The Princess Brides: The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess

Nic listened to the sultan’s voice in her head, lingering over his syllables. He had the most unusual voice. Deep. Husky. Again her pulse lurched, her heart finding it hard to settle into a steady rhythm. ‘‘The trip was uneventful,’’ she answered, knowing she’d better find her footing fast. If she couldn’t control her response to him, how could she possibly control him?

‘‘Hamadullah,’’ King Nuri answered, the corner of his mouth curved in a small private smile.

She forced her attention away from the Sultan’s lovely mouth. Remember his stream of mistresses, she told herself. Remember his reputation. ‘‘What does hamadullah mean?’’

‘‘It means, ‘Thanks be to God’.’’

Nic mulled over the King’s response.

King Nuri spoke again, and the translator hastened to explain. ‘‘It is customary here to express gratitude to God for our blessings.’’

Nic shot King Nuri a quick glance. His lips curved fractionally. Hollows appeared beneath his strong cheekbones. ‘‘And my arrival is a blessing?’’

‘‘Without a doubt.’’ The translator answered, speaking for the sultan.

She shot King Nuri yet another wary glance. She’d thought she was prepared for this trip, thought her plan was bullet proof, but now that she was here, and he was here, and they were together…this wasn’t at all how she’d imagined it. She’d pictured him rakish. Handsome but a little thick in the jowls, a little paunchy at the waist. She’d told herself he’d flirt outrageously, come on too strong, and probably wear flashy clothes, but that wasn’t the man facing her now.

The sultan took a seat close to her on one of the low couches. When he reached for his coffee, his long arm nearly brushed her knee and she shivered inwardly, tensing all over again.

Had she hoped he’d touch her?

Had she feared he’d touch her?

The sultan was speaking Arabic again, and Nic glanced from King Nuri to the translator and back. The King’s profile was beautiful. He was beautiful. Definitively male.

‘‘His Highness expresses his satisfaction that you are here. He says that he and his people have waited a very long time for this day.’’

Nic’s fingers tightened around her small espresso cup, trying to keep her calm. The King was practically reclining, and his eyes, a cool silvery green-gray, rested on her as if he found her absolutely fascinating.

Thank God Chantal wasn’t here. King Nuri would have seduced her, married her, and abandoned her in no time. If he was a man who lived off his conquests, then Chantal, so broken by marriage and life, wouldn’t be enough of a conquest.

‘‘I look forward to getting to know His Highness,’’ Nic said in her most careful diction. ‘‘And to discussing my ideas for the wedding.’’

‘‘Your ideas?’’ The interpreter asked.

Nic couldn’t hide her impatience. ‘‘Yes. Of course. It’s my wedding. I have ideas about my wedding.’’

No one spoke for a moment, and King Nuri’s dark head tipped, his black lashes dropped as he studied her. His cool gaze examined her face, taking in each feature, the curve of bone, the very shape and texture of her lips.

The translator expressed her thoughts to King Nuri.

Then the sultan spoke, and the translator turned to her. ‘‘The king understands that you have just arrived, and everything feels quite new and alien, but he also asks you to trust him with the wedding details so they will comply with his beliefs and our customs.’’

‘‘Please tell His Highness that I’d like to trust him with the wedding details, but a wedding is quite a personal event, and I insist I be part of planning it.’’

‘‘The king thanks you for your concerns, and assures you that you need not worry, or be troubled. As the wedding details are set, there is nothing for you to do in the next two weeks but relax and familiarize yourself with our life here in Baraka.’’

Nothing to do in the next two weeks but relax? Nic puzzled over the king’s answer. ‘‘What’s happening in two weeks?’’

The translator bowed his head. ‘‘The wedding, Your Highness.’’

The wedding already planned. The ceremony here. In two weeks. It couldn’t be. Surely this was a language problem, an issue with the translation. ‘‘I’m afraid we’re losing something here. Are you telling me that the wedding date—and all the detail—has already been set?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Nicolette touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. She’d been in Baraka, King Malik Nuri’s North African kingdom, less than two hours and already things were wildly out of control. What had happened to her plan? What about the quiet, private ceremony she’d dreamed up in America? ‘‘How can it be set?’’

The robed translator bowed his head politely. ‘‘His Highness has chosen a date blessed by the religious and cultural calendar.’’

