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

‘‘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.’’

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.