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

‘‘Well?’’ he quietly prompted, clearly at the end of his patience.

He’d never forgive her for dumping him at the last minute.

He’d never ever forgive her family for humiliating him…

Nic closed her eyes, forced herself to block out everything but little Lilly’s delicate face. Lilly, like a butterfly, so small, so fragile, so painfully vulnerable.

Just thinking of Lilly trapped in La Croix made Nic’s temper flare. How could people…society…be so unjust? Girls should be raised without fear and intimidation. Girls should be protected.

She opened her eyes, met Malik’s dark gaze. ‘‘My only reservation is that I am to be married so far from those I love.’’ Lie, lie, lie. She wanted to be married in America only because the country was vast, Louisiana was clannish, and her mother’s network of old friends and distant relatives would definitely provide cover for Chantal and Lilly once they went into hiding. ‘‘I would feel much more comfortable if you’d be willing to consider my…thoughts…my request.’’

He stared at her for a long, heated moment, before inclining his head. ‘‘If it means so much to you, yes. I shall consider your thoughts, and think more on your request.’’

Nicolette felt a dizzying wave of relief. She could do this, she told herself, encouraged. She’d pull this off yet. ‘‘Thank you, Your Highness.’’

‘‘But of course. I want you happy. Our wedding is special. The day of the wedding will be a national holiday in Baraka. The ceremony shall be televised, so all our people can celebrate with us.’’

No pressure there. ‘‘Excellent.’’ Some of her relief faded. Standing up the sultan in front of hundreds of thousands of his people was not her idea of a good time. ‘‘What a fabulous idea.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ His silver gaze glinted. ‘‘Now let me show you to your suite. I’m sure you could use some time alone.’’

In her room, Nicolette fished out her own pocket organizer from the bottom of her suitcase and flipped quickly through her scribbled notes. Hotels, rental cars, bank numbers, phone numbers, maps of downtown Baton Rouge and vicinity. She’d already wired money to the Bank of Louisiana’s Baton Rouge branch, bought a used car, had it gassed and prepped with maps and an emergency road kit, and spoken to the priest at her mother’s childhood church. Everything was set. Everything would work. It was simply a matter of getting them there.

It seemed as though no time at all had passed before a knock on her door forced Nic to zip her notes back into the inner compartment of her suitcase. She ran her fingers through her hair and opening her door, discovered a cluster of women in the hall. Nicolette’s new staff had arrived.

For two hours the women chatted, introducing themselves, explaining how each would assist the princess. They all spoke excellent English.

The wedding planner was young and very efficient but there was little opportunity to discuss the wedding in detail. Nicolette’s assistant, Alea, was beautiful with dark hair and kind eyes and there were numerous other maids as well who fussed over the princess. Nicolette’s head spun with all the names and various duties. She’d never had this much help in her life.

At nine fifteen, Nic’s bedroom door opened again, and an attractive young woman, elegantly dressed in a vivid emerald-green gown with elaborate gold embroidery at the seams, entered Nic’s room.

The other women sitting with Nic immediately rose and bowed. ‘‘Welcome, my lady,’’ they all chorused, several falling into deep curtsies.

The young woman—close to Nicolette’s own age—approached Nic with a cool smile. ‘‘I’m sorry I’m late.’’ She stopped before Nic, and she took a moment to scrutinize Nicolette from head to toe. ‘‘I am Lady Fatima, cousin to the sultan, a member of the royal family. I’ve been asked by my cousin to help you adjust to our customs.’’

Fatima’s words were polite but Nic heard the aloof note in Lady Fatima’s voice. Lady Fatima did not intend for them to be friends. But Lady Fatima didn’t need to feel threatened. Nic had no intention of permanently staying. The sooner she and the Sultan headed to America, the sooner the charade could end.

The women finally left close to midnight, and Nic fell into bed exhausted.

There were too many people getting involved, she thought, curling on her side, too many people spelled trouble.

But you’re already in trouble, a little voice mocked her, and she bunched her hand in her silk coverlet, knowing that if she wasn’t very careful, she could soon be trapped in Atiq forever, married to the sultan, mother to his sons. And Grandfather Remi would have the last laugh of all.

Nic, married.

Nic, Queen of Baraka. Royal Babymaker.

Nic didn’t usually wake up in a bad mood, but her dreams had been so intense, so upsetting, that by the time she headed into her mammoth adjoining bathroom with the enormous white and sunken tiled tub, dread filled every muscle and pore.

