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

He’d known she was Nicolette from the moment she arrived, and yet he’d gone along with her charade, curious to see how far she’d let this go. He’d heard she was tough—spirited—independent, and her fire intrigued him. As well as challenged him. She might be a player, but so was he. He’d play her game. And he’d beat her at her own game.

Watching her face now, he secretly hoped she would give him a good run for his money. Women had always fallen at his feet, swept away by his power and money. Women had always been…too easy. But Nic wasn’t easy. And he liked that.

The fact that she’d come to his country and try to play him…now that was daring. She was a born risk-taker. Good for her. Too many people played it safe throughout life.

‘‘Should we go try on that wedding gown now?’’ he asked, feeling almost guilty for enjoying himself so much. And yet it’d been a long time since he’d felt so enthusiastic, or optimistic, about anything.

He saw how the word ‘‘wedding gown’’ made Nicolette’s jaw clench. It was all he could do to keep his expression blank.

‘‘You’re going to accompany me to the fitting?’’

‘‘Why not?’’ he answered with a shrug.

The tip of her pink tongue appeared, briefly touched the edge of her teeth. ‘‘Is it customary?’’ But she didn’t give him chance to answer as she immediately continued. ‘‘Because somehow I can’t imagine it’s allowed here. According to your cousin Fatima, the men and women are still so segregated. Once girls hit puberty, women begin to lead separate lives…’’ Her voice drifted off. She tried again. ‘‘Perhaps I’ve misunderstood her, or perhaps I’ve misunderstood you.’’

‘‘No. You didn’t misunderstand.’’

She waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. She swallowed. ‘‘But aren’t you…I’d think you’d be…as sultan…’’ Her confusion showed in her eyes. ‘‘More traditional.’’

It was rather refreshing to see her struggle. Very little gave Princess Nicolette pause. She’d arrived here thinking she had the upper hand. She’d do this, and do that, and it would be just as she planned.

But nothing in life went just as one planned. And the game was on.

‘‘Alas,’’ he sighed, ‘‘I am not the most traditional sultan. I’ve traveled a great deal, lived abroad. I hope you are not disappointed.’’

He felt her gaze as they walked through the palace, down one mysterious corridor and then another. She was thinking, and she was struggling to come up with some definitive conclusions but so far she hadn’t.

She couldn’t.

She didn’t really know him.

He smiled on the inside. He liked her. He’d liked her for a long time, not that he knew her well, either. But he appreciated what he saw, admired her attitude. He knew she was the Ducasse princess who didn’t want to marry. He’d heard all about her escapades, the problems she’d created in Melio, the headaches she’d given her beloved grandparents. He’d heard, too, how she didn’t worry about what others thought—she loved her family—but she wasn’t going to give up herself just to please them, either.

Like her, he’d dated extensively. He’d never worried about marriage, had known he’d have to marry one day, after all, he was the eldest son of the powerful Sultan Baraka, and he’d assumed that his bride would be loving, loyal, dutiful, and he’d imagined a quiet woman from his own country. But after the attempt on his life, his priorities changed.

He needed more than a quiet, obedient bride. He needed a woman who could face the challenges of life with courage, intelligence and humor.

They’d reached the end of the hall, and Malik opened the door to a very modern salon. The salon was outfitted with low couches covered in bright orange and violet velvet fabrics, the pale yellow walls were sheeted in long mirrors, and in the middle of the room was a small curtained platform for wardrobe fittings.

An elegant woman entered the room, and she bowed to King Nuri, and then turned to Nicolette. ‘‘Your Highness,’’ she said, smiling. ‘‘It is an honor to meet you, and an even greater honor to dress you for your wedding. You must be quite excited.’’

Excited was the last word Nic would have used to describe her emotions at the moment. Dread, disgust, terror, anxiety, fear…those were the emotions she felt right now as she stepped up onto the platform.

‘‘Do you have any thoughts on the type of gown you’d like to wear?’’ The designer asked, summoning two assistants who helped begin with the measurements.

Nic felt King Nuri’s watchful presence, and she glanced up at the curtains hanging from the ceiling. She knew the curtains could be closed, offering greater privacy, but no one moved to shut them. ‘‘No. I don’t really spend time thinking about these things.’’

‘‘You’d never had any ideas about the gown? The color, the style, the fabric.’’

