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

She nodded, forcing a calm smile. ‘‘Yes, thank you.’’

‘‘No problems on your journey?’’ The sultan added.

Nic listened to the sultan’s voice in her head, lingering over his syllables. He had the most unusual voice. Deep. Husky. Again her pulse lurched, her heart finding it hard to settle into a steady rhythm. ‘‘The trip was uneventful,’’ she answered, knowing she’d better find her footing fast. If she couldn’t control her response to him, how could she possibly control him?

‘‘Hamadullah,’’ King Nuri answered, the corner of his mouth curved in a small private smile.

She forced her attention away from the Sultan’s lovely mouth. Remember his stream of mistresses, she told herself. Remember his reputation. ‘‘What does hamadullah mean?’’

‘‘It means, ‘Thanks be to God’.’’

Nic mulled over the King’s response.

King Nuri spoke again, and the translator hastened to explain. ‘‘It is customary here to express gratitude to God for our blessings.’’

Nic shot King Nuri a quick glance. His lips curved fractionally. Hollows appeared beneath his strong cheekbones. ‘‘And my arrival is a blessing?’’

‘‘Without a doubt.’’ The translator answered, speaking for the sultan.

She shot King Nuri yet another wary glance. She’d thought she was prepared for this trip, thought her plan was bullet proof, but now that she was here, and he was here, and they were together…this wasn’t at all how she’d imagined it. She’d pictured him rakish. Handsome but a little thick in the jowls, a little paunchy at the waist. She’d told herself he’d flirt outrageously, come on too strong, and probably wear flashy clothes, but that wasn’t the man facing her now.

The sultan took a seat close to her on one of the low couches. When he reached for his coffee, his long arm nearly brushed her knee and she shivered inwardly, tensing all over again.

Had she hoped he’d touch her?

Had she feared he’d touch her?

The sultan was speaking Arabic again, and Nic glanced from King Nuri to the translator and back. The King’s profile was beautiful. He was beautiful. Definitively male.

‘‘His Highness expresses his satisfaction that you are here. He says that he and his people have waited a very long time for this day.’’

Nic’s fingers tightened around her small espresso cup, trying to keep her calm. The King was practically reclining, and his eyes, a cool silvery green-gray, rested on her as if he found her absolutely fascinating.

Thank God Chantal wasn’t here. King Nuri would have seduced her, married her, and abandoned her in no time. If he was a man who lived off his conquests, then Chantal, so broken by marriage and life, wouldn’t be enough of a conquest.

‘‘I look forward to getting to know His Highness,’’ Nic said in her most careful diction. ‘‘And to discussing my ideas for the wedding.’’

‘‘Your ideas?’’ The interpreter asked.

Nic couldn’t hide her impatience. ‘‘Yes. Of course. It’s my wedding. I have ideas about my wedding.’’

No one spoke for a moment, and King Nuri’s dark head tipped, his black lashes dropped as he studied her. His cool gaze examined her face, taking in each feature, the curve of bone, the very shape and texture of her lips.

The translator expressed her thoughts to King Nuri.

Then the sultan spoke, and the translator turned to her. ‘‘The king understands that you have just arrived, and everything feels quite new and alien, but he also asks you to trust him with the wedding details so they will comply with his beliefs and our customs.’’

‘‘Please tell His Highness that I’d like to trust him with the wedding details, but a wedding is quite a personal event, and I insist I be part of planning it.’’

‘‘The king thanks you for your concerns, and assures you that you need not worry, or be troubled. As the wedding details are set, there is nothing for you to do in the next two weeks but relax and familiarize yourself with our life here in Baraka.’’

Nothing to do in the next two weeks but relax? Nic puzzled over the king’s answer. ‘‘What’s happening in two weeks?’’

The translator bowed his head. ‘‘The wedding, Your Highness.’’

The wedding already planned. The ceremony here. In two weeks. It couldn’t be. Surely this was a language problem, an issue with the translation. ‘‘I’m afraid we’re losing something here. Are you telling me that the wedding date—and all the detail—has already been set?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Nicolette touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. She’d been in Baraka, King Malik Nuri’s North African kingdom, less than two hours and already things were wildly out of control. What had happened to her plan? What about the quiet, private ceremony she’d dreamed up in America? ‘‘How can it be set?’’

The robed translator bowed his head politely. ‘‘His Highness has chosen a date blessed by the religious and cultural calendar.’’

Nicolette glanced past the stout translator to King Nuri reclining on the sofa. This was going to be far more difficult than she’d anticipated. King Nuri was the kind of man she’d assiduously avoided—smart, suave, sophisticated—and far too much in control. ‘‘But the king hasn’t consulted my calendar,’’ she said firmly, turning toward the sultan, meeting his gaze directly to convey her displeasure. ‘‘He can’t set a wedding date without my input.’’

The translator nodded again, his expression grave, and still unfailingly polite. ‘‘It is customary for the king to consult with his spiritual advisors.’’

‘‘The king is very religious then?’’

The translator paused, appeared momentarily at a loss for words before recovering. ‘‘The king is the king. The ruler of Baraka—’’

What nonsense was this? ‘‘And I am Princess Chantal, of the royal Ducasse family.’’ Her temper was getting the best of her. She hated double-speak, especially hated royal double-speak. This is one reason she’d always dated commoners. Playboys, her sister’s voice echoed in her head. ‘‘Perhaps you’d care to remind your king that nothing is set until I say it’s set.’’

The translator hesitated. He didn’t want to translate this.

Nicolette’s jaw hardened. ‘‘Tell him. Please.’’

‘‘Your Highness—’’ the translator protested.

She shifted impatiently, set her cup on the low wood table. ‘‘Perhaps it was a mistake coming to Baraka. I’d assumed King Malik Nuri was educated. Civilized—’’

‘‘Western?’’ the king concluded, languidly rising from his sofa to again dominate the royal chamber.

Nic’s jaw dropped even as her stomach flipped.

So he spoke English. But of course he spoke English. She’d discovered on the Internet that he’d gone to Oxford for heaven’s sake. Yet he’d allowed all introductions, all awkward conversation, to be made via the translator. He’d had their first meeting conducted like an interview.

‘‘Why did we have a translator?’’ she demanded, head tilting, scarf sliding back, revealing her long dark hair.

He didn’t look a bit apologetic. ‘‘I thought it might make you more comfortable.’’

Wrong. It was to make him more comfortable. A passive display of power. Nic scraped her teeth together. Think like Chantal, she reminded herself. Be Chantal.

But Chantal’s become a doormat.

And yet it’s Chantal he wants, not you.

The sultan was waiting for her to speak. Her eyes flashed fire even as she struggled to retain her flimsy smile, nodding her head the way she’d seen Chantal nod graciously so many times on official state business. ‘‘How considerate,’’ she said from between clenched teeth, rising as well. ‘‘I really ought to…thank you.’’