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

‘‘I suppose you’d have to enjoy my company. If such a thing is possible.’’ He speared a circle of kiwi and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly, letting the ripe sweet fruit dissolve even more slowly.

She watched his firm, mobile mouth take the succulent fruit, watched his jaw move once, twice, saw the long strong column of his throat swallow and she exhaled in a tight, thin stream of air. A day alone with Malik wasn’t her idea of relaxing. She couldn’t relax around him. She’d begun to crave contact with him too badly. ‘‘I know you’ve many state appointments—’’

‘‘Too many,’’ he agreed solemnly.

‘‘It wouldn’t be fair for me to add to your pressures—’’

‘‘But, laeela, you must come first. You’re to be my queen. My wife. My lover.’’

Heat surged to Nic’s cheeks. His lover. And she loved the sound of that word, even as the image conjured up all the press clippings she’d read, the stories of his many mistresses scattered around the world.

She felt his gaze caress her now, sweeping her cheeks, down the column of her throat to rest at her breasts. She was wearing a turquoise silk pantsuit, the collarless jacket conservative by Western standards, and yet his desire made her feel naked. Exposed.

‘‘Yes, well, of course there are the duties,’’ she said hurriedly, ‘‘but right now, if you have greater pressing concerns—’’

‘‘Greater concerns? Princess, I’d be amiss not to be concerned with you. I can see you are a little lonely today.’’ The smile faded from his eyes. ‘‘I can see you are a little sad. I think you need some company. I think you could use me.’’

Use him. Oh, indeed. She could use him but that wasn’t part of the plan.

The plan wasn’t to make love.

The plan wasn’t to fall in love.

The plan wasn’t to get trapped in this country so far away from her own.

‘‘We can always meet later—for dinner.’’ She pressed her knees together, tucking one foot behind the other ankle. She couldn’t let herself want more from him. She couldn’t continue to let herself get emotionally invested. ‘‘You can tell me what you’ve done…’’

Her voice faded as Malik leaned forward and ran the pad of his thumb over her lips, silencing her. ‘‘You need an adventure today. Something new, something fun. Leave it to me.’’

‘‘Malik.’’

‘‘Yes, laeela?’’

Her eyes burned and she closed her eyes as his hand slid along her jaw, and down, along the side of her neck to rest at her collarbone. His fingers were so sure and steady against her warm bare skin that Nic found the lovely sensation almost too excruciating to enjoy.

‘‘Why don’t you ever look me in the eye?’’ he asked softly, the pad of his thumb stroking the hollow of her throat. ‘‘When we talk like this, you always look away.’’

‘‘You’re touching me,’’ she whispered, and he was right, she couldn’t meet his gaze. He’d stirred intense emotions in her, and even hotter desire, and the combination of the two tried her conscience.

Her heart ached almost constantly and her body felt restless, a ceaseless restlessness that came from wanting.

But the wanting was reckless, dangerous, and even Nic, who embraced danger knew what was at stake here.

Chantal and Lilly.

‘‘My touch shouldn’t frighten you,’’ Malik said. ‘‘You’re not a virgin, not without experience.’’

She swallowed, her skin flaming with heat, her belly heavy, empty. ‘‘It’s not lack of experience that makes me wary, and it’s not your touch I fear.’’ She looked up into his perceptive pewter gaze. ‘‘What I fear is…you.’’

‘‘You fear me?’’ He sounded incredulous. ‘‘But why? I’d protect you with my life.’’

Nicolette’s heart twisted. The pain startled her. She hadn’t felt such strong emotion in years. ‘‘Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.’’ Jaw pressed tight, she gazed intently at his hard features, the long aquiline nose, the broad jaw, the stubborn set of his chin. ‘‘You place too much trust in me. You haven’t known me long enough to offer your life in exchange of mine.’’

His palm suddenly cupped her cheek. ‘‘But you’re my betrothed.’’

‘‘We haven’t exchanged any words, had a formal declaration.’’

‘‘You are here.’’

Tears thickened her voice, tears she wasn’t going to cry. ‘‘But appearances can be deceptive.’’

His expression turned thoughtful as he sat back in his chair. ‘‘Are you thinking of leaving?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘But you still have doubts?’’

She hated talking like this. Now that she’d met him, gotten to know him she didn’t want to be the one to disappoint him. ‘‘I was born with doubts. Of the three of us, I was the princess most likely to—’’ She broke off, realizing she was about to make another Nicolette pronouncement, and he was suspicious of those Nicolette pronouncements.