She needed to talk to Chantal. She needed advice quickly. There’d never been a back up plan, and that was a mistake. Nic realized now that they should have discussed emergency measures, like other destination alternatives to America, and how to extricate Nic from the engagement without creating an international scandal.

Not waiting for the bath to completely fill, Nic sat in the tepid water, soaped up with the scented bath gel and quickly rinsed off before dressing. She usually thought fast on her feet but right now she had no ideas, no answers, no possible escape routes.

The Royal Star had returned to Melio. She’d traveled without a great deal of cash. Even if she wanted to run, how on earth would she get out of here?

Well, if you really had to run, you could always tell him the truth, the little voice chanted as Nic combed her long dark hair, pulling it back into a smooth coil at her nape.

But if you tell him the truth, Lilly remains in La Croix.

Not if he develops feelings for you…

It’s horrible to use a man like that.

Yet lots of men have developed feelings for you, and you’ve never worried overly much about hurting them before…

A knock sounded on her door. Relieved to escape the conflict of her conscience, Nic took the bobby pin from her mouth and tucked it into the coil of hair at her nape. ‘‘Come in.’’

Malik entered her room. ‘‘Am I interrupting anything?’’

She pulled another pin open with her teeth and plucked it into the coiled mass. ‘‘I’m just doing my hair.’’

He entered her room, closed her door behind him. ‘‘You do have beautiful hair.’’

The sincerity of the unexpected compliment made her flush. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘I’ve always loved hair that color. I was admiring the shade yesterday.’’

Nic didn’t know what to say. It was a bottle-brown, something Nic had washed in herself. ‘‘I’m flattered, Your Highness.’’

‘‘It’s odd,’’ he continued, ‘‘but I’ve never been attracted to blondes.’’

Nic’s hand shook, and the coiled hair, not properly anchored, slipped loose, delicate pins tumbling free. ‘‘You don’t like blondes?’’ Men loved blondes.

‘‘Not particularly.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘I don’t want to be stereotypical, but…’’

‘‘But what?’’

‘‘Well, in my experience, I’ve found most blondes to be…shallow. Self-absorbed. Less intellectual.’’

Nic blinked to chase away the veil of red before her eyes. In his experience. What kind of blondes had he met? ‘‘My sister, Nicolette, she’s a natural blonde, and she’s extremely intelligent.’’

‘‘Really?’’ He frowned skeptically.

‘‘Yes,’’ Nic answered firmly, outraged that he could hold such a ridiculous prejudice against women based on hair color. ‘‘Nic holds advanced degrees in mathematics and science.’’

‘‘Speaking of your sister,’’ he said, changing topics. ‘‘That’s why I’ve come. As we’re not married yet, I wouldn’t normally visit your room uninvited, but since your sister called, I thought it might be urgent.’’

‘‘Which sister?’’

‘‘I could have sworn she said Chantal.’’

‘‘Impossible.’’ Chantal must have made a mistake and said her own name.

‘‘Exactly.’’ His gaze met hers and held. ‘‘Chantal’s here.’’

‘‘Maybe it was Joelle. Sounds a bit like Chantal.’’

‘‘Maybe.’’

‘‘Or Nic,’’ she added, seeing a spark of a smile in his eyes, and the cool mocking smile put her teeth on edge. What was he thinking? What did he know?

‘‘Didn’t sound like Nicolette,’’ he answered, reaching into his pocket, pulling out the phone. ‘‘This sister sounded sophisticated. Refined. And from what I’ve heard, that’s not your sister Nic.’’

She tensed at his criticism. He didn’t even know Nicolette and yet he sounded as if he were the font of all wisdom. But he was holding the phone out to her, asking her if she wanted to take it. ‘‘Do you want to call?’’ he was asking. ‘‘I have the number saved.’’

So who would have called, Nic wondered? Her grandparents didn’t even know she was here—so obviously they hadn’t phoned. Joelle knew Nic was gone, but believed she’d headed off for a visit with Chantal in La Croix, leaving only Chantal to phone, but that wasn’t a call Nic wanted to make in front of King Nuri. ‘‘I can phone later.’’

His expression didn’t change. His arm remained extended, offering the slim phone. He was dressed casually today, khakis, crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up a couple times on his forearms. ‘‘It could be urgent. Just hit Redial.’’

Nic tried not to glare at him as she took the phone, moving past him to stand at the window overlooking a pretty interior courtyard. Pressing the redial button, Nic heard the phone ring and almost immediately was connected with Chantal.