Nic shook her head. Once, four or five years ago, she and her sisters had spent the night before Chantal’s wedding to Prince Armand planning their futures and Nic and Joelle had sketched their wedding dresses and described the kind of wedding they’d each have. Nic had said she’d do a Sleeping Beauty wedding, all pink and coral and green, because she’d have to be Sleeping Beauty to get married—go to sleep, wake up with a kiss and get dragged to the altar fast before she knew what was happening.

Joelle and Chantal had laughed, of course, but now the idea of being dragged to the altar fast appeared incredibly real.

With the measurements taken, the designer summoned for fabric samples, and the assistants carried out bolt after bolt, displaying them first before the sultan and then draping them across Nicolette’s shoulder.

The fabrics were all costly—rich delicately woven silks with even more delicate threads of gold. The colors were exquisite, sheer pastel hues ranging from grass-green to young lemon, the pink of dawn to the coral plucked from the sea.

‘‘This is just the beginning,’’ the designer said. ‘‘Later many dedicated hands will embroider fantastic patterns, but first we must find the right silk for you.’’

Malik had been watching everything closely from his position on one pumpkin-hued sofa. He suddenly spoke to the designer in Arabic.

The designer listened attentively, bowed and turning to Nic, she smiled. ‘‘You are very fortunate, Your Highness, the sultan wishes you to have a gown made from each.’’

Nic wished everyone would stop telling her how fortunate she was. She did not feel fortunate. She felt trapped. And a gown of each color would only trap her more.

Turning, she glanced at King Nuri where he reclined on the plush sofa. His rust-colored shirt had fallen open at the collar, exposing the higher plane of his chest. He was all hard, honed muscle.

She tried not to imagine how lovely all that hard, honed muscle would be naked. She was already far too aware of him, far too attracted to him. The last thing she needed was proof of his sensuality…sexuality…virility. ‘‘I appreciate your generosity, Your Highness, but I do not need so many expensive gowns.’’

‘‘It gives me pleasure to dress you,’’ he answered lazily, a spark of possession in his eyes.

Nic swallowed, thinking she didn’t like the possessive light in his eyes, or the expense, and waste, of gowns she’d never wear. She wouldn’t be here long enough to wear even one of them. ‘‘I understand you are a generous man—’’

‘‘Proud, too.’’

The pitch of his voice made her stomach flip. He looked so relaxed, and yet she felt distinctly uneasy. Was she imagining the note of warning in his voice?

Shaken, Nic looked down, saw the latest bolt of fabric wrap her breast and hips, the silk a wispy blue like the blue of the sky after a hard cleansing rain. She liked the blue. It made her feel almost calm.

‘‘And one of the blue silk, too,’’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘‘That is my favorite so far.’’

The fitting ended soon after, concluding in silence. The designer bowed deeply to the sultan, thanking him profusely, and then excused herself leaving Nic and King Nuri alone.

Nic heard the great wooden door softly close behind the seamstress. She remained where she was on the dais, feeling strangely alone, and unusually foolish.

‘‘Which will be my wedding gown?’’ she asked, stepping off the platform and adjusting the band collar on her simple white linen overcoat and long slim skirt.

The sultan cocked his head. ‘‘Does it matter?’’

No. It didn’t matter. She’d only been making conversation, trying to fill the awkward silence. It wasn’t as if she’d ever wear the gown anyway. ‘‘You’re angry with me.’’

‘‘No. Not at all.’’ He extended a hand to her. ‘‘Come. Sit here with me so we might speak more comfortably.’’

She moved to sit on a sofa across from his but he shook his head. ‘‘Here.’’ He placed a hand on the pumpkin silk sofa where he reclined.

Gingerly she sat next to him. ‘‘Comfortable?’’ he asked.

She ignored the mockery underlying the question. ‘‘Yes.’’ Maybe he wasn’t angry, but there was something on his mind.

He adjusted one of the gorgeous gold tapestry pillows, placing it behind her back. ‘‘Better?’’

‘‘I wasn’t uncomfortable.’’

‘‘Yes, but one could always feel more peace…more pleasure.’’ He folded his arms behind his head, studied her face, her expression outwardly serene. ‘‘Did you enjoy the fitting?’’

‘‘I think I mentioned before that I’m not particularly fashion conscious.’’

‘‘But the newspapers and magazines are always proclaiming your strong sense of fashion. Aren’t you the clear favorite in the design world?’’

Chantal was, of course. Every designer loved to dress the very slender, and inherently elegant, Chantal Thibaudet, the beautiful widowed princess of La Croix. Chantal had been beloved as the eldest Ducasse daughter, but once married and widowed, the public embraced her even more.

