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

The splash of the fountain soothed Nic’s nerves. She listened to the gurgling water and it sounded cool, refreshing. She felt more at peace than she had in days. ‘‘It would be enough for me to know that my family is happy, healthy, and safe.’’ And Nic realized that it was true. Maybe she didn’t have her mother’s talent and desire for fame, but she had her mother’s courage. She wasn’t afraid to risk all to ensure that those around her would be protected.

Nic knew she was tough. She’d always been strong. She didn’t need approval. She wanted to stand on her own two feet. ‘‘And equality,’’ she said after a moment. ‘‘Equality for women. Everywhere.’’

Then remembering where she was, standing in what had to be one of the most luxurious courtyards in the world, Nic realized she was speaking not just to Malik, but to a sultan, a king of a country that had once been part of the powerful Ottoman Empire, in a country where men outnumbered women in higher education ten to one.

Perhaps she’d said too much, been too honest. Nic glanced up at Malik again, tensing inwardly, waiting for his reprimand.

Instead he nodded, his expression sober. ‘‘I agree.’’

Another night of restless sleep. Another morning where Nicolette did not want to get up. The more Nic liked Malik, the more difficult her charade became.

But Alea wasn’t about to let Nicolette spend the day in bed. ‘‘Princess,’’ Alea said, tugging on the covers Nicolette held over her head. ‘‘You must get up. You’re going to be late.’’

‘‘It’s just a language lesson.’’

‘‘But Lady Fatima will be waiting.’’

Let her wait.

‘‘And I’ve Italian espresso,’’ Alea encouraged in her cheerful singsong. ‘‘You love Italian espresso.’’

True, Nic loved her coffee. She could drink coffee all day. ‘‘What else do I have on my schedule?’’ Nic asked, her voice muffled from beneath the covers.

Alea hesitated. Nicolette knew what that meant, too. It meant that Nic had another exhausting day, lessons, appointments, luncheons—all accompanied by Fatima.

‘‘You have the state dinner tonight, and the King will be taking you, of course.’’ Alea was trying her best to be encouraging. ‘‘And the first of your new gowns are ready. You’ll be able to wear the dress tonight when King Nuri introduces you to his aides and advisors.’’

Nicolette slowly lowered the covers. As much as she wanted to stay in bed and avoid the lessons and day’s appointments, she knew she couldn’t. She also wanted to see Malik later. Seeing him had somehow become the highlight of her day.

Several hours later, after the language lesson ended, Fatima took Nicolette on a tour of the palace, pointing out unusual details like pre-Roman bronzes unearthed at various sites in Baraka, a beautiful bronze of a young boy dating back to the start of the imperial era, gold coins that had been minted during the Almohad dynasty when Baraka was part of the territory that included Morocco, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria and part of Spain.

For a little while Nicolette forgot the tension existing between her and Fatima. Nic enjoyed the tour, finding the description of ancient treasures and artifacts riveting. She’d always loved history, was passionate about early civilizations and had once fancied herself becoming an explorer.

But in the end, after university ended, she’d never used her degrees—mathematics, history or otherwise. Instead she’d become a professional princess. For whatever that was worth.

At one point during the tour, Fatima opened a set of pale gold wood shutters, and the sun poured in. Looking out, Nicolette saw the cloudless blue sky, the far away peaks of the Atlas mountains and the not so distant date and palm trees. For a moment Nicolette felt swept back in time, sucked back one hundred, three hundred, a thousand years. Here, nothing would change quickly. Here, certain elements were constant—the burnished sun, the torrid desert, the tribal conflicts, the unwavering faith of the people.

King Malik Roman Nuri was part of these elements. He might have French ancestry, a Western education, but he was as steady and deep as the sky over the Sahara.

Maybe Chantal would like it here. Maybe Chantal would be drawn to Malik just as she, Nic, was drawn to the sultan.

Maybe she’d made a mistake telling Chantal not to come, that it’d be disastrous to accept the King’s marriage proposal, because truthfully, there was great beauty here. Even the ordinary felt exotic, luxurious, mysterious. Time moved more slowly. No one was hurried, no one moved too quickly, spoke too quickly, no one seemed too busy to converse or smile—well, except for Fatima, that is.

Standing at the window, Nic tried to imagine Chantal and Lilly in Atiq, and somehow the exotic beauty overshadowed the two of them.

