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“You’re a good man, Nico,” she whispered softly. “A wonderful man—”
“Signora?”
Aimee turned around. “Yes, Anna?”
“I have finished packing your suitcase.”
“Thank you.” Ridiculous, really. She was perfectly capable of packing her own things but Nicolo insisted Anna do it. The further she went in her pregnancy, the more convinced he was that she needed to be treated with extra care.
“I put in all the things you asked for. The cotton tops, the linen trousers. But I wonder…Will you and the Principe be dining out? Shall I pack some long gowns? An evening purse? Shoes?”
It was an excellent question and only Nicolo knew the answer.
“I don’t know,” Aimee said with a little laugh. “Thank you for thinking of it. I’ll phone my husband and ask.”
The nearest telephone was in Nicolo’s study. She’d been in the room often, sitting curled in a corner of the sofa, reading, while he did e-mail. Now, for the first time, she went behind her husband’s oversize antique desk, sat in his chair, reached for the phone and dialed his office.
Nicolo picked up after a few rings.
“Cara? Are you all right?”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“Good. Good. For a moment, I thought—”
“Nico,” she said gently, “really, I’m okay. I just wanted to ask if—”
“I’m on the phone with Paris. May I put you on hold for a few minutes?”
She assured him that he could and settled back to wait.
Soft music played over the telephone line and Aimee hummed along, dah-dah-dahing just a little off-key. Still humming, she plucked a pencil from the desk, pulled a scrap of paper toward her, began to draw stick-figure babies and mommies and daddies….
And stopped.
What was that?
A fax. A fax on her grandfather’s letterhead, dated two days after she had married Nicolo.
My dear Prince Barbieri. Once again, let me repeat what I told you when you telephoned. I am delighted by the news of your marriage to my granddaughter…
Well, she knew what this would be about. It was James’s response to Nicolo telling him he would not be purchasing the bank.
I am equally delighted by your reminder of my commitment to sell you Stafford-Coleridge-Black.
The pencil dropped to the desk from Aimee’s suddenly nerveless fingers.
I also wish to assure you that I am moving forward with the paperwork necessary to proceed with the sale. It will take a few weeks but I assure you, Principe, everything will go forward as promised.
Aimee’s heart gave a wild lurch.
Nicolo had never told her grandfather he would not buy SCB? No. It had to be a mistake….
It wasn’t.
The proof was just under the fax, contained in a legal document pages and pages long.
The last page was the one that mattered. It stated that Barbieri International was now the owner of Stafford-Coleridge-Black.