Nic’s emotions ran riot. Chantal didn’t obsess about fashion. She’d always been stylish, even sophisticated. The family used to joke that even as a baby Chantal would tug on her bonnet until it had a jaunty angle.

But Nic found the public’s love affair with beautiful, fashionable princesses burdensome. She’d rather spend a day figuring math problems than go clothes-shopping. ‘‘One of the drawbacks of being in the public eye, is the constant pressure to maintain one’s image. I’ve often felt there is too much value placed on appearances, Your Highness. I personally dislike having to worry about clothes and fashion when there is so much happening in the world that is of real importance.’’

‘‘You always surprise me.’’ The sultan smiled, and it was a genuine smile, one that reached his eyes and made the grooves along his mouth deepen. The warmth of the smile was almost unbearably appealing.

Nic’s mouth dried. He looked so comfortable in himself, so physical and sexual at the same time. ‘‘That’s good?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ His smile faded but the warmth remained in his eyes. He exuded intelligence, as well as compassion. He wore his mantle of authority well. ‘‘Do you know why I selected you, Princess?’’

It was hard to concentrate with him looking at her like that. She wanted to focus and yet she felt so many emotions that she had no business feeling. ‘‘I know you wanted better Mediterranean port access.’’

‘‘But there are numerous Mediterranean ports, and numerous single European princesses interested in marriage.’’ He hesitated, speaking each word with care. ‘‘I chose you, because I respect you. I believe you are like me. You understand the responsibilities of being a princess of the royal Ducasse family, and your loyalty, along with your sense of duty, make you an ideal mate.’’

Nic couldn’t breathe. She felt the air settle in her chest. He had it all wrong. She lacked Chantal’s sense of duty. Her loyalty was to her own family. That’s why she was here. Not for Melio, but for Chantal and Lilly. ‘‘You don’t worry I’d run away…fail to fulfill my obligations here?’’

‘‘You didn’t in La Croix.’’

No, Chantal hadn’t run away. Not in La Croix, not in Melio, not ever. But that’s because good Chantal, first born Chantal, had been a pleaser since birth. All she’d ever wanted was to do the ‘‘right’’ thing, and yet the thing that had driven Nic crazy was the thought, how did Chantal even know what was right?

Nic had never known what was right. She’d had to search for meaning, ask questions, test, push at each and every limitation. In her world, there’d been no ‘‘right,’’ there had only been truth, and truth wasn’t something one accepted blindly.

Truth required testing. Truth required proof.

‘‘Marriages that are not love matches can work. They do work.’’ His voice was deep, his tone thoughtful. ‘‘My parents had an arranged marriage which lasted fifty-some years.’’

‘‘They are the lucky ones.’’

‘‘Your grandparents’ marriage was arranged. They are still together today, and you can not tell me they do not care deeply for each other.’’

Grandfather Remi cherished Grandmama Astrid. They were a true couple. They’d been together so long now, functioned so well together, it was as if they couldn’t exist without the other. Ever since Grandmama had had her stroke, Grandfather’s health had declined. Until Grandmama’s stroke, Grandfather had been robust. Vigorous. Not anymore.

‘‘They do love each other,’’ Nic said, finding her voice. ‘‘They’re wonderful people, too.’’

She swallowed, reminding herself that she couldn’t answer just as Nicolette. She had to be Chantal. She had to think like Chantal. ‘‘Which is why I accepted Prince Armand’s proposal,’’ she added huskily. ‘‘If my grandparents thought Armand and I would be a good match, then…’’

She shrugged, but she didn’t feel indifferent. Armand was the lowest sort of a man, the kind that would abuse a woman verbally, physically, a man who didn’t feel strong unless he completely dominated—subjugated—the woman who loved him, depended on him.

‘‘You implied last night that Lilly wasn’t happy,’’ Malik said. ‘‘Tell me about her life in La Croix.’’

Nic hesitated, uncertain yet again how much she could, or should say. ‘‘It’s not a positive place to raise a child.’’

‘‘Yet her grandparents are there, and from what I’ve heard, her father’s family apparently dotes on her.’’

‘‘Her father’s family is obsessively controlling.’’

‘‘Obsessively?’’

‘‘Complete control freaks,’’ Nic retorted, unable to hide her bitterness.

