Nicolo swung his head toward the old man. “What?”
“I said, have you met my granddaughter before, Your Highness?”
Nicolo, a man who had glibly talked his way into the presence of captains of industry and heads of nations during his determined rise to the top, opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Black’s granddaughter? This—this creature who would sleep with a stranger and then disappear into the night was his granddaughter?
Yes. Of course. A spoiled rich brat, accustomed to playing a seductive nymph by night and a sweet virgin by day. He’d seen lots of women like this. The rich seemed to specialize in breeding them.
“Grandfather.” Her voice shook but Nicolo had to give her credit for recovering fast. “I—I didn’t realize you were busy. I’ll come back later. This afternoon. Or tomorrow. Or—”
“Prince Barbieri? Please, sit down. You, too, Aimee. This meeting very much concerns you.”
Her stricken gaze swept from the old man to Nicolo.
Nicolo narrowed his eyes. What the hell was going on here? The temptation to tell Black he would not talk business in front of the woman was strong, but he suspected Black would not back down. He wanted her here, but why?
Nicolo had no choice but to learn why.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said, his tone silken, “Miss…Is it Miss Black?”
She nodded. “That’s—that’s correct.”
“Ah. In that case, please, join us.”
The look she gave him told him she’d regained her composure.
“My grandfather’s already asked me to stay. I don’t need your invitation.”
“Aimee!”
“No. That’s all right, Signore Black.” Nicolo drew his lips back in a cold smile. “Your granddaughter is right. These are your offices, not mine.”
“But not for long,” the old man said.
Aimee looked at him. “What does that mean?”
“Sit down, Aimee, and you’ll find out.”
Nicolo pulled out the chair beside his. “An excellent suggestion, Miss Black.” His voice hardened. “Sit down.”
He saw her throat move as she swallowed. Then she raised her chin, ignored him and took the seat to the right of her grandfather. Nicolo sat down, too, and Black cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said briskly, “you haven’t answered my question. Do you know each other?”
“We—we might have met before,” Aimee said.
“Have we?” Nicolo flashed another icy smile. “Perhaps your memory is better than mine. After all, if we’d met, we’d know each other’s names, wouldn’t we?”
Color painted crimson patches on her cheeks but when she spoke, her tone was cool.
“I really don’t see that it matters.” She turned to her grandfather. “Who is this man? And why is he here?”
Black folded his gnarled hands on the highly polished wood before him.
“Aimee, this is Nicolo Barbieri. Prince Nicolo Barbieri, of Rome.”
Her expression showed how little impressed she was by his title.