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“Ten o’clock,” he said over his shoulder. “And be prompt. I don’t have time to waste.”
“You—you—”
Blindly she snatched a glass from the counter and flung it. It shattered against the wall an inch from his head but he didn’t turn around. If he had—if he had, he thought grimly as he yanked the door open and went into the hall, God only knew what he’d have done.
There was a limit to how much of a woman’s anger a man had to take.
Halfway down the stairs, he took out his cell phone and called his attorney.
“This is Nicolo Barbieri. I wish to be married tomorrow,” he said brusquely, aware and not giving a damn that this was exactly the kind of arrogance Aimee had accused him of. “The woman’s name is Aimee Stafford Coleridge Black.” He listened for a moment, then made an impatient sound. “Rules and regulations are your concern, signore, not mine. Find a way around them, make the necessary arrangements and send a report, the paperwork, whatever is necessary, to me at my hotel. No, not as soon as you can. Tonight.”
Nicolo snapped his phone shut and stepped into the street. It was raining again. Dio, what was with this combination? Rain, and Aimee Black. It was as if the skies were trying to tell him something. He had no coat, no umbrella and from what he could see, there wasn’t a subway station in the vicinity. No bus stops, either, and as always when it rained in Manhattan, the taxis seemed to have vanished.
He was at least forty blocks from his hotel.
He began walking. The exercise would do him good. Maybe he could work off some of his anger.
Aimee wasn’t the only one who was furious.
He was, too.
At her. At himself. At how easily she could make him lose his grip on logic and self-control, the very qualities that had helped him build what she so disparagingly referred to as his kingdom.
He knew men who lived on the largesse of those impressed by a useless title.
Not Nicolo.
He had worked hard for all he had, though Aimee made it clear she didn’t think so. She didn’t like him. Didn’t respect him.
Why in hell was he going to marry her?
To gain Stafford-Coleridge-Black? Ridiculous. He wanted it, yes, but not enough to tie himself to a woman he didn’t love.
To give her unborn child a name? He wasn’t even sure the child was his. How had he forgotten that?
And even if it was, he didn’t need to marry Aimee to accept the responsibilities of paternity. He could even make it a point to be part of the child’s life.
Well, as much as he could.
If he’d been calmer, he’d have seen all this right away. But Aimee had forced a confrontation. Her anger had fueled his and he’d let her wrest control of the situation from him.
She was good at that.
The only time he’d been in command was the night he’d made love to her. She had been his. Moaning at his touch. Sighing at his kisses. Trembling under his caresses.
Nicolo cursed.
It had been nothing more than sex, as she’d so coldly pointed out. It was just that the passage of time had made it seem more exciting than it had actually been.
And even if it had been extraordinary, why would he want to tie himself to her? To any woman, but especially to this one, who had the disposition of a tigress?
That was fine in bed but out of it a man wanted a sweet-tempered, obedient woman. He knew dozens like that, every one beautiful and sexy and a thousand times easier to handle.
Which brought him back to reality and the knowledge that he couldn’t come up with a single, rational reason to go through with this wedding, and what a hell of a relief that was.
Nicolo slowed his steps. The rain had stopped. The sun was out. Taxis prowled the streets again. He hailed one, got inside and told the driver the name of his hotel.
He would go to Aimee’s apartment at ten tomorrow morning because he had said that was what he would do, but when he arrived, he’d tell her he’d changed his mind, that he didn’t want to marry her.