His eyebrows flattened. ‘‘An awfully American expression,’’ he said thoughtfully. ‘‘Not one I would have ever thought you’d use. Your sister, Nicolette, now she’d say something like that…’’

Could he be anymore condescending? Suddenly Nic was fighting mad. She’d love a good fight, would welcome an opportunity to spar. It was so unfair that women were trapped in bad marriages, unable to take action because mothers with young children couldn’t afford to work, pay for food and shelter along with childcare. The economics alone kept women down. ‘‘Yes, she would, and she does,’’ Nic answered hotly. ‘‘Unfortunately I’ve picked up some of Nic’s expressions. We’ve just spent a week together in Melio.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ Malik’s eyes narrowed slightly at the corners. ‘‘That explains it.’’ He paused. ‘‘Because I’ve wondered. You haven’t seemed quite yourself since you arrived. I’d always heard you, Chantal, described as gentle, controlled, emotionally contained.’’

‘‘And I’m not?’’

His mouth pursed. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘But…but why? I think I’m exactly the same.’’

He shook his head. ‘‘Even your mannerisms are different. You move your body more. Your gestures are sharper, less…refined.’’

Ouch. Chantal the Persian cat, Nic the tiger, Joelle the lovable tabby.

‘‘Perhaps the years at La Croix changed you.’’ His gaze met hers, held. ‘‘Made you stronger. Fiercer. Angrier.’’

‘‘Angrier?’’

‘‘You are angry.’’

No use even debating that one. She was angry. Deeply angry that Chantal would suffer such horrible treatment by the Thibaudets, angry that Chantal and Lilly were trapped, angry that there was no one who could help rescue them, angry that the world didn’t seem to care very much when women were hurt, when women were verbally, emotionally, mentally abused.

Abuse should never be tolerated. Ever. Ever.

Children shouldn’t be hurt. Women shouldn’t be squashed, smashed, pushed around. Just because women were smaller boned than men, lighter in weight, softer skinned didn’t mean that it was okay to make them stepping stones or punching bags.

Someone had to do something.

Someone had to care enough to say, enough is enough. I’ve had enough. No more.

‘‘You’re right. I am upset,’’ Nic said after a long moment. ‘‘Very upset.’’ She bit her bottom lip, felt the softness of the skin in her mouth and regretted that she hadn’t been there for Chantal when Armand had bullied her, intimidated her. Nic was heartsick that she hadn’t known Chantal’s misery until too late, until the emotional scars were hidden but not at all forgotten.

She drew a slow breath to calm herself, trying to buy herself time. ‘‘I think it’s easy for people to ignore those in need. I think it’s easy for people to close their door, shutter their window, pretend that it’s enough to take care of yourself, enough to have a full stomach and comfortable bed.’’

Malik’s gaze grew intense. ‘‘What happened in La Croix?’’

She pictured Chantal’s gaunt frame, sad eyes, the abuse Nic only recently knew Chantal had suffered. ‘‘What didn’t happen?’’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘‘I TAKE it your husband wasn’t exactly…a good husband?’’ Malik’s deep voice echoed concern.

Nic pressed her nails into her palm. Surely it was okay to tell the sultan this. After all, if she wanted him to help rescue Lilly, she needed his sympathy, and the only way he’d sympathize with Lilly’s plight was if he knew the truth. But the truth was hard to say, painful and shameful, and Nic knew Chantal would be furious with her for speaking it aloud.

Like many abused women, part of Chantal believed that somehow she had brought the pain on herself, that she must have done something wrong along the way, that Armand’s cruelty wouldn’t have happened if Chantal had been a better wife, woman, mother.

Malik’s long tanned fingers tapped the rim of his glass. ‘‘Did he hit you?’’

Nic held her breath. The air felt hot and sharp inside her lungs. She could hear Chantal in her head, no no no, could see her sister’s beautiful eyes pleading, don’t say a thing, don’t tell him what horrible things I went through. He’ll think less of me, he’ll think I’m bad, that I’m somehow…dirty.

Nic’s eyes filled with tears. Damn Armand to hell. He had no right laying a hand on Chantal. No right putting his fist to her face. ‘‘Yes.’’

Malik’s eyes searched Nic’s. ‘‘Did he ever touch your daughter?’’

‘‘He was rough.’’ Nic swallowed. She didn’t like talking about her sister’s marriage, didn’t like airing such horrid secrets. It was shameful, she thought, understanding for the first time why Chantal couldn’t talk about the abuse, why Chantal only wanted to move on. Forget.

‘‘Were Armand’s parents aware of the problem?’’