‘‘To?’’ he prompted softly.

‘‘You don’t want to know.’’

‘‘I do.’’

She shrugged helplessly, as if to say, I warned you. ‘‘Most likely to initiate world war.’’

He coughed.

She flexed her fingers, tension coiling throughout her body. ‘‘I know. I’m sorry.’’

‘‘What can we do? How can I help?’’ He sounded so tranquil, so comfortably conversational. ‘‘Is there something that I could do? Something I could tell you?’’

She closed her eyes, felt the late morning sun warm the top of her head, wrap her shoulders in heat. She didn’t know what she was doing anymore. Didn’t know how she’d lost control of the situation. She wasn’t supposed to get involved here. She was to have been a guest…just a guest…Instead she’d started to feel things, genuine things, for Malik Nuri.

Nic swallowed, opened her eyes. Malik should have been troubled but he looked calm, as if all his concern was for her instead of himself. ‘‘I don’t want to—’’ her mouth had gone dry and she reached for her glass of juice, took a sip, wetting her lips ‘‘—humiliate you.’’

‘‘I’m glad. I hate being humiliated.’’ But the corner of his lips lifted, and he sounded downright cavalier.

She didn’t know how he could joke at a time like this, yet she smiled at his humor, her emotions strung up like the rope of flags on the Royal Star.

‘‘But you’re not going to humiliate me,’’ he continued confidently. ‘‘I know you. You’re like me. You understand duty, and responsibility. You love your country, your people, and your family. You’ll do what’s best for them.’’

He was speaking matter of factly and she found herself hanging on each word, as if she couldn’t wait to hear what he’d say next. ‘‘If you give me your word now,’’ he added, ‘‘I know the ceremony will take place. You wouldn’t cancel at the last minute, now when it’d be so awkward for both our families. Never mind national pride.’’

National pride. Nic couldn’t speak, couldn’t make a sound, and life seemed to crystallize around her—the sun shining through her glass, filling the guava juice with shimmering light, the heady scent of the damask roses, the forlorn cry of a seagull above, a reminder that the Atlantic sea wasn’t so very far away.

‘‘You’re free,’’ he added even more gently. ‘‘You’re free to go home now. I’d never keep you here against your will.’’

He didn’t even know who she was, she thought, and if she did marry him, pretending to be Chantal, what would happen later when he found out later she wasn’t Chantal? Would he say fine, one Ducasse is the same as another, or would he want Chantal—the good one—the obedient one, and divorce her on grounds of fraud? Deception?

But if Nic confessed the truth now, what would happen to Chantal and Lilly? What if they were close to getting home to Melio? What if Nicolette ruined it for them now?

She couldn’t imagine that all this…subterfuge…should be for naught.

‘‘I’m not going anywhere.’’ Her voice sounded rough. ‘‘I’m staying right here.’’ Nic looked up at him and prayed he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. ‘‘I’m on holiday today, remember? And you’ve promised me to show me something new…something fun.’’

‘‘I remember.’’

After the meal, Nicolette quickly changed shoes, applied some sunscreen to her face and returned to the front hall. Her heart felt heavy when she saw Fatima waiting.

Fatima looked at her. ‘‘This wasn’t my idea,’’ she said stiffly.

Nic could barely nod, ridiculously disappointed. Just then the car and driver pulled to the door and Malik arrived. Like Fatima, he’d changed into a jellaba, and like his cousin, his long robe was made of expensive fabric with ornate needlework lining the seams.

‘‘Do I need to change?’’ Nic asked, touching the neckline of her turquoise jacket.

‘‘I have a jellaba you can wear if you’d like,’’ Malik answered, lightly circling her with his arm. ‘‘But I see no need for you to change. You’ll find that many of our young people favor jeans and T-shirts. Between our French colonial past, and the flood of tourists in winter, you’ll find that our city center is quite Western.’’

‘‘Is that where we’re going?’’ she asked, settling into the back seat.

He suddenly spoke in Arabic to his cousin, and Fatima, who’d just sat down next to Nic, reluctantly moved, relocating herself to the opposite seat. Malik took the vacated space next to Nic.

‘‘Is this proper?’’ Nic whispered to Malik as the king stretched an arm across the back of the seat, his fingertips brushing her shoulder.

‘‘It’s my car,’’ he answered, looking down at her.

‘‘Yes, but your cousin—’’

‘‘Knows you’re to be my wife.’’ He reached for her hand, kissed the back of it. ‘‘Now relax. I want you to enjoy yourself. You’re not allowed to worry.’’