In her heart of hearts, Nic knew that Chantal would disappear here. Chantal would say all the proper things and agree and try to be pleasing, proper, the wife of a king, but trying hard to please another would just diminish Chantal further.

Chantal needed a life away from nobility. Service. Duty. Chantal needed to learn how to be selfish.

Nic’s thoughts haunted her as they finished the tour of the palace rooms. They’d virtually viewed the entire elaborate sprawl of villas, suites and chambers. There were buildings for everything, rooms reserved for the royal family and then the formal rooms for entertaining and even the old wings were spacious, coolly elegant, steeped with a gracious mystique.

Heading back to Nic’s suite in the palace, they crossed paths with Malik walking with two of his advisors.

Malik greeted her formally, using the polite Arabic greeting, kissed her on each cheek and then briefly introduced his aides.

Nicolette responded politely, murmuring words of greeting, although she couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said surprised by the flood of warmth coursing through her.

She didn’t know why the fleeting touch of his mouth to her skin should make her lose track of her thoughts, and yet suddenly she wasn’t sure what she was doing here, or why they were all together. Uneasily she glanced up into Malik’s face, and his expression was the same as it’d been when he’d briefly kissed her—cordial, considerate, attentive.

And something more.

Possession?

Nic gave herself a quick mental shake. Not possession. He didn’t own her. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t going to stay. Yet thinking of leaving, and leaving him, made her ache more than a little. He was tapping some emotion she usually kept buried deep inside, and this emotion had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with life. And possibly love.

He was speaking to her now, asking a question. ‘‘How has your day been?’’

‘‘Good. Thank you.’’ Nic struggled to find adequate words. ‘‘I’m overwhelmed by the history here, as well as the beauty. The palace is truly exquisite.’’

He smiled at her, creases fanning from his eyes. ‘‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.’’

She liked the way he smiled at her. It was a small smile, barely discernible, but she recognized it and knew it was for her.

Possession.

The word whispered through her head, nudging her, worrying her, reminding her of what was at stake.

But even as the warning voice whispered in her head, something peculiar was happening in her heart. She didn’t feel like Chantal, the betrothed. She felt like Nicolette, the betrothed. She actually felt possessive of Malik.

But that couldn’t be. She wasn’t here for a relationship. She couldn’t form any bonds, no attachments whatsoever. If she wanted to fall in love, let her fall in love with the country, the history, the culture.

She forced a light note into her voice. ‘‘I hope I’ll have a chance to see more of the palace at a later date. It’s truly wonderful. Everything has been designed with perfection in mind.’’

‘‘Perhaps I’ll have time later this week to complete the tour,’’ Malik answered, shadows forming beneath his strong cheekbones. ‘‘The palace is a thousand years old. Countless artisans have devoted their lives to embellishing the palace’s natural beauty.’’ He then nodded at the others, indicating that Fatima and his advisors were to continue on.

Malik waited until the others had disappeared before continuing. Some of his formality eased. ‘‘You could be comfortable here then?’’

‘‘How could I not be? You’ve thought of every comfort imaginable.’’

His eyes warmed, the silver glints brightening. ‘‘And I have quite an imagination.’’

Nic knew he wasn’t just speaking of creature comforts now, and again she felt as if she’d stumbled into another world, one existing just for King Nuri and her. Their conversations had become increasingly private, their references more personal, their innuendos more blatant.

‘‘I’m sure you have a good imagination,’’ Nic agreed with mock seriousness. ‘‘Most men think they’ve a good imagination.’’

‘‘You doubt my imagination?’’

‘‘I’m certain you are imaginative…for a man—’’

‘‘Double standards?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

He shook his head. ‘‘You’re forcing me to respond to your challenge.’’

She tried to keep a straight face. ‘‘I’m not challenging you, Your Highness, I’m simply stating a fact.’’

‘‘A fact?’’

‘‘Yes. Most men think they know what women want, and women need—’’

‘‘Oh dear, another problematic declaration.’’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘I had no idea you were so chauvinistic.’’

‘‘I’m not.’’

‘‘Indeed, you are.’’ He held up a hand, his gesture imperial. ‘‘But unlike you, I do not endlessly engage in debate. Words accomplish nothing. I, personally, prefer action.’’

Her breath felt trapped inside her lungs. She could barely nod. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Good.’’ And moving forward, he clasped her face in his hands and tilted her face up to his.