‘‘Thank goodness it’s you,’’ Chantal said, wasting no time on preliminary greetings. ‘‘I’ve been worried sick.’’

‘‘No reason to worry. Everything’s fine.’’ Lie again.

‘‘So how is it going?’’

Nic knew she couldn’t tell Chantal the truth. Chantal was the typical first born, big sister. A worrier, overly responsible, Chantal was also a guilt-ridden perfectionist. The last thing she needed was one more reason to blame herself. ‘‘I’m fine. Honestly.’’

Chantal hesitated. ‘‘How…how is he?’’

Nic tried to close her eyes and blot out King Nuri’s presence, but he wasn’t easy to dismiss, and even with her back turned, Nicolette felt his proximity. The man radiated energy. ‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘Is he giving you any trouble?’’

‘‘No.’’ Nic glanced over her shoulder, caught Malik’s eyes. He’d been watching her with interest. As well as amusement. ‘‘How is Lilly?’’

Chantal let out a small breath. ‘‘We’re making plans. I’ve been in contact with mother’s high school friend, Andrea. She’s agreed to help us once we reach Baton Rouge.’’

‘‘Good.’’

There was a moment of silence on the line. ‘‘I appreciate what you’re doing,’’ Chantal said quietly. ‘‘I’m not sure it’s the right thing—I still think it’s awfully risky for you—’’

‘‘No regrets,’’ Nic interrupted. ‘‘No second thoughts, either. This is for Lilly. I love her dearly. You know that.’’

‘‘I do.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ Nic’s heart felt tight. There was so much at stake. Just hearing her sister’s voice made Nic realize all over again how much depended on her. ‘‘We’ll talk soon.’’

The call ended, Nic returned the phone to King Nuri. ‘‘Thank you. You’re right. The call was important.’’

‘‘I heard you mention your daughter. I trust she’s fine?’’

Nic saw Lilly’s wide blue eyes, already too troubled. Four-year-old children weren’t supposed to worry so much. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘When is she going to join you?’’

‘‘Soon.’’ Nic mustered a tight smile. ‘‘I hope.’’

He nodded, hesitated. ‘‘I don’t see you again until later this evening, and I imagine you’ve looked over today’s agenda. Did you have any questions?’’

His question suddenly reminded her of why she’d woken in such a lousy mood. He might exude raw sensuality, but he was nothing short of a dictator. ‘‘I’m not a child, Your Highness.’’

‘‘I didn’t think you were.’’

She felt her temper swell, her anger was fueled by completely contradictory emotions. She’d never been so attracted to anyone before, and yet he was entirely unsuitable for a relationship. ‘‘So why have you—without consulting me, or asking for any input—put me back into school? According to my schedule, I have classes from morning until afternoon, starting with a two-hour Arabic lesson in fifteen minutes.’’

‘‘I’ve done only what is necessary—’’

‘‘Forgive me, Your Highness,’’ she interrupted sharply, ‘‘but these are decisions I should be making for myself. Perhaps here men decide for the women, but in my country women have a say about what happens in their lives.’’

CHAPTER THREE

HIS cool silver gaze rested on her face, his eyes touching her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her eyes. ‘‘A man naturally wants what is best for his woman.’’

She felt a shiver race down her spine. His woman. But she wasn’t his woman. She had no intention of ever becoming his woman. ‘‘A woman finds it difficult to respect a man that doesn’t allow her to use her brain.’’

‘‘This isn’t a political exercise, Princess Thibaudet. I’m simply asking you to study our language and culture—’’

‘‘All day long.’’

His jaw tightened. ‘‘It’s not as if you’re actually in school. You’ll be studying with my cousin Fatima, who is not only a member of the royal family, and close to your age, but a true Barakan scholar. I expect that the two of you will become great, close friends.’’

Great, close friends? Nic flashed back to last night, and Fatima’s cool welcome. The Sultan was dreaming. ‘‘Yes, I’ve met Lady Fatima, and Your Highness, my frustration isn’t with the teacher, but the lessons themselves. I’m concerned that less than twenty-four hours after arriving I’ve already lost—’’ she broke off, biting back the word control.

She wasn’t upset because she was going to learn a new language. She was upset because she was quickly losing control…of the wedding, her environment, her independence itself. Nic had spent her entire life fighting to keep the upper hand and yet less than twenty-four hours after arriving she felt as if she’d become a possession instead of a woman.

