The Princess Brides. Jane Porter
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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.’’
King Nuri’s lips curved faintly. ‘‘My pleasure.’’ He lifted his hand in a small imperial gesture and the translator discreetly exited the room.
They were both standing, far too close for Nic’s comfort, and the sultan studied her fierce expression for a long moment before knotting his hands behind his back and slowly circling her.
It was an examination. A study before a purchase.
Like a camel at an open-air market, she thought uneasily, as he circled a second time, his hawklike gaze missing nothing.
‘‘Do I meet your approval, King Nuri?’’ She choked, her sarcasm lost as her voice broke. This was not going to be a two-week vacation. She was scared. Not for Chantal, but for herself. King Nuri had a plan, and as the wild beating of her heart reminded her, his plan was swiftly annihilating her own.
CHAPTER TWO
THE king continued his examination, coming round full circle a second time before stopping in front of her, just inches away.
Nic held her breath, fighting for poise, trying not to blink or flinch but keep all responses hidden even though he did something crazy to her senses. Her head swam and her pulse quickened and right now she found herself fascinated by a dozen little things like the line of his jaw, the shadow of his beard, the deep hollow at his throat—
‘‘You’re taller than I expected,’’ he said, breaking the taut silence.
She’d inherited her father’s height, as well as his blond hair, and her height had been a problem for a lot of men, ‘‘So are you.’’
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘‘Your coloring is a little off, too.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘But then I suppose people always look different on television.’’
‘‘You are disappointed.’’
One of his flat black eyebrows lifted. ‘‘Did I say that?’’
Nic’s temper flared yet again, and she didn’t understand it. Normally men didn’t trouble her. Men didn’t upset her. She was usually so adept at handling them. She understood the way they thought, the things they wanted, how best to soothe their fragile, ruffled egos. But the sultan didn’t appear fragile, or egotistical, and so far, she hadn’t a clue how to deal with him.
Malik calmly met Nicolette’s furious blue gaze.
The princess had cheekbones and an attitude, he thought, smiling faintly. He didn’t know why it made him smile. The attitude he’d expected—she was one of the beautiful Ducasse sisters after all—but the cheekbones intrigued him. In the princess the cheekbones were sculptural, architectural. Something one wanted to touch, trace, caress.
She’d only just arrived and yet he wanted to take her face in his hands and stroke the sensuous curve of cheekbone that stretched from her hairline to just above her full mouth.
But then, she didn’t just have cheekbones. She had lips, too. Lovely, full lips and wide winged eyebrows that reminded him of two birds flying free.
Where was the restrained regal face of Chantal? This wasn’t the face of a gentle princess. The face before him had an edge of sensuality, and fierceness. He had no doubt that this woman could be strong, very strong, and he’d be a fool to let her long soft curls and soft full lips tell him otherwise. He knew from his own mother that the most delicate beauties could hide a tiger’s heart.
‘‘Did you bring no one with you?’’ he asked, breaking the tension. ‘‘No secretary or valet? No one to handle your social calendar?’’
Nic shrugged. ‘‘I didn’t think it necessary, Your Highness. I have cleared my calendar, made myself completely available to you.’’
‘‘How thoughtful.’’
‘‘I try,’’ she said demurely, bowing her head, missing Malik’s speculative expression.
She was up to something, he thought, looking at her bent head, her dark brown hair shiny, silky. Her hair was long and she wore it pulled in a low, loose ponytail. The style flattered her high cheekbones but somehow did little to soften her strong jaw. She had a firm jaw and chin for a woman. She was a woman accustomed to getting her way.
‘‘But of course you need help,’’ he said after a moment, knowing why she’d traveled alone, and understanding it had little to do with the Ducasse family’s strained finances. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford help. He guessed she wanted to be incognito. She didn’t want any familiar staff assisting her.
The princess, he thought, was playing a game.
‘‘Since you weren’t able to bring anyone from home, I’m happy to provide staff for you,’’ he offered sympathetically. ‘‘I have a few people in mind, and all have undergone rigorous training as well as a thorough screening for security.’’
The deepness, the richness of his voice still sent little shock waves through her. Nic felt the tremors on the inside, wondered how any man’s voice could be so husky. ‘‘I don’t really need a staff, Your Highness.’’
He brushed aside her protest. ‘‘You have a very busy schedule, Princess. You have many functions, and many activities planned. It is vital you have help organizing your calendar, as well as your wardrobe.’’
She blushed. She’d never been serious about fashion, and the few smart pieces she had were gifts from various French and Italian designers. ‘‘I brought very little in the way of wardrobe.’’ Her polished smile hid her inner turmoil. He was not going to be easy to negotiate with. ‘‘I thought this was just a preliminary visit. Get acquainted, set the date—’’
He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, looking alarmingly Western. ‘‘But of course the date is set. We discussed this—’’
‘‘No, Your Highness, we never discussed this. You might have suggested a short engagement, but no date was ever set.’’ She loved that she could be firm. No one had ever been able to bully her. ‘‘I would have remembered.’’
He gestured casually, and