The way his fingers splayed across her jawbone, the slow caress of his thumb beneath her lower lip, the shrewd expression in his eyes sent a shiver through her. Expectation. Desire. He was going to kiss her.

Then his head descended and he did kiss her—slowly, curiously, as if he’d wondered for quite a long time what this kiss would feel like, as if the kiss was crucial to some little part of the universe.

Her mouth softened beneath the pressure of his, her lips parting ever so slightly at the tingling pressure. Malik smelled of cedar and cardamom, sweet, spicy. His lips were cool and firm and she felt helplessly fascinated by the slow sensual questing of his lips against hers. He wasn’t directing, commanding, demanding. He was simply touching her, letting her experience…him.

And it was unbelievable. He—like the kiss—was warm, sensual, fragrant, her body responded by softening, sending sharp sparkly darts through her belly, to her breasts, and between her thighs. She hadn’t felt longing like this in ages. She actually clenched her knees, surprised by the waves of tension and sensation, pleasure and expectation.

Malik trailed one hand down her cheek, his fingers cupping her ear, skimming her cheek and she opened her mouth in a silent gasp. He was doing everything right, too right.

Heart hammering, she broke away, took a quick, unsteady step backwards. ‘‘Not bad.’’ Her voice came out breathless, high. ‘‘For a start.’’

His expression mocked her. Heat glowed in his eyes, along with a measure of confidence. ‘‘You want more.’’

‘‘That’s not what I said—’’

‘‘But you want more.’’

Arrogant man, she thought, and yet he had a right to be. His kiss had melted her bones, turned her into a shivering bundle of need. ‘‘I wouldn’t be adverse to—’’ and she drew a quick breath to steady the pounding of her heart ‘‘—challenging my assumptions.’’

‘‘We shall see what we can do.’’ He smiled. ‘‘But unfortunately we have business first. You’re aware of tonight’s reception? It’s a political affair.’’

She nodded, head still spinning a little. ‘‘I’ll be meeting your cabinet members, and their wives.’’

‘‘I want them to like you, Princess.’’

Her eyes locked with his. ‘‘Is it important that they do?’’

‘‘No.’’ And he dropped his head, kissed her on the corner of her mouth and whispered, ‘‘I just want them to like you as much as I do.’’

Back in her own suite of rooms, Nicolette trembled as she sat in the deep steaming bath, emotions still running high, tension rippling through. Malik’s parting words, spoken in his sexy, husky voice, had shaken her nearly as much as the kiss.

He liked her. Not because she was a European princess. Not because she represented a powerful alliance. He liked her because he liked her.

And that alone made her happy. She’d no intention of becoming anyone’s wife, but she was quite curious about King Nuri—in and out of bed.

Nic could hear Alea in the next room, humming as she laid out Nic’s clothes for the state reception. Would Malik kiss her again later? Would they even be alone later?

Nicolette thought she could endure just about anything at the dinner if it meant she’d have ten minutes alone with Malik.

No, ten minutes wouldn’t do.

An hour. A solid hour of uninterrupted time alone.

It’d been months and months since she felt anything remotely this strong. Years since she’d had a really satisfying love affair. Years ago, she’d had a fantastic lover, and he’d ruined her for all others. A man that couldn’t use his hands, his mouth, his sense of touch wasn’t a man at all. It wasn’t enough to be physically endowed. A man had to know how to please a woman, although most men thought if they just kept thrusting long enough they’d reached the goal. Problem was, most women needed a hell of a lot more than that. But try telling that to a man.

Even playboys, rich gorgeous, sexy playboys didn’t know what turned on a woman most of the time. Fortunately, Malik didn’t seem to fall into that category. His brief kiss, his tantalizing caress, conveyed a world of knowledge and experience she was anxious to try.

Alea’s footsteps sounded on the marble floor as she made her way through the bedchamber to the walk-in closet across from the bath. Nic could hear her sorting through hanging clothes in the closet.

‘‘Yellow or green?’’ The young assistant called to Nicolette. ‘‘Two dresses arrived earlier this afternoon.’’

Nic swiped at the steaming water, the jasmine scented bath oil forming smaller pools on the surface. ‘‘They’re not for the wedding?’’

‘‘Oh, no, Princess. You will have special gown for wedding. These are just for you to look beautiful.’’