‘‘Not about anything?’’

‘‘About nothing. Not even Lilly. I’ve everything under control.’’

Something in his tone made the fine hair lift at the nape of her neck but she didn’t dare ask. He’d said not to worry, and for one hour, she could try to do that much, couldn’t she?

With a small convoy of police escorts, the limousine wound through numerous avenues, the streets growing narrower with each turn until they’d reached the market square.

Merchants and peddlers had filled the square with colorful bazaars, their booths offering every kind of ware imaginable. Baskets mounded with fruits and nuts. Copper pots. Bolts of fabric. Leather goods.

Nic sat forward on her seat, anxious to see everything. Malik’s fingers trailed down her spine until his hand settled in the small of her back. ‘‘You’re eager to explore.’’

She couldn’t contain her curiosity. She loved getting out, doing things. It’d been hard being so cooped up in the palace during the past week. ‘‘I am.’’

The driver parked and the security circled the limousine. Malik climbed out, extended a hand to Nicolette and then Fatima.

As Nicolette stood, she realized that nearly all of the women bustling around the market were wearing the long colorful jellaba. ‘‘Do you still have the…coverall?’’ she asked, indicating his jellaba. ‘‘I think Fatima and I would draw less attention if we looked the same.’’

Fatima aided Nicolette in settling the long navy jellaba over Nic’s head, covering her pantsuit.

‘‘Would you care to have a look around?’’ Malik asked Nic once she was finished dressing.

‘‘Yes,’’ Nic answered, ready to see as much of the medina as she could. She’d wanted to visit the city hub ever since she arrived.

‘‘Fatima will walk with you,’’ he said. ‘‘I’d like to go with you, but I think it’s less complicated for security if I wait here.’’

She understood, especially as the market was very crowded and it’d be difficult for a group—much less the sultan and his escorts—to pass through the congested square.

As she and Fatima set off, the sun shone high above, and a hot wind kicked up dust, tugged at the crisp canvas awnings, blowing the palm trees dense green fronds. Nic was nearly overwhelmed by such exotic beauty—the blue and white striped stalls, the massive clay pots of pink and green olives, baskets piled high with dried dates and apricots, the pervasive spice of peppers, and all the while the hot wind brushing and whipping the fronds so the very air seemed to whisper.

Exquisite, she thought, taking it all in, savoring all that was new and mysterious.

‘‘Balek!’’ a man shouted, lumbering past with a cart full of goods.

Balek. Nic smiled. Watch yourself. She’d understood the Arabic word.

Contented, Nic followed Fatima around the parameter of the bustling square, the old buildings fronted by hundreds of souks, each one selling something different, just as each merchant sized the shopper up, setting new and different prices.

Now and then she stopped to examine intriguing merchandise and gradually Nic forgot Fatima’s hostility, losing herself in the pleasure of being somewhere altogether new.

As she moved slowly from one seller to another, the sun beat down on her head, the rays penetrating her dark jellaba. Time to turn back, she thought. But looking up, hoping to catch Fatima’s eye, Nic realized she’d lost Malik’s cousin somewhere along the way. Surprised, but not distressed, Nic actually felt…relief. She’d been in many foreign countries, traveled a great deal. It didn’t cross her mind to feel fear. Instead, for one brief moment, she felt free. No Fatima, no sultan, no marriage, no worries.

And with that thought in mind, she wished she had money on her and she’d find a cafe´ somewhere and buy an iced coffee and just sit in the shade and watch everyone. Atiq was amazing and Nic loved the medina, responding to the history of the inner city with the cobbled streets, whitewashed buildings and dazzling sunlight.

A hand touched her arm and Nic turned. An older woman stood before her, the woman’s gray hair partially covered with a long scarf. ‘‘Lost?’’ The elderly woman asked.

Nic smiled. ‘‘A little.’’

The woman stared up at Nic for a minute, her dark eyes puzzled. ‘‘You are a very beautiful lady,’’ she said in her halting English.

‘‘Thank you. Merci,’’ Nic answered, switching to French hoping it’d be easier for the older woman. ‘‘That’s lovely of you to say.’’

The woman smiled gratefully. ‘‘You’re not American?’’ she asked in French.

‘‘No.’’

The older woman’s mouth pursed as she studied Nic’s face. ‘‘French?’’

‘‘Half.’’ Quarter, actually. Julien, her father had been half-French, half-Spanish.

Suddenly the old woman wagged her finger. Her frown faded as she smiled, deep lines creasing her skin. ‘‘I know who you look like.’’ She beamed wider. ‘‘The American singer. Star.’’