Nicolette glanced past the stout translator to King Nuri reclining on the sofa. This was going to be far more difficult than she’d anticipated. King Nuri was the kind of man she’d assiduously avoided—smart, suave, sophisticated—and far too much in control. ‘‘But the king hasn’t consulted my calendar,’’ she said firmly, turning toward the sultan, meeting his gaze directly to convey her displeasure. ‘‘He can’t set a wedding date without my input.’’

The translator nodded again, his expression grave, and still unfailingly polite. ‘‘It is customary for the king to consult with his spiritual advisors.’’

‘‘The king is very religious then?’’

The translator paused, appeared momentarily at a loss for words before recovering. ‘‘The king is the king. The ruler of Baraka—’’

What nonsense was this? ‘‘And I am Princess Chantal, of the royal Ducasse family.’’ Her temper was getting the best of her. She hated double-speak, especially hated royal double-speak. This is one reason she’d always dated commoners. Playboys, her sister’s voice echoed in her head. ‘‘Perhaps you’d care to remind your king that nothing is set until I say it’s set.’’

The translator hesitated. He didn’t want to translate this.

Nicolette’s jaw hardened. ‘‘Tell him. Please.’’

‘‘Your Highness—’’ the translator protested.

She shifted impatiently, set her cup on the low wood table. ‘‘Perhaps it was a mistake coming to Baraka. I’d assumed King Malik Nuri was educated. Civilized—’’

‘‘Western?’’ the king concluded, languidly rising from his sofa to again dominate the royal chamber.

Nic’s jaw dropped even as her stomach flipped.

So he spoke English. But of course he spoke English. She’d discovered on the Internet that he’d gone to Oxford for heaven’s sake. Yet he’d allowed all introductions, all awkward conversation, to be made via the translator. He’d had their first meeting conducted like an interview.

‘‘Why did we have a translator?’’ she demanded, head tilting, scarf sliding back, revealing her long dark hair.

He didn’t look a bit apologetic. ‘‘I thought it might make you more comfortable.’’

Wrong. It was to make him more comfortable. A passive display of power. Nic scraped her teeth together. Think like Chantal, she reminded herself. Be Chantal.

But Chantal’s become a doormat.

And yet it’s Chantal he wants, not you.

The sultan was waiting for her to speak. Her eyes flashed fire even as she struggled to retain her flimsy smile, nodding her head the way she’d seen Chantal nod graciously so many times on official state business. ‘‘How considerate,’’ she said from between clenched teeth, rising as well. ‘‘I really ought to…thank you.’’

King Nuri’s lips curved faintly. ‘‘My pleasure.’’ He lifted his hand in a small imperial gesture and the translator discreetly exited the room.

They were both standing, far too close for Nic’s comfort, and the sultan studied her fierce expression for a long moment before knotting his hands behind his back and slowly circling her.

It was an examination. A study before a purchase.

Like a camel at an open-air market, she thought uneasily, as he circled a second time, his hawklike gaze missing nothing.

‘‘Do I meet your approval, King Nuri?’’ She choked, her sarcasm lost as her voice broke. This was not going to be a two-week vacation. She was scared. Not for Chantal, but for herself. King Nuri had a plan, and as the wild beating of her heart reminded her, his plan was swiftly annihilating her own.

CHAPTER TWO

THE king continued his examination, coming round full circle a second time before stopping in front of her, just inches away.

Nic held her breath, fighting for poise, trying not to blink or flinch but keep all responses hidden even though he did something crazy to her senses. Her head swam and her pulse quickened and right now she found herself fascinated by a dozen little things like the line of his jaw, the shadow of his beard, the deep hollow at his throat—

‘‘You’re taller than I expected,’’ he said, breaking the taut silence.

She’d inherited her father’s height, as well as his blond hair, and her height had been a problem for a lot of men, ‘‘So are you.’’

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘‘Your coloring is a little off, too.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘But then I suppose people always look different on television.’’

‘‘You are disappointed.’’

One of his flat black eyebrows lifted. ‘‘Did I say that?’’

Nic’s temper flared yet again, and she didn’t understand it. Normally men didn’t trouble her. Men didn’t upset her. She was usually so adept at handling them. She understood the way they thought, the things they wanted, how best to soothe their fragile, ruffled egos. But the sultan didn’t appear fragile, or egotistical, and so far, she hadn’t a clue how to deal with him.