Nic struggled to find a more diplomatic way to say what she was feeling. ‘‘I’m asking you, Your Highness, to give me more input into organizing my schedule. I’d find the lessons and activities less objectionable if I had a choice.’’

‘‘But what would you do differently? Everything I’ve chosen for you is good for you.’’

He didn’t get it. Because he was a man, and a powerful man, he didn’t understand what it was like to be told where to go, when to go, how to get there. ‘‘But that’s precisely my point, Your Highness. Women want to choose for themselves!’’

He sighed, glanced at his watch, and shook his head. ‘‘As interesting as this is, I’ve people waiting in my office, and I’m afraid I’ve spent all the time on this discussion that I intend to spend. I regret that you’re unhappy with my choices, but I expect you’ll enjoy the lessons once begun.’’

And that was it. He was done. He turned away, headed for the door and Nic watched his departing back in astonishment. He was serious. He was really done.

The fact that he’d walk out on her blew her mind. Her temper surged yet again. ‘‘I’m not going to the lessons,’’ she called out. ‘‘I’ll look my schedule over and see if I can’t adapt the activities to better suit my needs.’’

Ah, that caught his attention. She suppressed a smile of satisfaction as he stopped at the door, and slowly turned around. His silver gaze grew flinty, his expression implacable. ‘‘The lessons are set.’’

‘‘Nothing in life is set.’’ She lifted her chin, temper blazing, emotions high. ‘‘And I won’t be dictated to. If you wish a marriage with a modern princess, than you’d better expect a modern partnership. I didn’t travel this far to become a royal doormat.’’

His dark head cocked, his jaw rigid. ‘‘A doormat?’’ he repeated softly. ‘‘I find the description highly offensive. I have nothing but the utmost respect for women, and the women in my life are cherished and protected. And if you learning our language is so objectionable—’’

‘‘It’s not the language, Your Highness!’’ She was walking toward him, frustration and irritation coiled so tightly inside her she couldn’t keep still. ‘‘I’ve never minded learning your language, but I shouldn’t have to be immediately immersed in language coursework first thing on arrival. Your country is bilingual. Everyone in Baraka speaks French. And my country is also bilingual. We speak Spanish and French.’’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘But French is part of our colonial past while Arabic is the future.’’

She stopped in front of the sultan, arms folded just like him, mimicking his pose. ‘‘So why marry a European princess, Your Highness? There must be plenty of Arabic princesses if that is indeed, your future.’’

He didn’t answer her question but leaned toward her, brow furrowed, and she instinctively held her breath as his lips grazed her ear. ‘‘It’s not too late to put you on a plane and send you home.’’

She gritted her teeth, eyes narrowing. How typical. Met with conflict, he’d rather send her home than compromise. ‘‘Maybe you should. You’re not ready for the reality of marriage, Your Highness.’’

Suddenly his hand was against the back of her neck, his fingers curled against her warm sensitive skin. She shivered. He felt the shiver and his fingers tightened perceptibly. ‘‘You can not blame me entirely, Princess. You’ve changed. A month ago you were most eager for this union. Two weeks ago you expressed nothing but eagerness, willingness.’’

He’d drawn her close, so close that she was nearly held against his chest. She could feel his body’s warmth, his leashed energy, his innate strength. There was no escaping him this time. Not until he chose to let her go. ‘‘What has caused this change of heart, Chantal? You’re nothing but difficult today.’’

‘‘I’m not difficult. I’m merely honest.’’ He was manhandling her, dominating her, and his arrogance infuriated her. There was no reason to trap her like this against him, render her helpless with his body…his will. ‘‘Yet it appears I’m not allowed to have an opinion.’’

His fingers stroked the side of her neck, his thumb drawing small circles which she found maddening. She liked his touch. She hated his dominant strength. It was as if her body loved the pleasure, but her mind detested his control.

‘‘Of course you’re allowed to have an opinion,’’ he answered calmly. ‘‘But your opinions so far express only displeasure and discontent—’’

‘‘You can’t say that based on the ninety minutes we’ve spent together!’’

He forced her head back, ensuring that she saw his full displeasure. His jaw flexed. His silver gaze shone brittle. He was barely hanging onto his temper. ‘‘Do you ever stop and think before you speak, Princess?’’

‘‘And do you bully everyone into doing what you want, King Nuri? I understand you’re the sultan, but surely, others—your family, your subjects—are allowed a modicum of free speech?’’

‘‘You’ve tasted more than free speech,’’ he retorted, pressing a finger against her lips. ‘‘In fact, I’ve heard all I want to hear from you.’’

