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“Aimee.” Nicolo took a deep breath. “I asked you a question, cara. I asked if you love me.”
“Nicolo—”
“But that was wrong. I should have spoken first. I should have said—I should have told you that I adore you, bellissima mia. That I cannot imagine living without you.” She shook her head, turned it away and he cupped her chin, gently but firmly forced her to look at him. “You are my heart, Aimee. You are my life.”
“Nicolo. I saw the papers. I saw—”
The Mercedes had stopped a long time ago. Nicolo looked out, saw the broad steps that led into the palazzo. Giorgio, clever man, was nowhere in sight but the front door of the palazzo stood open.
Nicolo carried his wife from the car, up the steps and into the house. She told him to put her down but he kissed her to silence, carried her into his study and gently set her on her feet, though he wasn’t taking any chances.
He kept his arm around her while he rifled through the papers on his desk, found the one he wanted and held it out to her.
“What is that?”
“It is the gift I intended to give you this weekend, the gift I hoped would take the place of the words I was too much a coward to say, that I love you, I need you, that I cannot live without you.”
Aimee looked up at him, her eyes still awash in tears.
“Read it,” he said gently. “Per favore, sweetheart, I beg you. Read it.”
Slowly Aimee took the document from him and began to read. Halfway through, she blinked. Looked up and shook her head.
“Nicolo. I don’t understand. This says—”
“It says that the damnable bank is yours, amante.”
“But it can’t be. My grandfather—”
“Sold it to me. And as soon as it was mine, I told my attorneys to change the name of the owner from Barbieri International to Aimee Black Barbieri.” His voice softened. “It should always have been yours, cara. And now, it is.”
“You mean, you bought it just so you—”
“Si. It is my gift to you, a gift I give you with all the love in my heart, now and forever. You must believe me. I love you, love you, love you—”
And then Aimee was in his arms, her mouth on his, and the papers transferring SCB from husband to wife were on the floor where they belonged, because nothing was or would ever be as important as the love between Prince Nicolo Antonius Barbieri and his princess….
At least, nothing as important until the birth of a little prince a few months later.
His name was Nicolo James Antonius Barbieri and, yes, he was named for his father and his grandfather because it was amazing how news of his only granddaughter’s pregnancy had mellowed a stern, cold old man.
And when little Nicolo—Nickie, to his adoring parents—was two weeks old, he attended the first big event of his life.
The marriage, the real marriage of his mother and father because, his papa said, a beautiful woman deserved a beautiful wedding.
Aimee carried a bouquet of white roses and pink orchids, from the palazzo’s greenhouse. Her gown was made of cream antique lace and had a flowing train.
Nicolo wore a black dinner suit with a white rosebud in his lapel.
The baby wore white, too, a little silk suit handmade by Anna, who wept when she was asked to be the baby’s godmother.
The ceremony was held in the conservatory of the palazzo, lit by hundreds of white candles, scented by thousands of white roses while a string quartet played softly in the background.
It was a small wedding, attended only by James Black, a couple of Aimee’s friends from her college days and, of course, the groom’s two confirmed bachelor pals, a Spaniard named Lucas and a Greek named Damian. They slapped Nicolo’s back, kissed his bride, said how happy they were for them both and agreed, in low voices over glasses of excellent vino, that marriage was okay for Nicolo but it would never be right for them.
Although, Damian admitted, Nicolo certainly did seem happy.
Just look at how he was smiling. At how he kissed his son good-night when Anna said it was time for her to put the baby to bed. At how he danced with his wife, and how he swept her into his arms midway through the evening, kissed her, then carried her through the conservatory and into the palazzo.
