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“Aimee. Mia cara…”
The sound of her weeping was killing him. Nicolo cursed softly, swept his wife into his arms and held her close, his mouth against her temple.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered, “Aimee, il mio tresoro, I beg you, don’t cry.”
She was pregnant, ill and exhausted. And all he’d thought about was himself.
Slowly he gathered her to him. Rocked her against him. Pressed light kisses into her hair.
Little by little, her weeping stopped.
“Good girl,” he said softly.
Nicolo stepped out of the bathroom and carried her to the bed. He sat down, his back against the silk pillows, his wife in his arms, his cheek pressed to the top of her head.
“Forgive me, amante,” he whispered. “You were very brave today and I have repaid that bravery with terror.”
Aimee drew in a staggered breath. Nicolo reached to the night table, took a handful of tissues from a box and brought them to her nose.
“Blow,” he said softly.
She did. The sound made him smile.
“Such a big sound for such a delicate female,” he said.
“I’m not delicate.”
He smiled again. Her voice was small but still, she couldn’t let his throwaway remark pass without argument. The look of a tigress and the heart of one, as well.
“More tissues?”
Aimee shook her head.
“You sure? I’m getting good at this. Paper towels, tissues…who knows? Someday, I might even work up to a handkerchief.”
Did her lips curve in a smile? He wanted to believe they had.
“Aimee.” He tilted her face to his. This time, she let him do it. “Cara, I am sorry.”
Nothing. Well, what had he expected? She hated him.
“It is something I do, this—this thing of making quick decisions, of not asking advice.”
Not true. He made decisions that seemed quick but only after he’d done his homework. He didn’t ask advice often but when he did, he respected the answers he received.
He was not a man given to impulse, especially in his private life. He’d seen too many men with money and power make spur-of-the-moment choices about women, and end up paying for it for the rest of their lives, financially and emotionally.
To give in to impulse was dangerous. A sure road to disaster. Emotion had no part in decision-making…
Except when it came to Aimee. To wanting her. Needing her. Desiring her, in his arms, his bed, his life…
Nicolo frowned.
Aimee was exhausted, but she wasn’t the only one. So was he. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be having such strange thoughts.
Carefully he eased her from his arms, onto the bed beside him, then rose to his feet.
“Sleep here tonight,” he said carefully. “We can discuss our room arrangements tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll ring for Anna. She’ll help you undress and get to bed.”