‘‘Well, I won’t be quiet!’’ she talked despite the finger shushing her, talked to push him away, talked to keep from falling apart. The tension between them was overwhelming and Nicolette had never been so afraid. He excited her. He terrified her. She could only imagine how wild, how explosive their lovemaking would be.

‘‘You won’t?’’

She swallowed convulsively, feeling prickly with heat, her nerves screaming in anticipation. The tension crackling between them was unlike anything she’d ever known before. But then, she’d never challenged a man as powerful as Malik Nuri before. ‘‘No.’’ She drew a quick, shallow breath, trying somehow to regain her footing again. She could hear Chantal in her head, hearing Chantal’s disapproval. Chantal would never, ever challenge a man like this. Chantal believed in tact, diplomacy, quiet strength.

Nic’s strength wasn’t even close to being quiet.

But she wasn’t here as Nicolette, rebel middle daughter. She was here as Chantal, and King Nuri had expected agreeable Chantal.

His head lowered, his lips brushed her cheek. ‘‘I can not have a disobedient wife.’’

His deep cultured voice penetrated through her, electrified the most inner part of her. Her belly clenched in a knot of pleasure and fear. She craved, physically craved, his voice, his strength, his power. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted his hands all over her.

You’re mad, she choked inwardly. You’ve lost your mind if you want to take King Nuri on this way.

But she did. She wanted to provoke him. Test him. See how far he’d let her go. She wondered where he’d draw the line and what he’d do to make her toe the line.

Power. Control. Submission. Domination. She was strong. Very strong. So strong that she’d never met a man who could match her strength—until today. ‘‘A husband shouldn’t require obedience. He should desire a spirit of cooperation, and mutual respect.’’

His lips hovered above her cheek. ‘‘But a woman can’t respect a man if he lets her walk all over him.’’

‘‘I don’t believe you’ve allowed me to walk anywhere near you, Your Highness.’’

He tipped her chin up and his silver gaze burned into her eyes, seeing the fire and rebellion she couldn’t possibly hide. ‘‘You refuse to capitulate.’’

His touch was making her head spin. ‘‘But why should I have to capitulate? If you’re serious about wanting a wife with an education and a sense of self-worth, then you’d welcome my thoughts.’’

‘‘I do welcome them. I just don’t expect my bride to challenge every request I make.’’

‘‘I’m not your bride yet, and you’re not making requests. You’re making demands. There’s a difference. We both know it.’’ She jerked her head back, put her hands to his chest and gave a firm push. There was no way she’d let him knuckle her under.

His gaze swept down, from her warm cheeks, to her lips and even lower to the full swell of her breasts. ‘‘And if I ask you to attend language classes?’’

The weight of his gaze on her breasts made them ache. It was as if he was touching her, caressing her, and her nipples peaked, hardening. ‘‘I’d consider your request.’’ Her voice had dropped, grown husky. He had to know what he was doing to her, had to know the sensations he was stirring within her.

His gaze slowly lifted again, traveling up her neck, over her full, soft mouth, past her flushed cheeks to her eyes. ‘‘Not everything between us needs to be a fight.’’

His inflection was nearly as husky as her own. She felt warmth creep through her, a seductive wash of awareness…and desire. ‘‘I’m not fighting now.’’

The corner of his mouth lifted in the briefest smile. ‘‘No. But I expect this is but a momentary reprieve.’’

Oh, that smile of his. It was dangerous. Mysterious. It was as if he knew all sorts of things about her that she didn’t even know. ‘‘You don’t like to fight?’’

He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘‘No.’’ His silver gaze warmed, the gray-green depths turning rich, molten. ‘‘There are too many other things I’d rather do with women, particularly if she happens to be my woman.’’

There. His woman again. More possession. And she didn’t want to be a possession.

‘‘Now let’s see how well this works,’’ he continued softly, a husky note of compulsion in his voice. ‘‘Princess Chantal, I’m asking you to please consider attending the language and culture classes that begin in—’’ he glanced at his watch ‘‘—fifteen minutes. It’s important to me that you familiarize yourself with our culture. Can you manage to squeeze the lessons into your busy schedule?’’

He really wasn’t giving her a choice, though, and she knew it. He was asking her, but he was fully expecting her to say yes. Damn him. Malik Roman Nuri was really hard to manage. ‘‘I’ll check my calendar,’’ she answered crisply. ‘‘But if my morning is open, I’ll do my best to make the first lesson.’’