Star. Mom. And Nic could see her mother, long dark hair, flashing eyes, a wicked sense of humor.

‘‘You know who I’m talking about?’’ The woman clasped Nic’s arm. ‘‘Superstar. Married a Spanish prince.’’

But Mom didn’t marry a Spanish prince. He was a Melian prince. Her eyes felt gritty and she blinked, blaming the hot wind. ‘‘Thank you.’’

She patted the older woman’s hand where it rested on her arm, the elderly woman’s fingers thin, the skin delicate. ‘‘I’m very flattered, and you are very kind.’’

The woman beamed wider, spaces showing between her bottom teeth and reached up to pat Nic’s cheek. ‘‘Allah ihennik.’’ God make you safe.

Nic’s heart squeezed. A lump filled her throat. ‘‘And you,’’ she murmured as the elderly woman shuffled away. She watched the elderly woman fade into the crowd.

It’d been years since anyone said she looked like her mother. With her blonde hair, the family always said she was like Julien, but Nic remembered when she was little, her mother used to sit Nic on her lap and comb her long hair and point to their reflections in the mirror. ‘‘You have Mommy’s eyes,’’ her mother would say, drawing the boar bristle brush through Nic’s curls. ‘‘And you have Mommy’s mouth and chin.’’

‘‘And Mommy’s nonsense,’’ her father called to them from the bedroom where he’d inevitably be sitting in a chair, or lying in bed, with a stack of state documents. Her father was always reading, preparing, studying up on economies, politics, world events. No one cared more about the future than Prince Julien Ducasse.

It was odd, Nic thought, setting off, threading her way through the crowd, but when her parents died everyone talked about what a tragedy it was, what a loss of beautiful young glamorous people. And beauty was all very nice and fine, but beauty wasn’t their strength. Their strength had been their intelligence, their spirit, their drive. Both her father and her mother were real people, not glossy paper dolls, or coat hangers for expensive couture.

What a gift that elderly woman had given her today, what a lovely birthday gift. To be told she looked like her mother. To have a stranger stop her and say I see Star in you…

Nic closed her eyes, pressed her hands to her heart, held all the emotion and welling of love inside.

Now it was time to get back to Malik before he started worrying, and rounding a corner lined with narrow stalls, Nicolette glanced around, sensing she hadn’t gone in the right direction. Where had she made a wrong turn? Nothing looked familiar, but then, the maze of merchants and crowded souks was enough to disorient anyone.

Standing at the corner, hands on hips, Nic became aware that she was drawing attention. Women avoided her but men were curious. It was obvious she was a foreigner, and even though she was wearing a traditional coverall, she stood out as different.

Where was she? Where was the central market?

What would Malik say when he found out she’d lost Fatima and was wandering somewhere inside the endless medina?

Nic moved toward a woman to ask for directions but the woman drew her scarf closer to her face and hurried on.

Nic wrinkled her nose. That was not the response she wanted. Glancing left, and then right, the streets much narrower than they had been earlier. What she needed to do was backtrack…

Nic set off again, returning the way she’d come, but the street didn’t lead to the market. Instead the street ended in a narrow alley, and alley led to yet another alley.

This was definitely not the right direction.

Nic chewed the inside of her lip. The sun had dropped, but the heat was still intense, and there were fewer people out now.

Nic batted a fly buzzing her face and sighed. She couldn’t panic. She hadn’t been gone that long. Twenty minutes. Thirty at the most.

She rubbed the back of her arm across her eyes, catching the dampness on her brow. Think. Which way did you come? Where was the sun? In Baraka the markets—like the mosques—are built facing East. All she had to do was orient herself to the East and she’d find her way across.

Malik was waiting at the side of the car when Fatima arrived alone. ‘‘Is the princess here?’’ Fatima asked, bending down to peer into the darkened car windows.

He felt as if his heart stopped, his muscles turned to stone. ‘‘She’s supposed to be with you.’’

Fatima looked at him, wide-eyed, innocent. ‘‘I thought we were together. We were just browsing through the market—’’

‘‘You lost her.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘You lost her.’’

His normally quiet voice boomed. Fatima shook her head. ‘‘I didn’t. I thought she was with me. I was sure she was following me.’’

He snapped his fingers, and his driver appeared. ‘‘The princess is missing.’’ He spoke quickly, urgently.‘‘Summon the security officers, let them know we must find her. In the meantime, I’m going to call the palace, request additional guard.’’

