style="font-size:15px;"> If Chantal had heard the hurt in Nic’s voice she gave no indication. ‘‘I don’t know anything about your reputation, but I do know we all have a responsibility to take care of Melio. Succession depends on us. Melio’s security, and stability, must come through us. We are the next generation.’’
‘‘I’ve never shirked my duties. While you’ve been gone I’ve taken over your charities along with mine.’’
‘‘Charities are all very well and nice, but it’s money we need. Millions of dollars. And you have had two proposals, Nic.’’
‘‘Years ago.’’
‘‘Exactly! And nothing since. Because all the European royals know you’ve been voted by the press as the Ducasse princess least likely to settle down.’’
The criticism rang in Nicolette’s ears. It still rankled Nic that Chantal continued to perceive duty…responsibility…as the best of personal virtues. ‘‘You’re saying your sultan, King Nuri, would never propose to someone like me?’’
‘‘Well, he didn’t, did he?’’
Nic stared at Chantal for a long moment, realizing that even if duty-bound Chantal wanted to go to Baraka to meet the Sultan, Nic wouldn’t let her. Chantal had been through too much in the past few years. No one but Nic knew about Chantal’s private hell. Even Joelle, their youngest sister, knew little about the abuse Chantal suffered at the hands of her late husband.
‘‘There’s no reason for any of us to marry the sultan,’’ Nic said after a moment. ‘‘We can get him to help us without giving up our freedom, and yes, I do value my freedom.’’ Her gaze locked with Chantal’s. ‘‘We’ll get Lilly free. We’ll bring her home.’’
Chantal shook her head. ‘‘Her grandparents will never let her go.’’
‘‘They will if pressured properly.’’ Nic’s gaze held her sister’s. ‘‘They will if King Nuri insists. You did say he was immensely powerful.’’
‘‘And wealthy,’’ Chantal whispered.
‘‘So I’ll go to King Nuri and ask for his help. He won’t say no to his future bride, will he?’’
‘‘Nic—’’
‘‘I’ll go, pretend to be you, get him to fall in love with me—’’
‘‘Nic.’’
‘‘He’s a man, Chantal. I know how to manage men.’’
‘‘It’s not going to work. You’ll never be able to pass yourself off as me. You’re blond, I’m dark—’’
‘‘I’ll dye my hair. As a brunette I could pass for you.’’ Nic suddenly laughed, empowered. ‘‘I’ll sneak in, sneak out. He won’t even know what’s happened.’’
‘‘Oh, Nic, this is a disaster waiting to happen!’’
‘‘Not if I’m smart,’’ she answered smugly. ‘‘Trust me. I can do this. I’ll put together a plan, and you know me, Chantal. When I want something, I always win.’’
CHAPTER ONE
KING MALIK ROMAN NURI, sultan of Baraka, stood on the ancient harbor wall constructed nearly seven hundred years ago, in the shade of a sixteenth century Portuguese fortress and watched the royal Ducasse yacht sail into his harbor, ship’s purple and gold banners flying high.
His princess was here.
His thick lashes lowered as he heard his band strike up a song of welcome, and he wondered at her thoughts, the thoughts of the beautiful Ducasse princess who’d left her home for his. Her world was Western, his was Eastern. She must feel some fear. He felt fear for her. She was coming to a world far different from her own. Her life would never be the same.
Did she even know it yet?
Standing on the gleaming wooden deck of the Royal Star, the Ducasse yacht named after Nic’s late mother, Nicolette adjusted the long dark head covering she’d donned, and listened to the ship’s flags snap in the hot afternoon wind, even as her own body crackled with tension.
She was determined. Focused. She knew what she had to do.
Her plan would work. There was no reason it shouldn’t.
She’d arrive in Baraka, pretend to be Chantal, proceed with the wedding, and then once Chantal and Lilly were safe in America, the wedding would be called off.
Simple. Doable.
With her narrowed gaze on the horizon, the formidable stone walls of Atiq, Baraka’s capital city, took shape. The fortified rampart facing the sea appeared to be centuries old, buffeted by storm and sea, and countless marauding neighbors. Nic could easily imagine those ruthless neighbors—The Greeks. The Romans. The Turks. The Portuguese. The French.
Everybody wanted to own something. If not a woman, then a piece of land. She could just picture the sailors, the soldiers, the adventurers grabbing up chunks of soil and sand. Anything for power.
Nic stifled the wave of irritation. She had to be careful, needed to keep tight rein on her temper. She had to be charming, not angry. Sweet-tempered, not feisty. It was vital King Malik Nuri believe she was really Chantal.
Pulling the head scarf closer to her face, concealing her mouth and nose, she drew a deep breath and chased away all thoughts of conquerors and kings. Instead she studied the looming port with the dots of green palm trees shadowing the glaring white walls of the inner city.
For a moment, Nic’s curiosity upstaged her emotions. Was this where she’d stay during the next couple of weeks? Did the sultan live in the harbor city of Atiq? Or was his palace elsewhere…perhaps tucked inland, protected by the massive dunes of the Sahara?
And as her gaze focused on the distant horizon, music wafted over the water. She spotted the enormous crowd gathered on the rampart walls. Hundreds and hundreds of people waited for her.
So much for sneaking in and out.
Beneath Nic’s long robe, something she’d cheerfully put on as it aided her disguise, her toes curled inside her sleek leather pumps, the shoes matching her hidden lavender silk suit perfectly, the suit vintage designer—something from her mother’s collection, and she shook her head at Chantal’s choices all over again.
Why on earth would someone like King Malik Roman Nuri choose Chantal for his bride? And why on earth would Chantal even consider saying yes to yet another unfaithful husband?
Nic had spent all last week on the Internet, poring over media archives. She’d done her research and she knew King Malik Roman Nuri for what he was. A handsome, but irredeemable playboy.
From the few grainy photos she’d been able to pull up, he was certainly attractive. He had hard, masculine features, a thick head of hair, and apparently a stunning libido.
The gossip magazines claimed the sultan, Malik Nuri, was The Casanova of Arabia. According to several