‘‘Which do you like better?’’ Nic asked, content to have the decision made. Some things she fought for. Some things she delegated. Fashion she delegated.

‘‘The green, I think. The color will look striking with your lovely dark hair.’’

Her dark hair. Nic suddenly sat up, touched the top of her head where her hair had been pinned up on extra large Velcro rollers. Brunette. She was a brunette. It still seemed strange to think she’d gone dark.

Would she ever become blonde Nic Ducasse again?

Four hours later, the long dinner had ended, and instead of providing entertainment, King Nuri had encouraged his guests to mingle—a decidedly Western approach—but one he hoped would give Nicolette a chance to meet more of his cabinet members. But looking at her now, cornered by a dozen robed ladies—including his cousin Fatima—Malik realized he’d made a tactical error.

Nic wasn’t getting a chance to meet anyone. The women were keeping her firmly sequestered in the corner. Men on one side of the room, ladies on the other. Malik could imagine the topics the women would be discussing, too. Conversation would be limited to domestic events—marriage, childbirth, health of the elders. There’d be talk about servants, discussion about the cost of food, complaints that the weather was unusually hot and yet it was too early for everyone to trek to summer homes.

Nic made a gesture, and slight bow, indicating she was about to leave the others when Fatima touched Nic’s arm in a silent reprimand.

Malik stopped listening to the conversation around him and watched his cousin speak to Nicolette.

Fatima tended to be overly harsh with Nicolette.

Malik knew Fatima didn’t understand why he’d chosen a woman like Nicolette, or why he’d go so far from their culture for the woman who would be his mate, his wife, who would bear his children. Baraka’s heirs.

But he knew what she did not—he needed someone like her.

Nic would teach their sons and daughters to set goals, to dream big, to fight for what one believed.

It was what all children should be taught, he thought, watching Fatima’s face tighten with irritation. She was angry with Nicolette for being different than Barakan women, and yet Fatima had been given opportunities to travel, to live abroad, to find a more Western husband. But Fatima didn’t want to leave Atiq. She was waiting, she said, for the right man.

His lashes lowered as he watched Nic turn away, focus on an object beyond her shoulder and he realized that Nicolette was struggling to conceal her anger. What had Fatima said now?

Suddenly Nic turned her head and looked at him. Her blue gaze met his. The corner of her mouth pulled and her expression turned wry.

Save me, her expression seemed to say. And yet she wasn’t complaining. She was half amused, half resigned. The not-sostorybook-life of a modern princess.

It was obvious she’d been through this before, many, many times. The princess at a state dinner. The princess, guest of honor at a charity ball, princess, keynote speaker at a fund-raiser.

She might be the family rebel—she might have covered up her gorgeous blond hair with a horrible brown hair dye—but she never shirked her duties.

She might think she wasn’t a proper princess, but she understood family and loyalty, she understood what it was to protect and honor.

She’d make a perfect queen. Little did she know that by taking Chantal’s place, Nic had given Malik everything he ever wanted in a bride.

Malik made his way across the room and the ladies surrounding Nicolette bowed and parted, leaving him alone with his betrothed.

‘‘Enjoying yourself?’’ he asked, seeing that Fatima alone stayed at Nic’s side.

Nicolette shot him an exasperated glance. ‘‘It’s a fine party.’’ Her lips pursed. ‘‘If you’re eighty.’’

So she was bored. ‘‘Too slow for your tastes?’’

‘‘Your Highness, no one is doing anything.’’

‘‘And what would you like to do?’’

‘‘Real conversation wouldn’t hurt, or maybe turn on some music and let people dance.’’

He shook his head regretfully. ‘‘We can’t dance in mixed company.’’ Then he smiled. ‘‘But you and your ladies could dance if we men excused ourselves.’’

‘‘Dance with women?’’

He liked the way her cheeks darkened. Nic didn’t blush very often and the pink was most becoming, especially tonight in her lime green gown, the color deliciously cool on her lightly tanned skin, making her look as if she were a mouth watering sorbet. ‘‘Of course. Dancing with women can be quite exciting.’’

The silver charm bracelet on her wrist tinkled as she gestured displeasure. ‘‘Your Highness, I don’t dance with other women.’’

‘‘It’s not a slow dance with women. It’s a fast dance. Energetic.’’ He was trying hard not to laugh at her hand hovering before her mouth, her blue eyes wide and indignant. ‘‘The dance gets your heart pumping, your body moving.’’

