Nic felt herself exhale in a deep rush. But her relief was tinged by something else…an emotion far more personal, one that had nothing to do with Chantal and Lilly and only to do with her attraction.
‘‘We’d marry here first, then,’’ he added, as if thinking aloud. ‘‘You’re already here. The plans have been made. After the palace ceremony, we could fly to Louisiana, invite your friends and family to join us there.’’
His words popped whatever brief fantasy she held. She was being ridiculous, the daydream she had been having of a lazy afternoon in bed was even more ridiculous. He was a sultan. She was a princess. She wasn’t even the princess he wanted. ‘‘Your Highness—’’ she saw his frown, and quickly substituted his name ‘‘—Malik. I appreciate you considering my suggestion, and I’m grateful you’re willing to travel to the States, but if we should do all that, I’d really like to walk down the aisle first…be a bride in white.’’
‘‘A bride in white,’’ he echoed thoughtfully.
And then remembering she was supposed to be Chantal she forced a tight smile. ‘‘I know I’ve done it before, but it’s still…traditional.’’
‘‘And you’re the traditional sister, right?’’ He leaned away from the table and the candles, having burned low, turned the table into a shade of rose-gold. ‘‘You mentioned this morning that the Ducasses are half French?’’
It was a quick switch. He was very good, she thought, rinsing off her fingers in her water bowl, wiping her hands dry. He controlled the conversation. He controlled her physical reactions. He controlled her emotions. This was certainly a first for her.
‘‘French and Spanish,’’ Nic answered after a moment’s pause, gathering her wits about her, knowing she needed them more than ever. He let nothing slide. He remembered every word she said. ‘‘Although throughout history many Ducasse kings took English brides.’’
‘‘Royal brides?’’
‘‘Only royal brides.’’
‘‘So you were raised speaking…?’’
‘‘French for father, English for Mother, and our nanny was from Seville, so we spoke Spanish with her.’’
‘‘Any other languages?’’
Her heart was no longer racing. She felt calmer again, dignified. ‘‘I read Latin, of course, know some Greek, a fair amount of Italian and can get by with my German.’’
‘‘A linguist.’’
She shrugged. ‘‘I’m a mathematician. They say language and math use the same parts of the brain.’’
‘‘Interesting.’’ His fingers tapped the table, his expression almost brooding. ‘‘I didn’t realize both you and Nicolette studied mathematics at university. I knew she had—you’d mentioned that this morning—but didn’t know you had as well.’’
Nic gave herself a hard mental kick. You’re Chantal, act like Chantal! But it was proving harder to do than Nic ever expected. Having never wanted to be anyone but herself. ‘‘It’s all the same gene pool,’’ she said lightly. The table had been covered by an elegant purple cloth shot with gold threads so the entire table seemed to glimmer and shine in the soft candlelight.
‘‘Speaking of the parental gene pool, I met your father once,’’ Malik said, again changing the topic, keeping her firmly off balance. Candlelight flickered across his face, playing up the length of his imperial nose, the uncompromising line of his jaw. ‘‘Years ago, when I was still in my teens, I heard him address a group of leaders at a European economic summit. He was brilliant.’’
‘‘He loved Melio.’’ Nic pictured her country’s beautiful old port, the narrow tree-lined streets, the pretty farms tucked between rocky hills. ‘‘He wanted the best for Melio, and was willing to make whatever sacrifices were necessary—’’
‘‘Except for giving up your mother,’’ the sultan interrupted thoughtfully. ‘‘Your mother wasn’t ever negotiable, was she?’’
Her mother, the American pop sensation…a star who’d risen from the poorest roots imaginable. Her mother had grown up hungry. Hungry for food, warmth, love, shelter. Hungry for recognition.
Only Nic’s grandparents hadn’t seen it that way. They’d thought her mother was hungry for power and they’d done everything in their power to break up Julien and Star’s marriage. They’d wanted so much more for their Prince Julien. ‘‘He would have given up the crown if he had to,’’ she answered flatly.
‘‘Your grandparents nearly disinherited him.’’
She shook her head, finding it all so ludicrous. ‘‘My grandparents underestimated my mother.’’ Nic had never visited her mother’s birthplace in Louisiana, but she knew it was considered rural. Rough. Poverty stricken, crime ridden. Definitely not roots to be proud of. ‘‘Mother may have been born poor, but she wasn’t afraid of challenges.’’ No one worked harder than her mother. She had little formal schooling, having dropped out of high school before earning her diploma, but she’d dreamed big and that counted for something.
Malik’s gaze rested on Nic’s flushed face. ‘‘You got along well with her?’’
‘‘Very.’’ Nic had adored her mother. In some ways they were one and the same. Fearless. Absolutely fearless. ‘‘I’m glad she wasn’t your typical princess. I’m glad she was poor, blue collar, American. She took nothing for granted. She taught us to take nothing for granted.’’
A maid appeared with a tray and a steaming pot of coffee and two small cups. As the maid poured the coffee Nic wondered how on earth had they gotten onto this topic in the first place. It was not her favorite topic. Nic was too much like her mother to understand those who’d criticized Star.
Malik waited for the maid to leave again. ‘‘Would you say you’re the same kind of mother to Lilly? What is your relationship with your daughter like?’’
And suddenly Nicolette felt wrenched all over again, remembering how everything they were saying, everything they were doing was a lie. She was supposed to be playing Chantal, instead she kept speaking from the heart, answering his questions honestly, openly.
Think like Chantal…think like Chantal. And Nic could see Chantal in her mind’s eye and knew that yes, Chantal was a fantastic mother. Chantal was the ultimate mother. ‘‘I think I’m more protective than my mother,’’ Nic said after a moment. ‘‘And Lilly, I think, is more trusting than most children, and considerably more vulnerable.’’
Malik sipped from his small cup. ‘‘Perhaps it’s losing her father so young in life.’’
Nic couldn’t help her jaw hardening. Armand…Armand…how she hated Prince Armand Thibaudet. ‘‘Perhaps,’’ Nic agreed quietly, but her voice came out cold, flat. ‘‘Or perhaps it’s that she’s very bright for her age, quite intuitive, and she senses that things are not…as they should be.’’
Malik stared at her, considering her, his expression curious, almost speculative. After a minute ticked by, he shifted in his chair, leaning back to make himself more comfortable, and yet the intensity of his gaze made