The chauffeur bowed, hurried away. Fatima watched Malik call the palace on his phone, tears in her eyes. ‘‘I didn’t mean to lose her, cousin. I wouldn’t do that.’’

He silenced her with a lift of his hand. ‘‘I don’t want to hear it. You’ve had a problem with the princess since she arrived.’’ He turned his back on her, spoke to the captain of his military guard, requesting assistance, giving the captain his location at the market square.

Tears continued to well in Fatima’s eyes. ‘‘Forgive me, cousin.’’

But he couldn’t look at her. ‘‘I trusted you,’’ he said, his deep voice curt, his tone bitter. ‘‘And you have shamed me.’’

Fatima climbed into the back of the limousine and buried her face in her hands. Malik paced before the car, waiting for the driver to return. Malik intended to set off and look for Nicolette himself, but suddenly she was there, a flushed princess, hot, tired, but obviously grateful to have found her way back. ‘‘You’re still here.’’ Nic smiled in relief. ‘‘Thank goodness.’’

‘‘I’d never leave you.’’

‘‘I know, but I—’’

‘‘I’d never leave you.’’ His gaze swept her, a quick inspection to ensure she was truly in one piece. ‘‘Are you okay?’’

‘‘I’m fine. Just embarrassed. I don’t know how I managed to lose Fatima.’’ Nic paused, glanced around. ‘‘Is she back yet?’’

Malik’s expression darkened. ‘‘She’s in the car.’’

‘‘Good. I was afraid she was out looking for me, and I didn’t want to put her in any danger.’’ Nic shook her head, incredulous. ‘‘It’s hot.’’

‘‘It is,’’ he agreed, spotting the driver returning through the square with the security officers. ‘‘Let me take care of this,’’ he said, indicating the officers approaching, ‘‘and then we’ll head back to the palace.’’

Back at the palace, Nic returned to her suite and discovered Alea waiting with open arms. ‘‘Are you alright, Princess?’’ Alea cried, touching Nic’s arm as if she were an apparition.

Alea’s concern was almost comical. ‘‘I’m fine.’’ Nic grimaced. ‘‘I was lost. The city was hot. But I found my way back and everything’s okay.’’

‘‘Well, we’re going to take good care of you,’’ Alea assured Nicolette. ‘‘First, a shower to cool you off, wash away the dust, then a good soak in the hot tub, after that, a massage, help relax every muscle—’’

‘‘That’s not necessary, Alea. A shower is all I need.’’

But the young woman wasn’t listening. She was already off, heading into Nicolette’s luxurious bathroom, opening doors, turning on the shower. ‘‘Come, Princess,’’ Alea called above the steamy shower spray. ‘‘Let’s get you started.’’

An hour and a half later, Nicolette winced as the experienced masseuse dug her elbows into the knots in Nicolette’s back. The massage wasn’t Swedish style, Nic thought, wincing again, but after an hour of steady kneading, rubbing, twisting, Nic was beginning to feel boneless.

But gradually the deep tissue massage gave way to a softer touch, longer strokes that soothed instead of hurt. Relaxed beyond belief, Nic drifted in and out of sleep, happy to just lie there and be mindless.

No worries now, she thought sleepily. It’d be impossible to worry.

The masseuse finished by working Nic’s hands, feet, lightly kneading, working each little joint.

Stepping from the table the masseuse held up Nic’s warm silk robe. ‘‘Your Highness.’’

Nic dragged herself off the massage table, her limbs so heavy, she wanted to slide into bed. Instead she forced her arms into the robe’s quilted sleeves and belted the tie around her waist. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘My pleasure.’’ The masseuse opened the door, gestured to Nic’s pink marble bathroom. ‘‘The steam room, Your Highness?’’

‘‘No thank you, not again. I think I’ll just shower.’’

‘‘As you wish.’’ The masseuse bowed, and excused herself and Alea appeared.

‘‘How do you feel, Princess?’’

‘‘Lovely.’’ Nic covered her mouth, hiding her yawn. ‘‘I can’t even keep my eyes open.’’

‘‘You won’t have to. Rinse off the oil and then I’ll finish you off with a nice scented lotion to keep your skin soft. Afterward, you can put your robe back on and you’ll find refreshments waiting for you in your sitting room.’’

Nicolette spent forever in the shower, letting the hot water rain down on her head. She couldn’t remember when she last felt so languid. She was relaxed, almost too relaxed, she didn’t feel the slightest urgency…about anything. She shampooed her hair, once, twice, and then finished with the delicious fruit scented conditioner that made Nic’s mouth water.