‘‘Aerobics?’’

‘‘Think of it as an Arabic version of Jazzercise.’’ He saw her incredulous expression. ‘‘I know what Jazzercise is. One of my sisters lives in San Francisco. She loves her aerobic classes—’’

Nicolette started to laugh. She tried to stifle the sound by covering her mouth but it didn’t work. The more she tried to stop laughing, the harder she laughed. Tears filled her eyes. She wheezed behind her hand. ‘‘That’s priceless.’’

Fatima looked on in horror but Malik found Nic’s laughter sexy…refreshing. Nic had laughed with her whole face. Her laughter was contagious and it healed something in him that had been damaged from the attempt on his life a year ago.

He needed to laugh. He needed to feel hope. Nicolette gave him hope, and wasn’t hope a wonderful thing?

He leaned toward her, preventing his cousin from hearing his words. ‘‘We could always leave,’’ he murmured. ‘‘I’m sure we could find some diversions back at the palace.’’

CHAPTER SIX

HEAT flared in Nic’s eyes. Her soft lush lips parted and his own body instantly hardened. He knew exactly what she was thinking. He was thinking the very same thing.

When he kissed her earlier, he hoped to contain his attraction, curtail some of his less inhibited thoughts, but the kiss did nothing to quiet his imagination. He’d thought of nothing but her since then. Wanted nothing but her beneath him, against him, above him.

When would he be able to take her to his bed? Make love to her properly?

Not while they were here, that was for certain.

First they had to get through their goodbyes, and it took a good ten minutes, but they were finally finished and escaping to the car when Fatima appeared and asked for a return ride home.

Nic groaned inwardly. She’d been thrilled at the idea of a long private drive home. Now the long drive would be anything but relaxing, or private.

The three settled into the back of Malik’s waiting limousine, Fatima and Nicolette on one side, the sultan on the other.

‘‘Glad to be gone, Princess?’’ Malik asked, as the limousine pulled away from the state building.

‘‘I was tired tonight,’’ Nicolette admitted with a small sigh. She’d felt off balance tonight, not quite herself. It was the newness of everything, she tried to tell herself, the different food, the different language and customs. But deep down she knew her headache was due to adrenaline. Her body felt hot, sensitive, her pulse quick like an engine revved.

He’d started something with that kiss. Now she just wanted him to finish it.

In the dim light of the interior Malik smiled briefly, acknowledging her honesty. ‘‘Do you find it difficult being the only foreigner in the room?’’

Nic plucked at her green silk sleeve, letting the weight of the cool silver beads fall against the back of her hand. ‘‘I’m accustomed to being the only foreigner at state events. But I have to admit, tonight I did feel…different.’’

‘‘You are different,’’ Fatima interrupted. ‘‘You don’t dress like women in Baraka, you prefer not to robe and veil yourself—’’

‘‘I’ve never asked her to, either,’’ Malik quietly reproved his cousin. ‘‘Princess Ducasse is entitled to be herself here.’’

‘‘Then how can she be a proper queen if she isn’t a role model?’’ Fatima flashed.

‘‘Enough,’’ he answered, curtly. ‘‘This is not your concern.’’

Fatima dropped her head, but Nicolette saw the anger flare in Fatima’s eyes. Nic struggled to think of something to say. What could she say? She and Fatima had had a rocky relationship from the very first meeting.

The limousine wound through the quiet city streets, turning from one wide palm-lined boulevard onto another. Minutes passed in silence. The air conditioner blew, a quiet hum of artificially chilled air. Nic adjusted her delicate wrap, covering her shoulders more thoroughly.

‘‘Is the air too cool?’’ Malik asked.

‘‘It’s fine, thank you,’’ Nic answered, touched by his concern. ‘‘It feels good after the warmth of the party.’’

‘‘I was warm, too,’’ he said, and then paused, his attention focused on her. Nic felt his interest, his gaze resting on her face, or what he could see in the flashing light and shadows. ‘‘Our older buildings were designed with high ceilings to draw the warm air up, but the newer government buildings lack adequate ventilation.’’

Nic smiled deprecatingly. ‘‘I think all government buildings are identical. Perhaps they share the same architect?’’

‘‘Or same sensibilities,’’ he agreed.