and jewels and carried in, reclining on a table.’’
He laughed, the sound deep and husky, and far too sexy. ‘‘It’s not exactly the same thing as walking down an aisle in virginal white, is it?’’
It amused him, this little play acting of hers. The princess was determined to stick with the role, even though it didn’t suit her at all.
He’d known she was Nicolette from the moment she arrived, and yet he’d gone along with her charade, curious to see how far she’d let this go. He’d heard she was tough—spirited—independent, and her fire intrigued him. As well as challenged him. She might be a player, but so was he. He’d play her game. And he’d beat her at her own game.
Watching her face now, he secretly hoped she would give him a good run for his money. Women had always fallen at his feet, swept away by his power and money. Women had always been…too easy. But Nic wasn’t easy. And he liked that.
The fact that she’d come to his country and try to play him…now that was daring. She was a born risk-taker. Good for her. Too many people played it safe throughout life.
‘‘Should we go try on that wedding gown now?’’ he asked, feeling almost guilty for enjoying himself so much. And yet it’d been a long time since he’d felt so enthusiastic, or optimistic, about anything.
He saw how the word ‘‘wedding gown’’ made Nicolette’s jaw clench. It was all he could do to keep his expression blank.
‘‘You’re going to accompany me to the fitting?’’
‘‘Why not?’’ he answered with a shrug.
The tip of her pink tongue appeared, briefly touched the edge of her teeth. ‘‘Is it customary?’’ But she didn’t give him chance to answer as she immediately continued. ‘‘Because somehow I can’t imagine it’s allowed here. According to your cousin Fatima, the men and women are still so segregated. Once girls hit puberty, women begin to lead separate lives…’’ Her voice drifted off. She tried again. ‘‘Perhaps I’ve misunderstood her, or perhaps I’ve misunderstood you.’’
‘‘No. You didn’t misunderstand.’’
She waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. She swallowed. ‘‘But aren’t you…I’d think you’d be…as sultan…’’ Her confusion showed in her eyes. ‘‘More traditional.’’
It was rather refreshing to see her struggle. Very little gave Princess Nicolette pause. She’d arrived here thinking she had the upper hand. She’d do this, and do that, and it would be just as she planned.
But nothing in life went just as one planned. And the game was on.
‘‘Alas,’’ he sighed, ‘‘I am not the most traditional sultan. I’ve traveled a great deal, lived abroad. I hope you are not disappointed.’’
He felt her gaze as they walked through the palace, down one mysterious corridor and then another. She was thinking, and she was struggling to come up with some definitive conclusions but so far she hadn’t.
She couldn’t.
She didn’t really know him.
He smiled on the inside. He liked her. He’d liked her for a long time, not that he knew her well, either. But he appreciated what he saw, admired her attitude. He knew she was the Ducasse princess who didn’t want to marry. He’d heard all about her escapades, the problems she’d created in Melio, the headaches she’d given her beloved grandparents. He’d heard, too, how she didn’t worry about what others thought—she loved her family—but she wasn’t going to give up herself just to please them, either.
Like her, he’d dated extensively. He’d never worried about marriage, had known he’d have to marry one day, after all, he was the eldest son of the powerful Sultan Baraka, and he’d assumed that his bride would be loving, loyal, dutiful, and he’d imagined a quiet woman from his own country. But after the attempt on his life, his priorities changed.
He needed more than a quiet, obedient bride. He needed a woman who could face the challenges of life with courage, intelligence and humor.
They’d reached the end of the hall, and Malik opened the door to a very modern salon. The salon was outfitted with low couches covered in bright orange and violet velvet fabrics, the pale yellow walls were sheeted in long mirrors, and in the middle of the room was a small curtained platform for wardrobe fittings.
An elegant woman entered the room, and she bowed to King Nuri, and then turned to Nicolette. ‘‘Your Highness,’’ she said, smiling. ‘‘It is an honor to meet you, and an even greater honor to dress you for your wedding. You must be quite excited.’’
Excited was the last word Nic would have used to describe her emotions at the moment. Dread, disgust, terror, anxiety, fear…those were the emotions she felt right now as she stepped up onto the platform.
‘‘Do you have any thoughts on the type of gown you’d like to wear?’’ The designer asked, summoning two assistants who helped begin with the measurements.
Nic felt King Nuri’s watchful presence, and she glanced up at the curtains hanging from the ceiling. She knew the curtains could be closed, offering greater privacy, but no one moved to shut them. ‘‘No. I don’t really spend time thinking about these things.’’
‘‘You’d never had any ideas about the gown? The color, the style, the fabric.’’
Nic shook her head. Once, four or five years ago, she and her sisters had spent the night before Chantal’s wedding to Prince Armand planning their futures and Nic and Joelle had sketched their wedding dresses and described the kind of wedding they’d each have. Nic had said she’d do a Sleeping Beauty wedding, all pink and coral and green, because she’d have to be Sleeping Beauty to get married—go to sleep, wake up with a kiss and get dragged to the altar fast before she knew what was happening.
Joelle and Chantal had laughed, of course, but now the idea of being dragged to the altar fast appeared incredibly real.
With the measurements taken, the designer summoned for fabric samples, and the assistants carried out bolt after bolt, displaying them first before the sultan and then draping them across Nicolette’s shoulder.
The fabrics were all costly—rich delicately woven silks with even more delicate threads of gold. The colors were exquisite, sheer pastel hues ranging from grass-green to young lemon, the pink of dawn to the coral plucked from the sea.
‘‘This is just the beginning,’’ the designer said. ‘‘Later many dedicated hands will embroider fantastic patterns, but first we must find the right silk for you.’’
Malik had been watching everything closely from his position on one pumpkin-hued sofa. He suddenly spoke to the designer in Arabic.
The designer listened attentively, bowed and turning to Nic, she smiled. ‘‘You are very fortunate, Your Highness, the sultan wishes you to have a gown made from each.’’
Nic wished everyone would stop telling her how fortunate she was. She did not feel fortunate. She felt trapped. And a gown of each color would only trap her more.
Turning, she glanced at King Nuri where he reclined on the plush
