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

Nicolette felt a dizzying wave of relief. She could do this, she told herself, encouraged. She’d pull this off yet. ‘‘Thank you, Your Highness.’’

‘‘But of course. I want you happy. Our wedding is special. The day of the wedding will be a national holiday in Baraka. The ceremony shall be televised, so all our people can celebrate with us.’’

No pressure there. ‘‘Excellent.’’ Some of her relief faded. Standing up the sultan in front of hundreds of thousands of his people was not her idea of a good time. ‘‘What a fabulous idea.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ His silver gaze glinted. ‘‘Now let me show you to your suite. I’m sure you could use some time alone.’’

In her room, Nicolette fished out her own pocket organizer from the bottom of her suitcase and flipped quickly through her scribbled notes. Hotels, rental cars, bank numbers, phone numbers, maps of downtown Baton Rouge and vicinity. She’d already wired money to the Bank of Louisiana’s Baton Rouge branch, bought a used car, had it gassed and prepped with maps and an emergency road kit, and spoken to the priest at her mother’s childhood church. Everything was set. Everything would work. It was simply a matter of getting them there.

It seemed as though no time at all had passed before a knock on her door forced Nic to zip her notes back into the inner compartment of her suitcase. She ran her fingers through her hair and opening her door, discovered a cluster of women in the hall. Nicolette’s new staff had arrived.

For two hours the women chatted, introducing themselves, explaining how each would assist the princess. They all spoke excellent English.

The wedding planner was young and very efficient but there was little opportunity to discuss the wedding in detail. Nicolette’s assistant, Alea, was beautiful with dark hair and kind eyes and there were numerous other maids as well who fussed over the princess. Nicolette’s head spun with all the names and various duties. She’d never had this much help in her life.

At nine fifteen, Nic’s bedroom door opened again, and an attractive young woman, elegantly dressed in a vivid emerald-green gown with elaborate gold embroidery at the seams, entered Nic’s room.

The other women sitting with Nic immediately rose and bowed. ‘‘Welcome, my lady,’’ they all chorused, several falling into deep curtsies.

The young woman—close to Nicolette’s own age—approached Nic with a cool smile. ‘‘I’m sorry I’m late.’’ She stopped before Nic, and she took a moment to scrutinize Nicolette from head to toe. ‘‘I am Lady Fatima, cousin to the sultan, a member of the royal family. I’ve been asked by my cousin to help you adjust to our customs.’’

Fatima’s words were polite but Nic heard the aloof note in Lady Fatima’s voice. Lady Fatima did not intend for them to be friends. But Lady Fatima didn’t need to feel threatened. Nic had no intention of permanently staying. The sooner she and the Sultan headed to America, the sooner the charade could end.

The women finally left close to midnight, and Nic fell into bed exhausted.

There were too many people getting involved, she thought, curling on her side, too many people spelled trouble.

But you’re already in trouble, a little voice mocked her, and she bunched her hand in her silk coverlet, knowing that if she wasn’t very careful, she could soon be trapped in Atiq forever, married to the sultan, mother to his sons. And Grandfather Remi would have the last laugh of all.

Nic, married.

Nic, Queen of Baraka. Royal Babymaker.

Nic didn’t usually wake up in a bad mood, but her dreams had been so intense, so upsetting, that by the time she headed into her mammoth adjoining bathroom with the enormous white and sunken tiled tub, dread filled every muscle and pore.

She needed to talk to Chantal. She needed advice quickly. There’d never been a back up plan, and that was a mistake. Nic realized now that they should have discussed emergency measures, like other destination alternatives to America, and how to extricate Nic from the engagement without creating an international scandal.

Not waiting for the bath to completely fill, Nic sat in the tepid water, soaped up with the scented bath gel and quickly rinsed off before dressing. She usually thought fast on her feet but right now she had no ideas, no answers, no possible escape routes.

The Royal Star had returned to Melio. She’d traveled without a great deal of cash. Even if she wanted to run, how on earth would she get out of here?

Well, if you really had to run, you could always tell him the truth, the little voice chanted as Nic combed her long dark hair, pulling it back into a smooth coil at her nape.

But if you tell him the truth, Lilly remains in La Croix.

Not if he develops feelings for you…

It’s horrible to use a man like that.

Yet lots of men have developed feelings for you, and you’ve never worried overly much about hurting them before…

A knock sounded on her door. Relieved to escape the conflict of her conscience, Nic took the bobby pin from her mouth and tucked it into the coil of hair at her nape. ‘‘Come in.’’

Malik entered her room. ‘‘Am I interrupting anything?’’

She pulled another pin open with her teeth and plucked it into the coiled mass. ‘‘I’m just doing my hair.’’

He entered her room, closed her door behind him. ‘‘You do have beautiful hair.’’

The sincerity of the unexpected compliment made her flush. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘I’ve always loved hair that color. I was admiring the shade yesterday.’’

Nic didn’t know what to say. It was a bottle-brown, something Nic had washed in herself. ‘‘I’m flattered, Your Highness.’’

‘‘It’s odd,’’ he continued, ‘‘but I’ve never been attracted to blondes.’’

Nic’s hand shook, and the coiled hair, not properly anchored, slipped loose, delicate pins tumbling free. ‘‘You don’t like blondes?’’ Men loved blondes.

‘‘Not particularly.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘I don’t want to be stereotypical, but…’’

‘‘But what?’’

‘‘Well, in my experience, I’ve found most blondes to be…shallow. Self-absorbed. Less intellectual.’’

Nic blinked to chase away the veil of red before her eyes. In his experience. What kind of blondes had he met? ‘‘My sister, Nicolette, she’s a natural blonde, and she’s extremely intelligent.’’

‘‘Really?’’ He frowned skeptically.

‘‘Yes,’’ Nic answered firmly, outraged that he could hold such a ridiculous prejudice against women based on hair color. ‘‘Nic holds advanced degrees in mathematics and science.’’

‘‘Speaking of your sister,’’ he said, changing topics. ‘‘That’s why I’ve come. As we’re not married yet, I wouldn’t normally visit your room uninvited, but since your sister called, I thought it might be urgent.’’

‘‘Which sister?’’

‘‘I could have sworn she said Chantal.’’

‘‘Impossible.’’ Chantal must have made a mistake and said her own name.

‘‘Exactly.’’ His gaze met hers and held. ‘‘Chantal’s here.’’

‘‘Maybe it was Joelle. Sounds a bit like Chantal.’’

‘‘Maybe.’’