He was a world-class lover. He spoiled his mistresses. After Chantal’s experience with one manipulative and unfaithful husband, she certainly didn’t need another who’d never keep his vows of fidelity, much less loyalty.
Nic grit her teeth. Chantal deserved a prince of a man, not a sultan unable to keep his royal trousers on!
The band’s bright notes jarred her, even as they filled the air. Two weeks, three weeks, she told herself, fighting her temper, not a day more. They’d leave for the United States as soon as it could be arranged. She’d propose a wedding in her mother’s home town, something very small and private, yet meaningful, and once they were in Baton Rouge, Nic would call the wedding off.
If she handled this right—flattering the sultan, giving him the kind of attention she knew how to give a man—the whole charade would be nothing but a feminine escapade. The engagement would be short. Sweet. Painless.
‘‘Your Highness?’’ The ship’s captain had appeared at her side. ‘‘We have arrived.’’
Nic turned to the captain, a man she’d known nearly half her life. He’d aged in the past decade, but then hadn’t they all? And he didn’t know what she knew: this would be his last voyage as captain of the Royal Star. The Royal Star was being put up for auction on the ship’s return to Melio. ‘‘Excellent.’’
‘‘We’ve just about moored, Your Highness. Are you ready to disembark?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ And then she swallowed around the fierce lump in her throat as she looked up into Captain Anderson’s weathered face, the creases at his eyes deep from years of squinting against the sun. ‘‘And may I thank you for your years of loyal service, Captain? You’ve been truly magnificent.’’
‘‘It’s been my pleasure, Your Highness.’’ He bowed. ‘‘We’ll see you on your return home.’’
With the stringed instruments plucking, drums and tambourines beating, Nic stepped onto the gangway and halfway across, colorful confetti streamed down. It wasn’t paper confetti, the bits of orange and red and pink were flower petals and the sweet scented petals drifted onto her covered head and shoulders.
It was like entering a dream world—the music, the colors, the hint of spice in the air. Nic had the strongest sensation that this new world would soon dazzle her with its exotic secrets.
By the time she reached the end of the gangway, time had slowed. Faces blurred. People were cheering and clapping but none of it sounded real. The language was different, the faces weren’t familiar, there was nothing here that resembled the life she’d known.
Her gaze searched the crowd, trying to find a landmark…a personal touchstone. She found none. Instead the heat beat at her, hot and humid and oppressive, and the noise rang in her ears, too loud, too insistent, and for a half second everything swam before her eyes, a blur of orange and crimson, sharp, discordant sound, and she blinked once, trying to clear her head, trying to find herself again.
Nic gripped the gangway railing and tried not to dwell on the fact that she, Tough Girl, was suffering from a case of nerves. Focus, she lectured herself. Find a face in the crowd. Get your legs under you. Pull yourself together.
And she did.
She found a remarkable face in the crowd. It belonged to a man of course, she’d always had a soft spot for the opposite sex, and this man certainly caught her interest, quickened her pulse.
Arresting, was the first word that came to mind. Darkly arresting. She liked his strong hard face with the dark sunglasses, the thick black hair which framed his wide brow. She even liked the way he wore his sophisticated dark suit, with his crisp white shirt open at the collar.
He looked cool, calm, different from the others.
Her gaze clung to him, grateful for the normalcy. No robes, no camel, no chanting from him.
Good.
His sunglasses shaded his eyes and added to his mystique. She tried to imagine what his eyes would be like. Dark? Sable brown? Golden, perhaps?
It really didn’t matter, not with that thick, slightly wavy hair, and a face that made her think of lips…kisses. His jaw was as broad as his brow, his nose rather long but his lips curved faintly. They were very nice lips.
Then he pulled off his sunglasses and she inhaled a little, intrigued by his expression. It was arrogant. Proud. Challenging. He looked like a man who enjoyed a good fight. Interesting. She enjoyed a good fight, too.
Nothing turned her on as much as a man wrestling with her, rolling her beneath him, pinning her hands to the bed.
Mmm, it’d been too long. Too bad they weren’t in Melio. What she wouldn’t give for a night alone with him. She’d like to test his pride as well as taste his intensity. He’d be great fun on board the Royal Star, or for a night playing in nearby Monte Carlo, but there was no way anything was going to happen here. She was Chantal, she reminded herself, ending the brief fantasy, and she was in Baraka to discuss a wedding.
Conscious of a thousand pair of eyes resting on her, cymbals still clanging in her ears, Nic wished the sultan would step forward and get the introductions over.
For a moment no one moved, then a small, very stout robed man with dark mustache and beard moved toward her.
‘‘Princess Chantal Marie Ducasse?’’
The man barely reached her shoulder. Nic was tall, taller than either of her sisters, but this man would have been short standing next to even them. ‘‘Yes.’’
He bowed. ‘‘May I present to you, His Royal Highness, King Malik Roman Nuri, sultan of Baraka, prince of Atiq.’’
The crowd shifted expectantly and their tension sent arrows of dread straight through her middle. For a half second she regretted agreeing to this, wishing she’d stayed comfortable and ignorant at home.
Then she straightened her shoulders and the front row of the crowd opened, allowing a tall man in a dark suit to pass through.
Him.
No, she silently cried, not him. Anyone but him. But he was moving toward her, slowly, languidly, and her legs went weak.
This was not a good thing.
She swallowed, tried to see past his sunglasses which were again hiding his gaze, but instead looked at his mouth. The mouth that had made her think of lips, and kissing and…sex.
Her mouth dried. She suppressed a wave of horror. She’d seen the Sultan’s picture on the Internet and she wracked her brain, trying to put together the grainy photos with this man but it didn’t fit. She’d imagined a shorter man, heavier set, easily man aged and rather spoiled…
This man didn’t look easily managed at all.
‘‘His Royal Highness,’’ the short man intoned with a deep bow.
Her heart thudded, turned over, and her legs felt quivery. ‘‘Your Highness?’’ she murmured, hearing the doubt in her own voice.
The sultan closed the distance between them