Malik calmly met Nicolette’s furious blue gaze.

The princess had cheekbones and an attitude, he thought, smiling faintly. He didn’t know why it made him smile. The attitude he’d expected—she was one of the beautiful Ducasse sisters after all—but the cheekbones intrigued him. In the princess the cheekbones were sculptural, architectural. Something one wanted to touch, trace, caress.

She’d only just arrived and yet he wanted to take her face in his hands and stroke the sensuous curve of cheekbone that stretched from her hairline to just above her full mouth.

But then, she didn’t just have cheekbones. She had lips, too. Lovely, full lips and wide winged eyebrows that reminded him of two birds flying free.

Where was the restrained regal face of Chantal? This wasn’t the face of a gentle princess. The face before him had an edge of sensuality, and fierceness. He had no doubt that this woman could be strong, very strong, and he’d be a fool to let her long soft curls and soft full lips tell him otherwise. He knew from his own mother that the most delicate beauties could hide a tiger’s heart.

‘‘Did you bring no one with you?’’ he asked, breaking the tension. ‘‘No secretary or valet? No one to handle your social calendar?’’

Nic shrugged. ‘‘I didn’t think it necessary, Your Highness. I have cleared my calendar, made myself completely available to you.’’

‘‘How thoughtful.’’

‘‘I try,’’ she said demurely, bowing her head, missing Malik’s speculative expression.

She was up to something, he thought, looking at her bent head, her dark brown hair shiny, silky. Her hair was long and she wore it pulled in a low, loose ponytail. The style flattered her high cheekbones but somehow did little to soften her strong jaw. She had a firm jaw and chin for a woman. She was a woman accustomed to getting her way.

‘‘But of course you need help,’’ he said after a moment, knowing why she’d traveled alone, and understanding it had little to do with the Ducasse family’s strained finances. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford help. He guessed she wanted to be incognito. She didn’t want any familiar staff assisting her.

The princess, he thought, was playing a game.

‘‘Since you weren’t able to bring anyone from home, I’m happy to provide staff for you,’’ he offered sympathetically. ‘‘I have a few people in mind, and all have undergone rigorous training as well as a thorough screening for security.’’

The deepness, the richness of his voice still sent little shock waves through her. Nic felt the tremors on the inside, wondered how any man’s voice could be so husky. ‘‘I don’t really need a staff, Your Highness.’’

He brushed aside her protest. ‘‘You have a very busy schedule, Princess. You have many functions, and many activities planned. It is vital you have help organizing your calendar, as well as your wardrobe.’’

She blushed. She’d never been serious about fashion, and the few smart pieces she had were gifts from various French and Italian designers. ‘‘I brought very little in the way of wardrobe.’’ Her polished smile hid her inner turmoil. He was not going to be easy to negotiate with. ‘‘I thought this was just a preliminary visit. Get acquainted, set the date—’’

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, looking alarmingly Western. ‘‘But of course the date is set. We discussed this—’’

‘‘No, Your Highness, we never discussed this. You might have suggested a short engagement, but no date was ever set.’’ She loved that she could be firm. No one had ever been able to bully her. ‘‘I would have remembered.’’

He gestured casually, and shrugged. ‘‘Regardless, I think two weeks is sufficient time, considering the fact that we both are anxious to move forward with our lives. One of the first staff members you’ll meet is your wedding planner—’’

‘‘Two week engagement?’’ she interrupted, torn between laughter and indignation. Two week engagement for a princess? ‘‘It is impossible to prepare for a wedding in fourteen days.’’

‘‘It’s two weeks from Saturday which makes it eighteen days.’’

The issue wasn’t fourteen days or eighteen days. The issue was not getting married…or at least, not getting married his way. If he wanted a wedding, she’d give him a wedding, she just wasn’t about to be a bride, trapped in Baraka. ‘‘I have thoughts on the wedding, Your Highness. I’ve made some preliminary arrangements of my own.’’

‘‘You have?’’

‘‘Yes. As my mother was American, I thought we’d fly to the States for the actual wedding.’’ She saw his incredulous expression and hurried on. ‘‘I’d hoped to marry in my mother’s parish church, just outside Baton Rouge, Louisiana.’’

His jaw tightened. ‘‘I’ve never even been to Louisiana. Have you?’’

‘‘No, which is why I want to go. I’d like my mother’s family to be able to attend—’’

‘‘They can attend the wedding here.’’