Her shoulders shifted. ‘‘They couldn’t have been oblivious. Armand lost his temper in front of them frequently.’’

‘‘But they did nothing?’’

‘‘No. But his mother did come to me once. She’d intimated that early in her marriage Armand’s father had behaved the same, but that it was our duty to forgive them, that they are good men. They just don’t manage their anger well.’’

‘‘She wanted you to put up with it since she had to.’’

Nic nodded. She’d told Chantal the very same thing. ‘‘They say abuse often perpetuates itself.’’ She felt a gnawing restlessness. She needed to get up, move, escape this dreadful dark emotion filling her. Chantal had been through enough. Chantal would be saved. Chantal would have a chance at freedom. Independence. There was no reason for Chantal to ever have to agree to a loveless, arranged marriage again.

‘‘I want Lilly out.’’ Nic swallowed, forced herself to focus. ‘‘I want her away from La Croix.’’ She drew a slow breath. ‘‘You’re the only one who could possibly get her out.’’

‘‘Her grandparents won’t let her leave the country?’’

Nic’s gaze was direct. ‘‘They can be persuaded.’’

Malik said nothing.

Nic felt the lump in her throat grow but it only made her more determined. Lilly would get out. Chantal would be free. ‘‘There are all kinds of persuasion,’’ she added, glancing at her hands, then up into his face. ‘‘I believe her grandparents might accept…compensation…if you will.’’

‘‘Buy them off?’’

‘‘It could be possible.’’

‘‘Those are desperate measures.’’

Nic smiled but her eyes felt hard, her skin felt cold. ‘‘And I am a desperate woman.’’

He stood, held out an arm. ‘‘Come, let’s walk. It’s feeling a little close in here.’’

Nic rose, slipped her trembling hands into the pockets of her slim linen overcoat, wondering if she’d alienated Malik with her honesty. Then so be it, she immediately answered. If he couldn’t handle truth, if he couldn’t deal with reality, then he wasn’t the right one for her. Correction, the right one to help Chantal.

Because she was here for Chantal. This wasn’t about her…this wasn’t for her…Or was it?

Nic sucked in a breath, wondering what was happening. She was feeling a kinship with King Nuri, a new sense of belonging. But Baraka wasn’t home, and wouldn’t be home. Her life was in sunny Melio on the other side of the Mediterranean with its scent of cypress and oranges, shades of olive-green and dark green, the rocky cliffs and the sun drenched pastures.

Malik’s arm rested lightly around her as they walked from the palace to one of the exterior courtyards, massive even by European standards, and the warmth of his body against hers flooded her with hot sensation.

She wanted so much more than just an arm on her waist. She longed to feel him all the way against her, wanted the pressure of his chest, his hips, his legs. She drew a deep breath, exhaled even more slowly. The desire to be part of him was growing stronger day by day. This was a dangerous place, she thought, and somehow the splash of fountains and the sun glinting off cobalt-blue tiles while the scent of jasmine hung in the air only added to the ache inside her.

She glanced up into his face, her gaze taking in his hard, regal features, his dark hair combed back from his broad brow. He looked pensive. Preoccupied.

‘‘Did I shock you?’’ she asked, wishing she didn’t care one way or the other what he thought, but she did care, she cared very much. The fact was she liked King Malik Roman Nuri more than she’d liked any man in oh—years.

He was hard, sexy, sensual. Male. She knew by the way he touched things, he understood fingers, skin, pressure, sensation. She knew by the way he moved that he was aware of himself, aware of others. Even now with his arm lightly around her waist she felt his strength and energy ripple through her, hot, sensitive, alive.

‘‘No.’’

‘‘You’ve gone quiet.’’

His palm pressed against the dip in her spine, warm, strong. Nicolette had never felt so safe. She’d never felt in danger before, but this was different. Malik Roman Nuri was a man who cared about women. Protected women. He was a man who’d always do what was right for the women in his family.

‘‘You’ve given me much to think on.’’ The pressure of his hand eased. ‘‘I realize that you come here with unique needs of your own.’’

Was that a polite way of saying she had an agenda? She wasn’t going to deny it. Arranged marriages were about strengthening one’s position, forming an alliance, creating stability.

‘‘We both want something,’’ she answered frankly. ‘‘The question is, what do you really want from me? You already know what I want from you.’’

‘‘Do I?’’ He shot her a curious glance. ‘‘I know you want freedom for Lilly, and stability and security for your country, but what about you? You don’t strike me as a woman who has no dreams for herself.’’