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

‘‘There’s no reason for any of us to marry the sultan,’’ Nic said after a moment. ‘‘We can get him to help us without giving up our freedom, and yes, I do value my freedom.’’ Her gaze locked with Chantal’s. ‘‘We’ll get Lilly free. We’ll bring her home.’’

Chantal shook her head. ‘‘Her grandparents will never let her go.’’

‘‘They will if pressured properly.’’ Nic’s gaze held her sister’s. ‘‘They will if King Nuri insists. You did say he was immensely powerful.’’

‘‘And wealthy,’’ Chantal whispered.

‘‘So I’ll go to King Nuri and ask for his help. He won’t say no to his future bride, will he?’’

‘‘Nic—’’

‘‘I’ll go, pretend to be you, get him to fall in love with me—’’

‘‘Nic.’’

‘‘He’s a man, Chantal. I know how to manage men.’’

‘‘It’s not going to work. You’ll never be able to pass yourself off as me. You’re blond, I’m dark—’’

‘‘I’ll dye my hair. As a brunette I could pass for you.’’ Nic suddenly laughed, empowered. ‘‘I’ll sneak in, sneak out. He won’t even know what’s happened.’’

‘‘Oh, Nic, this is a disaster waiting to happen!’’

‘‘Not if I’m smart,’’ she answered smugly. ‘‘Trust me. I can do this. I’ll put together a plan, and you know me, Chantal. When I want something, I always win.’’

CHAPTER ONE

KING MALIK ROMAN NURI, sultan of Baraka, stood on the ancient harbor wall constructed nearly seven hundred years ago, in the shade of a sixteenth century Portuguese fortress and watched the royal Ducasse yacht sail into his harbor, ship’s purple and gold banners flying high.

His princess was here.

His thick lashes lowered as he heard his band strike up a song of welcome, and he wondered at her thoughts, the thoughts of the beautiful Ducasse princess who’d left her home for his. Her world was Western, his was Eastern. She must feel some fear. He felt fear for her. She was coming to a world far different from her own. Her life would never be the same.

Did she even know it yet?

Standing on the gleaming wooden deck of the Royal Star, the Ducasse yacht named after Nic’s late mother, Nicolette adjusted the long dark head covering she’d donned, and listened to the ship’s flags snap in the hot afternoon wind, even as her own body crackled with tension.

She was determined. Focused. She knew what she had to do.

Her plan would work. There was no reason it shouldn’t.

She’d arrive in Baraka, pretend to be Chantal, proceed with the wedding, and then once Chantal and Lilly were safe in America, the wedding would be called off.

Simple. Doable.

With her narrowed gaze on the horizon, the formidable stone walls of Atiq, Baraka’s capital city, took shape. The fortified rampart facing the sea appeared to be centuries old, buffeted by storm and sea, and countless marauding neighbors. Nic could easily imagine those ruthless neighbors—The Greeks. The Romans. The Turks. The Portuguese. The French.

Everybody wanted to own something. If not a woman, then a piece of land. She could just picture the sailors, the soldiers, the adventurers grabbing up chunks of soil and sand. Anything for power.

Nic stifled the wave of irritation. She had to be careful, needed to keep tight rein on her temper. She had to be charming, not angry. Sweet-tempered, not feisty. It was vital King Malik Nuri believe she was really Chantal.

Pulling the head scarf closer to her face, concealing her mouth and nose, she drew a deep breath and chased away all thoughts of conquerors and kings. Instead she studied the looming port with the dots of green palm trees shadowing the glaring white walls of the inner city.

For a moment, Nic’s curiosity upstaged her emotions. Was this where she’d stay during the next couple of weeks? Did the sultan live in the harbor city of Atiq? Or was his palace elsewhere…perhaps tucked inland, protected by the massive dunes of the Sahara?

And as her gaze focused on the distant horizon, music wafted over the water. She spotted the enormous crowd gathered on the rampart walls. Hundreds and hundreds of people waited for her.