‘‘They’re—’’ she swallowed hard, ‘‘—poor, Your Highness. Most have never been outside their county, much less on an airplane to a foreign country.’’

‘‘So we’ll send my jet. Problem solved.’’ The Sultan walked to a bureau hugging a far wall, retrieved something from the top drawer and returned to her side. ‘‘Your schedule,’’ he continued, handing her an appointment calendar. ‘‘As you can see, you’ll be quite busy helping plan and prepare for the wedding here. Some things you’ll do on your own. Many things we’ll do together—’’

‘‘King Nuri,’’ she interrupted, fingers burning from the brief touch of their hands, ‘‘forgive me for being obtuse, but I don’t understand why we can’t at least discuss my ideas for the wedding.’’

He lifted his head, met her gaze, his cool silver gaze still. ‘‘But of course we can discuss your ideas,’’ he said after a moment. ‘‘I think its essential to incorporate as many of your family traditions into our ceremony here. This is exactly what I wish you to tell your wedding planner. You’ll be meeting with her later today—’’

‘‘Today?’’

‘‘Tonight.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘But to ensure you’re not overwhelmed, your assistant, Alea, and the wedding planner will discuss your agenda, make sure you’re comfortable with your various duties, as well as answer any question you might have with your schedule. I think you’ll find both women most helpful.’’

She suppressed a wave of panic. A wedding planner. A personal assistant. How many handlers did she need? ‘‘I’m quite capable of handling the preparations myself.’’

‘‘I realize you have a great deal of experience at planning receptions and the sort, but you’re to be my wife, Queen of Baraka. It wouldn’t do to have you inundated with fatiguing details. I’ve brought in the most competent professionals available. I know you’ll like your staff—’’

‘‘But I don’t need a staff!’’

‘‘You do.’’ He smiled almost benevolently. ‘‘It’ll help you manage the stress.’’

‘‘I don’t feel any stress.’’

He smiled even more benevolently. ‘‘You will.’’

Actually, she had lied. She was feeling unbelievable stress at the moment. If she couldn’t get out of Baraka…if she couldn’t get her sister and Lilly to the States…if the wedding went forward without an escape route…

To hide her worry, Nic opened the bound leather calendar and skimmed the pages, noting the various names and dates written in. Meet personal assistant, first Arabic lesson, first fitting for wedding gown, selection of wedding ring, second Arabic lesson, first engagement party, culture lesson, third Arabic lesson, city tour with King Nuri, fourth Arabic lesson. And on and on all the way until the wedding.

Eighteen days of activities. Eighteen endless days of pretending to be somebody she wasn’t. Eighteen days of acting as if she were about to become King Nuri’s queen. ‘‘I have something scheduled every day.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’

It boggled her mind. He’d thought it all out. He was training her for the wedding. Language lessons, beauty lessons, public appearances, private activities with her betrothed. It was a whirlwind of activity to ensure a smooth wedding and transition into married life. ‘‘King Nuri—’’

‘‘Malik,’’ he gently corrected.

‘‘Malik,’’ she amended, wondering where to even start with her concerns. ‘‘Is this all necessary?’’

‘‘You’re to be Queen.’’

‘‘Yes, but some of this can happen after the wedding. The language lessons…the cooking classes…’’

‘‘It is better to take care of as much as possible now, before the wedding.’’ His tone allowed for no argument. ‘‘I expect you’ll be carrying my child soon after the wedding, and I understand some women do not feel up to much activity in their first trimester. My desire is to simplify your life so that after the wedding you are free to concentrate on the family.’’

This was definitely not part of the plan.

The plan was to rescue Lilly via America—not get stuck here in Baraka with a wedding ring on her finger and a sultan’s baby in her womb. ‘‘You want to try for children immediately?’’ Nic prayed she didn’t sound as horrified as she felt. Nic loved kids—other people’s kids. She wasn’t the nesting sort. Felt no intense maternal urges. Had never been one to want to hold the babies when friends came by the palace with their latest.

‘‘But surely you want more children?’’

More, that’s right. He saw her as a mother already. She had one daughter, what was oh, five or six or seven more?

‘‘Yes, of course, but we’re still strangers….’’

