The Princess Brides. Jane Porter
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‘‘And I have quite an imagination.’’
Nic knew he wasn’t just speaking of creature comforts now, and again she felt as if she’d stumbled into another world, one existing just for King Nuri and her. Their conversations had become increasingly private, their references more personal, their innuendos more blatant.
‘‘I’m sure you have a good imagination,’’ Nic agreed with mock seriousness. ‘‘Most men think they’ve a good imagination.’’
‘‘You doubt my imagination?’’
‘‘I’m certain you are imaginative…for a man—’’
‘‘Double standards?’’
‘‘Of course.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘You’re forcing me to respond to your challenge.’’
She tried to keep a straight face. ‘‘I’m not challenging you, Your Highness, I’m simply stating a fact.’’
‘‘A fact?’’
‘‘Yes. Most men think they know what women want, and women need—’’
‘‘Oh dear, another problematic declaration.’’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘I had no idea you were so chauvinistic.’’
‘‘I’m not.’’
‘‘Indeed, you are.’’ He held up a hand, his gesture imperial. ‘‘But unlike you, I do not endlessly engage in debate. Words accomplish nothing. I, personally, prefer action.’’
Her breath felt trapped inside her lungs. She could barely nod. ‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Good.’’ And moving forward, he clasped her face in his hands and tilted her face up to his.
The way his fingers splayed across her jawbone, the slow caress of his thumb beneath her lower lip, the shrewd expression in his eyes sent a shiver through her. Expectation. Desire. He was going to kiss her.
Then his head descended and he did kiss her—slowly, curiously, as if he’d wondered for quite a long time what this kiss would feel like, as if the kiss was crucial to some little part of the universe.
Her mouth softened beneath the pressure of his, her lips parting ever so slightly at the tingling pressure. Malik smelled of cedar and cardamom, sweet, spicy. His lips were cool and firm and she felt helplessly fascinated by the slow sensual questing of his lips against hers. He wasn’t directing, commanding, demanding. He was simply touching her, letting her experience…him.
And it was unbelievable. He—like the kiss—was warm, sensual, fragrant, her body responded by softening, sending sharp sparkly darts through her belly, to her breasts, and between her thighs. She hadn’t felt longing like this in ages. She actually clenched her knees, surprised by the waves of tension and sensation, pleasure and expectation.
Malik trailed one hand down her cheek, his fingers cupping her ear, skimming her cheek and she opened her mouth in a silent gasp. He was doing everything right, too right.
Heart hammering, she broke away, took a quick, unsteady step backwards. ‘‘Not bad.’’ Her voice came out breathless, high. ‘‘For a start.’’
His expression mocked her. Heat glowed in his eyes, along with a measure of confidence. ‘‘You want more.’’
‘‘That’s not what I said—’’
‘‘But you want more.’’
Arrogant man, she thought, and yet he had a right to be. His kiss had melted her bones, turned her into a shivering bundle of need. ‘‘I wouldn’t be adverse to—’’ and she drew a quick breath to steady the pounding of her heart ‘‘—challenging my assumptions.’’
‘‘We shall see what we can do.’’ He smiled. ‘‘But unfortunately we have business first. You’re aware of tonight’s reception? It’s a political affair.’’
She nodded, head still spinning a little. ‘‘I’ll be meeting your cabinet members, and their wives.’’
‘‘I want them to like you, Princess.’’
Her eyes locked with his. ‘‘Is it important that they do?’’
‘‘No.’’ And he dropped his head, kissed her on the corner of her mouth and whispered, ‘‘I just want them to like you as much as I do.’’
Back in her own suite of rooms, Nicolette trembled as she sat in the deep steaming bath, emotions still running high, tension rippling through. Malik’s parting words, spoken in his sexy, husky voice, had shaken her nearly as much as the kiss.
He liked her. Not because she was a European princess. Not because she represented a powerful alliance. He liked her because he liked her.
And that alone made her happy. She’d no intention of becoming anyone’s wife, but she was quite curious about King Nuri—in and out of bed.
Nic could hear Alea in the next room, humming as she laid out Nic’s clothes for the state reception. Would Malik kiss her again later? Would they even be alone later?
Nicolette thought she could endure just about anything at the dinner if it meant she’d have ten minutes alone with Malik.
No, ten minutes wouldn’t do.
An hour. A solid hour of uninterrupted time alone.
It’d been months and months since she felt anything remotely this strong. Years since she’d had a really satisfying love affair. Years ago, she’d had a fantastic lover, and he’d ruined her for all others. A man that couldn’t use his hands, his mouth, his sense of touch wasn’t a man at all. It wasn’t enough to be physically endowed. A man had to know how to please a woman, although most men thought if they just kept thrusting long enough they’d reached the goal. Problem was, most women needed a hell of a lot more than that. But try telling that to a man.
Even playboys, rich gorgeous, sexy playboys didn’t know what turned on a woman most of the time. Fortunately, Malik didn’t seem to fall into that category. His brief kiss, his tantalizing caress, conveyed a world of knowledge and experience she was anxious to try.
Alea’s footsteps sounded on the marble floor as she made her way through the bedchamber to the walk-in closet across from the bath. Nic could hear her sorting through hanging clothes in the closet.
‘‘Yellow or green?’’ The young assistant called to Nicolette. ‘‘Two dresses arrived earlier this afternoon.’’
Nic swiped at the steaming water, the jasmine scented bath oil forming smaller pools on the surface. ‘‘They’re not for the wedding?’’
‘‘Oh, no, Princess. You will have special gown for wedding. These are just for you to look beautiful.’’
‘‘Which do you like better?’’ Nic asked, content to have the decision made. Some things she fought for. Some things she delegated. Fashion she delegated.
‘‘The green, I think. The color will look striking with your lovely dark hair.’’
Her dark hair. Nic suddenly sat up, touched the top of her head where her hair had been pinned up on extra large Velcro rollers. Brunette. She was a brunette. It still seemed strange to think she’d gone dark.
Would she ever become blonde Nic Ducasse again?
Four hours later, the long dinner had ended, and instead of providing entertainment, King Nuri had encouraged his guests to mingle—a decidedly Western approach—but one he hoped would give Nicolette a chance to meet more of his cabinet members. But looking at her now, cornered by a dozen robed ladies—including his cousin Fatima—Malik realized he’d made a tactical error.
Nic wasn’t getting a chance to meet anyone. The women were keeping