her. He terrified her. She could only imagine how wild, how explosive their lovemaking would be.
‘‘You won’t?’’
She swallowed convulsively, feeling prickly with heat, her nerves screaming in anticipation. The tension crackling between them was unlike anything she’d ever known before. But then, she’d never challenged a man as powerful as Malik Nuri before. ‘‘No.’’ She drew a quick, shallow breath, trying somehow to regain her footing again. She could hear Chantal in her head, hearing Chantal’s disapproval. Chantal would never, ever challenge a man like this. Chantal believed in tact, diplomacy, quiet strength.
Nic’s strength wasn’t even close to being quiet.
But she wasn’t here as Nicolette, rebel middle daughter. She was here as Chantal, and King Nuri had expected agreeable Chantal.
His head lowered, his lips brushed her cheek. ‘‘I can not have a disobedient wife.’’
His deep cultured voice penetrated through her, electrified the most inner part of her. Her belly clenched in a knot of pleasure and fear. She craved, physically craved, his voice, his strength, his power. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted his hands all over her.
You’re mad, she choked inwardly. You’ve lost your mind if you want to take King Nuri on this way.
But she did. She wanted to provoke him. Test him. See how far he’d let her go. She wondered where he’d draw the line and what he’d do to make her toe the line.
Power. Control. Submission. Domination. She was strong. Very strong. So strong that she’d never met a man who could match her strength—until today. ‘‘A husband shouldn’t require obedience. He should desire a spirit of cooperation, and mutual respect.’’
His lips hovered above her cheek. ‘‘But a woman can’t respect a man if he lets her walk all over him.’’
‘‘I don’t believe you’ve allowed me to walk anywhere near you, Your Highness.’’
He tipped her chin up and his silver gaze burned into her eyes, seeing the fire and rebellion she couldn’t possibly hide. ‘‘You refuse to capitulate.’’
His touch was making her head spin. ‘‘But why should I have to capitulate? If you’re serious about wanting a wife with an education and a sense of self-worth, then you’d welcome my thoughts.’’
‘‘I do welcome them. I just don’t expect my bride to challenge every request I make.’’
‘‘I’m not your bride yet, and you’re not making requests. You’re making demands. There’s a difference. We both know it.’’ She jerked her head back, put her hands to his chest and gave a firm push. There was no way she’d let him knuckle her under.
His gaze swept down, from her warm cheeks, to her lips and even lower to the full swell of her breasts. ‘‘And if I ask you to attend language classes?’’
The weight of his gaze on her breasts made them ache. It was as if he was touching her, caressing her, and her nipples peaked, hardening. ‘‘I’d consider your request.’’ Her voice had dropped, grown husky. He had to know what he was doing to her, had to know the sensations he was stirring within her.
His gaze slowly lifted again, traveling up her neck, over her full, soft mouth, past her flushed cheeks to her eyes. ‘‘Not everything between us needs to be a fight.’’
His inflection was nearly as husky as her own. She felt warmth creep through her, a seductive wash of awareness…and desire. ‘‘I’m not fighting now.’’
The corner of his mouth lifted in the briefest smile. ‘‘No. But I expect this is but a momentary reprieve.’’
Oh, that smile of his. It was dangerous. Mysterious. It was as if he knew all sorts of things about her that she didn’t even know. ‘‘You don’t like to fight?’’
He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘‘No.’’ His silver gaze warmed, the gray-green depths turning rich, molten. ‘‘There are too many other things I’d rather do with women, particularly if she happens to be my woman.’’
There. His woman again. More possession. And she didn’t want to be a possession.
‘‘Now let’s see how well this works,’’ he continued softly, a husky note of compulsion in his voice. ‘‘Princess Chantal, I’m asking you to please consider attending the language and culture classes that begin in—’’ he glanced at his watch ‘‘—fifteen minutes. It’s important to me that you familiarize yourself with our culture. Can you manage to squeeze the lessons into your busy schedule?’’
He really wasn’t giving her a choice, though, and she knew it. He was asking her, but he was fully expecting her to say yes. Damn him. Malik Roman Nuri was really hard to manage. ‘‘I’ll check my calendar,’’ she answered crisply. ‘‘But if my morning is open, I’ll do my best to make the first lesson.’’
His eyes gleamed. His smile was mocking. He reached for her again, his fingers curling through her long hair. ‘‘You, Princess, have had too many Western men.’’
His words, his touch, his knowing smile made her tremble inwardly. The power continued to shift. The boundaries seemed practically invisible. He touched her as if she was already his. And her body was responding to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘‘I said I’d try.’’
He released her leisurely, drawing his fingers from her thick hair even more slowly. ‘‘You will. We both know you will. You’re in Baraka now, laeela. My will, Princess, will soon be your command.’’ Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles. ‘‘Enjoy your time with Fatima. I’ll look forward to getting a full report on your lessons tonight.’’
Nic watched him leave, feeling a bubble of hysteria form in her chest. How was she going to convince him to go to America? How was she going to convince him to do anything? He wanted her to submit—not the other way around!
You’re in so much trouble, she told herself, feeling like a ship with a hole in the stern. She was going to sink. The only question was how much time did she have left before she went down?
Nicolette met Fatima in an airy salon, where the wood shutters at the tall arched windows were folded back, allowing the bright sun to bounce off the pale apricot walls and drench the marble floor with its dramatic black and ivory diamond pattern.
The language lesson seemed to last forever, but then a serving girl carried in almond pastries and mint tea.
Fatima poured the tea, glancing at Nicolette as she did so. ‘‘You know we have a saying here, Princess Thibaudet. There’s no escaping death and marriage.’’ Fatima smiled grimly, handed Nicolette her tea cup. ‘‘It’s true, you know. A girl’s place is in the home. Tending to the family.’’
Nic shrugged, sensing the other woman’s hostility thinking of the life Chantal had lived so far in La Croix, knowing that they were supposedly discussing Chantal’s future, not hers. ‘‘I don’t have a problem with that, Lady Fatima. I have a daughter. I’m comfortable being home. I’ve lived this way for years.’’
Fatima blew delicately on her hot tea.
