how can she be a proper queen if she isn’t a role model?’’ Fatima flashed.
‘‘Enough,’’ he answered, curtly. ‘‘This is not your concern.’’
Fatima dropped her head, but Nicolette saw the anger flare in Fatima’s eyes. Nic struggled to think of something to say. What could she say? She and Fatima had had a rocky relationship from the very first meeting.
The limousine wound through the quiet city streets, turning from one wide palm-lined boulevard onto another. Minutes passed in silence. The air conditioner blew, a quiet hum of artificially chilled air. Nic adjusted her delicate wrap, covering her shoulders more thoroughly.
‘‘Is the air too cool?’’ Malik asked.
‘‘It’s fine, thank you,’’ Nic answered, touched by his concern. ‘‘It feels good after the warmth of the party.’’
‘‘I was warm, too,’’ he said, and then paused, his attention focused on her. Nic felt his interest, his gaze resting on her face, or what he could see in the flashing light and shadows. ‘‘Our older buildings were designed with high ceilings to draw the warm air up, but the newer government buildings lack adequate ventilation.’’
Nic smiled deprecatingly. ‘‘I think all government buildings are identical. Perhaps they share the same architect?’’
‘‘Or same sensibilities,’’ he agreed.
Fatima sighed heavily and stirred, and Nic fell silent, self-conscious all over again.
Malik ignored his cousin. ‘‘Tell me, Chantal,’’ and his deep voice was like velvet against her senses—his timbre, rich, sensual, impossibly male. ‘‘When you’re queen, what is the first thing you’ll do?’’
* * *
Nicolette wished Fatima were not here, hanging on to every word. ‘‘Do you mean as in programs?’’ she asked, thinking about all the causes near and dear to her family’s heart back in Melio.
‘‘Programs, issues, activities. I’m just curious to know what you’d care about as queen. How you’d spend your time and energy here.’’
Nic had her causes, too, and since discovering the extent of Chantal’s misery in La Croix, Nicolette had taken it upon herself to set up women’s centers on each of the islands in Melio where women could ask questions, request help, even seek refuge.
She’d do the same thing here, too. She’d want to do something for women. It’d stunned her that Chantal had been physically abused, but now that Nicolette’s eyes were opened, she was determined to reach as many women as she could. If Chantal had suffered in such silence, God only knows the number of women in need. The number of women not helped.
‘‘I’d like to help women,’’ Nicolette answered evenly, knowing that Malik was now aware of Chantal’s wretched life in La Croix. ‘‘I have the name, the visibility, and the connections—all I lack is the means.’’
‘‘Which you won’t lack as Queen of Baraka.’’
Nic thought of the women living in Baraka who might be in desperate need of a helping hand. If she as Queen couldn’t make a change for the better, then who could?
But you won’t be queen, she reminded herself. This is just a game…
But it didn’t feel like a game anymore. Not at all.
She slowly peeled off her long pale green evening gloves. Everything about her life here felt real. Her emotions, her hopes, her worries.
‘‘How would you begin?’’ Malik persisted, apparently genuinely interested in wanting to hear more.
‘‘Education.’’ Nic lay the satin gloves on top of her small beaded purse. Chantal would never support this issue though. Chantal couldn’t fight for herself, much less anyone else. ‘‘I’d want to improve education for girls—’’
‘‘Our education here is excellent,’’ Fatima interrupted. ‘‘Girls are treated very well in Baraka. The majority attend school.’’
‘‘Yes, you did, Fatima,’’ Nicolette answered gently. ‘‘You hold a college degree, and your parents supported your educational pursuit, but that’s not the norm for poorer families, is it?’’ Nic didn’t wait for Fatima to answer. ‘‘If I were queen, I’d like to see all children in school until seventeen, and I’d want to encourage girls to continue to college and vocational programs so that every girl has a choice in life, opportunity—’’
Fatima snapped her fingers. ‘‘They have a choice. They can choose marriage, they aren’t married against their will. Parents and matchmakers consult daughters here. We are not barbaric like some countries. And a wife and mother is always loved.’’
As if saying yes or no to an arranged spouse was freedom of choice!
Nic said nothing for a long moment then shook her head. ‘‘There are many ways of being loved. Women should at least have the option to choose how they are loved, and that includes choosing career or home. Women shouldn’t be home because they have no other choice, but because it’s the place they choose to be. The path they seek.’’
‘‘And you, Princess Chantal,’’ Malik interjected kindly, diffusing some of the tension, ‘‘are you doing what you want to be? Have you found your path?’’
Nicolette met his gaze in the shadows of the car. Ah, tricky question. Had she found her path?
No.
Had she ever tried to find her path before?
No.
Why?
‘‘I think I’m still searching,’’ she said after a moment, feeling foolish, aware of Fatima’s seething animosity.
‘‘So what are you searching for?’’ His question was maddeningly simple.
Nic flashed back to the palace in Melio, her elderly grandparents, her sisters gathered in her bedroom, all of them sprawled on her bed talking about the future, what needed to be done for the future of their country. ‘‘Me,’’ she whispered.
Fatima snorted in disgust. ‘‘Typical Western answer,’’ she muttered, turning her head away, staring pointedly out the car window.
Heat burned through Nic, a blush flooding her face. Me, she silently mocked herself. Me, had been such a self-absorbed an swer. A childish concept.
Searching for oneself.
Trying to find oneself.
‘‘We’re all called to search for the truth,’’ Malik said, and she looked up to find that his expression had gentled, and there was compassion in his cool silver gaze. ‘‘Without self-knowledge, we are nothing. If we do not know ourselves, we can not love ourselves, or anyone else for that matter.’’
Nic’s eyes suddenly watered. She bent her head, focused on the pair of pale green gloves draped across her small evening purse, telling