‘‘We won’t be in a few weeks time.’’ He gestured to the calendar she held limply in her hand. ‘‘If you’ll check your schedule you’ll see we spend a significant amount of time together every day. Some days we’ll be dining alone. Some days we’ll be entertained. Other days we’ll be shopping for necessities like a marriage bed.’’

Marriage bed. A fate worse than death.

Nic felt the blood drain from her face. She didn’t want a marriage bed. She wasn’t going to share any bed with Malik Roman Nuri, especially no bed that had ‘‘husband and wife’’ hung over it.

Making love was one thing. Getting married for the rest of your life was another. Unfortunately, King Nuri had them on a fast track to the ceremony, and right now, he was providing no loopholes.

Wasn’t this just what Grandfather Remi had predicted? He’d said for years that one day Nic was going to meet the man who was more than her match.

‘‘Not all men are going to roll over and play dead just because you snap your fingers,’’ Grandfather had said. ‘‘There are men who can be shaped, directed, and then there are men who do the shaping.’’

Malik watched her face, seeing the wariness in the princess’ blue eyes. He’d never seen a less eager bride in his life. But then, he understood some of her apprehensions. When he realized he’d have to marry, he’d had plenty of his own.

He was marrying out of necessity. The issue of succession had become more pressing since the assassination attempt last year. His younger brother, Kalen, wasn’t about to leave London, having renounced all ties to Baraka and his royal family. Malik had sisters with young sons, as well as numerous male cousins, but none had remained in Baraka, all choosing Western culture over their own.

That left the issue of succession to him. He needed heirs. Boy or girl, it didn’t matter. He could rewrite law, change the rules. The key was having a direct descendant. And he’d chosen the Princess Ducasse to bear him that descendant. ‘‘I don’t want you to worry,’’ he added soothingly. ‘‘I shall be a loyal, monogamous husband dedicated to fulfilling my responsibility as husband and mate.’’

Nic’s head spun, the words husband and mate swimming through her tortured brain. Mate…mate…mate. ‘‘Most royals have separate bed chambers,’’ she said at length, fingers knotting around the calendar. ‘‘Is that not the custom here?’’

‘‘My parents always shared their bed.’’

‘‘Ah.’’

‘‘Yours did not?’’ he swiftly rebutted.

She was losing focus. King Nuri was too smart, too fast, too sharp. He was taking their discussion places she really didn’t want to go. ‘‘My parents had a love marriage.’’ Her parents’ marriage had been scandalous. Surely he would have heard of it even here.

Her parents had married against the wishes of her father’s parents and it’d been shocking at the time, the golden boy, Prince Julien marrying the trashy American pop star. Everyone said the marriage wouldn’t last the year. It lasted ten, and they were still together, still happy together when they died in the car accident on the coastal road near St. Tropez.

Nic glanced at the calendar in her hand, the edge of the small appointment book pressed to her palm. ‘‘Apparently I meet my staff in an hour and a half.’’

‘‘After you freshen up. Tea and sandwiches will be served to you in your room. You’ll even have time for a short nap.’’

Suddenly her temper snapped and she turned the little leather book around, flashing the pages. ‘‘Really? Are you certain? I don’t see it in my calendar.’’

King Nuri didn’t even glance down at the book. He simply stood there, considering her. After a moment he said, ‘‘If you do not want this marriage, Princess Chantal, say so.’’

The quiet authority in his voice echoed in the elegant salon.

Ashamed that she’d so completely blown her cool, Nic slowly closed the leather book, drawing it against her chest. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

He waited until she looked up from the intricate pattern of the crimson carpet at their feet. ‘‘I do not hold a gun to your head, Princess. This isn’t obligatory. If you are dissatisfied with me as a groom, speak now. This is the time to break off the plans, not one week before the ceremony, not one day before the ceremony. The wedding is a fortnight away. We have not yet publicly celebrated. If you have reservations, tell me. I will not judge you, and I promise I will not be angry or cruel.’’

His words streamed in and out her ears, but the only thing she heard was the phrase, if you have reservations…

She only had reservations. Nothing about this was right. Nothing they were discussing was going to come to pass. She was a hypocrite. She was standing here, lying to him, intentionally deceiving him.

But how could she tell him the truth? If she told him who she really was, and why she was in Baraka, the engagement would be off, his assistance would end, and all efforts to free Lilly and Chantal would be for naught. No, she couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t stop what she’d started until they were in America, Chantal and Lilly secreted away and Nic was boarding the first plane home.