robe together. She was shaken; he could see it, but he could see that she wasn’t going to admit it.
“What is right,” she said, “is for you to get out of my life.”
“I intend to as soon as we settle this.”
“It’s settled. This is my problem and I’ll decide what’s right.”
Nicolo nodded, but was that correct? Was the choice solely hers? What did a man do at a time like this? He’d never had to make the decision but he knew the obvious answers.
The trouble was that the obvious answers didn’t apply when you were the man involved in actually making the decision.
And what a hell of a decision this was.
He had made Aimee Black pregnant. Forget the nonsense about other men. He had always trusted his gut instinct in business; he trusted it now. He would own up to his responsibility, financially.
That was his decision.
What she did after that was hers.
Nicolo reached into his pocket, took out his checkbook and a gold pen.
“I don’t want your money!”
He looked up. Aimee was watching him, her eyes almost feverish in her pale face.
“You said you will do whatever is right. And so shall I.” He uncapped the pen. “Five hundred thousand. Will that be—”
“Five hundred thousand dollars?”
His eyebrows rose. “Is it not enough?”
Aimee flew at him and slapped the checkbook and pen from his hand. “Get out,” she growled. “Get out, get out, get—”
“Damn it,” Nicolo snarled, grabbing her wrists before she could slug him, “are you insane?”
“Do you think your money can change what’s happened? That it can buy back my dignity?” Tears of anger rose in her eyes to glitter like jewels on her lashes. “I don’t want your money, Nicolo. I don’t want anything from you except your promise that I’ll never see your face again!”
Her tears fell on his hand
like the rain that had fallen on them both the day they’d met.
He suspected he would never forget that meeting, or Aimee.
Her defiance. Her passion. Her determination.
An inadvertent smile lifted the corner of his mouth. If ever a man wanted sons—even daughters—Aimee would be the woman to bear them. Such fire. Such courage…
His breath caught.
Suddenly he knew what was right. How had it taken him this long to see it?
He let go of Aimee’s hands. Then he picked up his checkbook, retrieved his pen, put them both back in his pocket. A roll of paper towels hung over the kitchen sink. He tore off half a dozen sheets and held them out to her.
She shoved them away.
“I just said, I don’t want anything from you!”