So much for sneaking in and out.

Beneath Nic’s long robe, something she’d cheerfully put on as it aided her disguise, her toes curled inside her sleek leather pumps, the shoes matching her hidden lavender silk suit perfectly, the suit vintage designer—something from her mother’s collection, and she shook her head at Chantal’s choices all over again.

Why on earth would someone like King Malik Roman Nuri choose Chantal for his bride? And why on earth would Chantal even consider saying yes to yet another unfaithful husband?

Nic had spent all last week on the Internet, poring over media archives. She’d done her research and she knew King Malik Roman Nuri for what he was. A handsome, but irredeemable playboy.

From the few grainy photos she’d been able to pull up, he was certainly attractive. He had hard, masculine features, a thick head of hair, and apparently a stunning libido.

The gossip magazines claimed the sultan, Malik Nuri, was The Casanova of Arabia. According to several sources close to the sultan, King Nuri had mastered seduction, turned lovemaking into an art, and kept numerous mistresses—all in splendid style.

Fine. He was a world-class lover. He spoiled his mistresses. After Chantal’s experience with one manipulative and unfaithful husband, she certainly didn’t need another who’d never keep his vows of fidelity, much less loyalty.

Nic grit her teeth. Chantal deserved a prince of a man, not a sultan unable to keep his royal trousers on!

The band’s bright notes jarred her, even as they filled the air. Two weeks, three weeks, she told herself, fighting her temper, not a day more. They’d leave for the United States as soon as it could be arranged. She’d propose a wedding in her mother’s home town, something very small and private, yet meaningful, and once they were in Baton Rouge, Nic would call the wedding off.

If she handled this right—flattering the sultan, giving him the kind of attention she knew how to give a man—the whole charade would be nothing but a feminine escapade. The engagement would be short. Sweet. Painless.

‘‘Your Highness?’’ The ship’s captain had appeared at her side. ‘‘We have arrived.’’

Nic turned to the captain, a man she’d known nearly half her life. He’d aged in the past decade, but then hadn’t they all? And he didn’t know what she knew: this would be his last voyage as captain of the Royal Star. The Royal Star was being put up for auction on the ship’s return to Melio. ‘‘Excellent.’’

‘‘We’ve just about moored, Your Highness. Are you ready to disembark?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ And then she swallowed around the fierce lump in her throat as she looked up into Captain Anderson’s weathered face, the creases at his eyes deep from years of squinting against the sun. ‘‘And may I thank you for your years of loyal service, Captain? You’ve been truly magnificent.’’

‘‘It’s been my pleasure, Your Highness.’’ He bowed. ‘‘We’ll see you on your return home.’’

With the stringed instruments plucking, drums and tambourines beating, Nic stepped onto the gangway and halfway across, colorful confetti streamed down. It wasn’t paper confetti, the bits of orange and red and pink were flower petals and the sweet scented petals drifted onto her covered head and shoulders.

It was like entering a dream world—the music, the colors, the hint of spice in the air. Nic had the strongest sensation that this new world would soon dazzle her with its exotic secrets.

By the time she reached the end of the gangway, time had slowed. Faces blurred. People were cheering and clapping but none of it sounded real. The language was different, the faces weren’t familiar, there was nothing here that resembled the life she’d known.

Her gaze searched the crowd, trying to find a landmark…a personal touchstone. She found none. Instead the heat beat at her, hot and humid and oppressive, and the noise rang in her ears, too loud, too insistent, and for a half second everything swam before her eyes, a blur of orange and crimson, sharp, discordant sound, and she blinked once, trying to clear her head, trying to find herself again.

Nic gripped the gangway railing and tried not to dwell on the fact that she, Tough Girl, was suffering from a case of nerves. Focus, she lectured herself. Find a face in the crowd. Get your legs under you. Pull yourself together.

And she did.