who she was, she thought, and if she did marry him, pretending to be Chantal, what would happen later when he found out later she wasn’t Chantal? Would he say fine, one Ducasse is the same as another, or would he want Chantal—the good one—the obedient one, and divorce her on grounds of fraud? Deception?
But if Nic confessed the truth now, what would happen to Chantal and Lilly? What if they were close to getting home to Melio? What if Nicolette ruined it for them now?
She couldn’t imagine that all this…subterfuge…should be for naught.
‘‘I’m not going anywhere.’’ Her voice sounded rough. ‘‘I’m staying right here.’’ Nic looked up at him and prayed he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. ‘‘I’m on holiday today, remember? And you’ve promised me to show me something new…something fun.’’
‘‘I remember.’’
After the meal, Nicolette quickly changed shoes, applied some sunscreen to her face and returned to the front hall. Her heart felt heavy when she saw Fatima waiting.
Fatima looked at her. ‘‘This wasn’t my idea,’’ she said stiffly.
Nic could barely nod, ridiculously disappointed. Just then the car and driver pulled to the door and Malik arrived. Like Fatima, he’d changed into a jellaba, and like his cousin, his long robe was made of expensive fabric with ornate needlework lining the seams.
‘‘Do I need to change?’’ Nic asked, touching the neckline of her turquoise jacket.
‘‘I have a jellaba you can wear if you’d like,’’ Malik answered, lightly circling her with his arm. ‘‘But I see no need for you to change. You’ll find that many of our young people favor jeans and T-shirts. Between our French colonial past, and the flood of tourists in winter, you’ll find that our city center is quite Western.’’
‘‘Is that where we’re going?’’ she asked, settling into the back seat.
He suddenly spoke in Arabic to his cousin, and Fatima, who’d just sat down next to Nic, reluctantly moved, relocating herself to the opposite seat. Malik took the vacated space next to Nic.
‘‘Is this proper?’’ Nic whispered to Malik as the king stretched an arm across the back of the seat, his fingertips brushing her shoulder.
‘‘It’s my car,’’ he answered, looking down at her.
‘‘Yes, but your cousin—’’
‘‘Knows you’re to be my wife.’’ He reached for her hand, kissed the back of it. ‘‘Now relax. I want you to enjoy yourself. You’re not allowed to worry.’’
‘‘Not about anything?’’
‘‘About nothing. Not even Lilly. I’ve everything under control.’’
Something in his tone made the fine hair lift at the nape of her neck but she didn’t dare ask. He’d said not to worry, and for one hour, she could try to do that much, couldn’t she?
With a small convoy of police escorts, the limousine wound through numerous avenues, the streets growing narrower with each turn until they’d reached the market square.
Merchants and peddlers had filled the square with colorful bazaars, their booths offering every kind of ware imaginable. Baskets mounded with fruits and nuts. Copper pots. Bolts of fabric. Leather goods.
Nic sat forward on her seat, anxious to see everything. Malik’s fingers trailed down her spine until his hand settled in the small of her back. ‘‘You’re eager to explore.’’
She couldn’t contain her curiosity. She loved getting out, doing things. It’d been hard being so cooped up in the palace during the past week. ‘‘I am.’’
The driver parked and the security circled the limousine. Malik climbed out, extended a hand to Nicolette and then Fatima.
As Nicolette stood, she realized that nearly all of the women bustling around the market were wearing the long colorful jellaba. ‘‘Do you still have the…coverall?’’ she asked, indicating his jellaba. ‘‘I think Fatima and I would draw less attention if we looked the same.’’
Fatima aided Nicolette in settling the long navy jellaba over Nic’s head, covering her pantsuit.
‘‘Would you care to have a look around?’’ Malik asked Nic once she was finished dressing.
‘‘Yes,’’ Nic answered, ready to see as much of the medina as she could. She’d wanted to visit the city hub ever since she arrived.
‘‘Fatima will walk with you,’’ he said. ‘‘I’d like to go with you, but I think it’s less complicated for security if I wait here.’’
She understood, especially as the market was very crowded and it’d be difficult for a group—much less the sultan and his escorts—to pass through the congested square.
As she and Fatima set off, the sun shone high above, and a hot wind kicked up dust, tugged at the crisp canvas awnings, blowing the palm trees dense green fronds. Nic was nearly overwhelmed by such exotic beauty—the blue and white striped stalls, the massive clay pots of pink and green olives, baskets piled high with dried dates and apricots, the pervasive spice of peppers, and all the while the hot wind brushing and whipping the fronds so the very air seemed to whisper.
Exquisite, she thought, taking it all in, savoring all that was new and mysterious.
‘‘Balek!’’ a man shouted, lumbering past with a cart full of goods.
Balek. Nic smiled. Watch yourself. She’d understood the Arabic word.
Contented, Nic followed Fatima around the parameter of the bustling square, the old buildings fronted by hundreds of souks, each one selling something different, just as each merchant sized the shopper up, setting new and different prices.
Now and then she stopped to examine intriguing merchandise and gradually Nic forgot Fatima’s hostility, losing herself in the pleasure of being somewhere altogether new.
As she moved slowly from one seller to another, the sun beat down on her head, the rays penetrating her dark jellaba. Time to turn back, she thought. But looking up, hoping to catch Fatima’s eye, Nic realized she’d lost Malik’s cousin somewhere along the way. Surprised, but not distressed, Nic actually felt…relief. She’d been in many foreign countries, traveled a great deal. It didn’t cross her mind to feel fear. Instead, for one brief moment, she felt free. No Fatima, no sultan, no marriage, no worries.
And with that thought in mind, she wished she had money on her and she’d find a cafe´ somewhere and buy an iced coffee and just sit in the shade and watch everyone. Atiq was amazing and Nic loved the medina, responding to the history of the inner city with the cobbled streets, whitewashed buildings and dazzling sunlight.
A hand touched her arm and Nic turned. An older woman stood before her, the woman’s gray hair partially covered with a long scarf. ‘‘Lost?’’ The elderly woman asked.
Nic smiled. ‘‘A little.’’
The
