The Italian Prince's Pregnant Bride. Sandra Marton

to favor him tonight. The woman who’d made a fool of him was here.

      Now, he could even the score.

      He shouldered his way through the crowd, eyes locked to his quarry. She was oblivious to him. Good, he thought grimly. He wanted to reach her before she had time to think.

      But halfway there, she suddenly stopped dancing. Her partner said something; she didn’t answer. Instead she moved out of his arms and stood like a doe at the edge of a clearing, sensing the presence of a hungry predator.

      Later, Nicolo would wonder if it weren’t the whole world that had gone still and waited, waited, waited.

      A minute, an eternity, swept by. Then the blonde raised her head and looked directly at him.

      He let a tight smile curve his mouth. Whatever beat its wings within him must have been in that smile, because the color drained from her face.

      She took a step back.

      He thought, again, of the doe.

      Run, he thought.

      And, just as if she’d read his mind, the woman with the violet eyes swung away from him and fled.

      Nicolo didn’t hesitate. He went after her.