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Aimee’s hand flew to her mouth.
God. Oh dear God! Her husband had lied to her. Lied, even as he’d held her in his arms and vowed there would never be any lies between them.
The bank was his. That was why he’d married her after all. For the bank. And telling her about it was to be her special birthday present.
He couldn’t keep it a secret forever. Mention of the sale was bound to turn up in magazines and newspapers. Nicolo had to break the news to her before that happened.
That was the reason he was taking her away.
Her husband would spend the weekend making love to her. And when she was completely dazzled by all the hours in his arms, he’d tell her what he’d done. That he’d bought the bank. He’d make it sound as if he’d just done it, and that he’d done it solely to reconcile her with her grandfather.
He’d say that he’d done it for her. And that would be the biggest lie of all.
Everything, everything he’d done, was for himself. It had all been in preparation for this moment. His supposed concern for her. His affection for her. His love for her and, all right, he’d never used the word but she’d begun believing that he loved her, that he wanted her for herself, not for the bank….
“Cara?”
The bank. The horrible bank. The bank that had always been more important than she was, first to James, now to Nicolo—
“Cara? Are you there?”
Aimee’s throat was tight. Not with sorrow. With anger. With rage. Bone-deep, hot-blooded rage.
“I’m here, Prince Barbieri,” she said in a low voice. “But not for long.”
“What? Aimee? Aimee—”
She dropped the phone. Ran up the stairs to the bedroom. To her husband’s bedroom, a room she’d willingly shared because she’d believed in him, in the life she’d thought they were building together.
Her suitcase was on the bed.
She upended it, threw open her dressing room doors, yanked clothes from their hangers, clothes she’d brought with her from New York; tossed them into the suitcase and, damn it, she was blinking back tears. Tears, and for what? She was angry, not hurting.
Oh God, not hurting!
A sob broke from her throat. Quickly she forced the suitcase shut, grabbed it and ran from the room.
She was halfway down the stairs when Anna looked up and saw her.
“Principessa!” Anna’s voice was filled with horror. “Principessa. What are you doing? You cannot carry that by yourself.”
“I am carrying it,” Aimee said. “Just watch me.”
“But Principessa… Giorgio? Giorgio, venuto qui! Quickly, Giorgio!”
Giorgio, looking bewildered, hurried toward Anna from the kitchen wing.
“Giorgio.” Aimee took a breath. “Good. I wish to go to the airport.”
The man stared at her.
“The airport, Giorgio. I want you to take me there.”
He looked at her blankly.
“L’aeroporto, capite? Damn it, I know you understand!”
“Principessa.” Anna was wringing her hands in distress. “Per favore, I cannot let you do this. The principe—”
