ideas?’’ The interpreter asked.
Nic couldn’t hide her impatience. ‘‘Yes. Of course. It’s my wedding. I have ideas about my wedding.’’
No one spoke for a moment, and King Nuri’s dark head tipped, his black lashes dropped as he studied her. His cool gaze examined her face, taking in each feature, the curve of bone, the very shape and texture of her lips.
The translator expressed her thoughts to King Nuri.
Then the sultan spoke, and the translator turned to her. ‘‘The king understands that you have just arrived, and everything feels quite new and alien, but he also asks you to trust him with the wedding details so they will comply with his beliefs and our customs.’’
‘‘Please tell His Highness that I’d like to trust him with the wedding details, but a wedding is quite a personal event, and I insist I be part of planning it.’’
‘‘The king thanks you for your concerns, and assures you that you need not worry, or be troubled. As the wedding details are set, there is nothing for you to do in the next two weeks but relax and familiarize yourself with our life here in Baraka.’’
Nothing to do in the next two weeks but relax? Nic puzzled over the king’s answer. ‘‘What’s happening in two weeks?’’
The translator bowed his head. ‘‘The wedding, Your Highness.’’
The wedding already planned. The ceremony here. In two weeks. It couldn’t be. Surely this was a language problem, an issue with the translation. ‘‘I’m afraid we’re losing something here. Are you telling me that the wedding date—and all the detail—has already been set?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
Nicolette touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. She’d been in Baraka, King Malik Nuri’s North African kingdom, less than two hours and already things were wildly out of control. What had happened to her plan? What about the quiet, private ceremony she’d dreamed up in America? ‘‘How can it be set?’’
The robed translator bowed his head politely. ‘‘His Highness has chosen a date blessed by the religious and cultural calendar.’’
Nicolette glanced past the stout translator to King Nuri reclining on the sofa. This was going to be far more difficult than she’d anticipated. King Nuri was the kind of man she’d assiduously avoided—smart, suave, sophisticated—and far too much in control. ‘‘But the king hasn’t consulted my calendar,’’ she said firmly, turning toward the sultan, meeting his gaze directly to convey her displeasure. ‘‘He can’t set a wedding date without my input.’’
The translator nodded again, his expression grave, and still unfailingly polite. ‘‘It is customary for the king to consult with his spiritual advisors.’’
‘‘The king is very religious then?’’
The translator paused, appeared momentarily at a loss for words before recovering. ‘‘The king is the king. The ruler of Baraka—’’
What nonsense was this? ‘‘And I am Princess Chantal, of the royal Ducasse family.’’ Her temper was getting the best of her. She hated double-speak, especially hated royal double-speak. This is one reason she’d always dated commoners. Playboys, her sister’s voice echoed in her head. ‘‘Perhaps you’d care to remind your king that nothing is set until I say it’s set.’’
The translator hesitated. He didn’t want to translate this.
Nicolette’s jaw hardened. ‘‘Tell him. Please.’’
‘‘Your Highness—’’ the translator protested.
She shifted impatiently, set her cup on the low wood table. ‘‘Perhaps it was a mistake coming to Baraka. I’d assumed King Malik Nuri was educated. Civilized—’’
‘‘Western?’’ the king concluded, languidly rising from his sofa to again dominate the royal chamber.
Nic’s jaw dropped even as her stomach flipped.
So he spoke English. But of course he spoke English. She’d discovered on the Internet that he’d gone to Oxford for heaven’s sake. Yet he’d allowed all introductions, all awkward conversation, to be made via the translator. He’d had their first meeting conducted like an interview.
‘‘Why did we have a translator?’’ she demanded, head tilting, scarf sliding back, revealing her long dark hair.
He didn’t look a bit apologetic. ‘‘I thought it might make you more comfortable.’’
Wrong. It was to make him more comfortable. A passive display of power. Nic scraped her teeth together. Think like Chantal, she reminded herself. Be Chantal.
But Chantal’s become a doormat.
And yet it’s Chantal he wants, not you.
The sultan was waiting for her to speak. Her eyes flashed fire even as she struggled to retain her flimsy smile, nodding her head the way she’d seen Chantal nod graciously so many times on official state business. ‘‘How considerate,’’ she said from between clenched teeth, rising as well. ‘‘I really ought to…thank you.’’
King Nuri’s lips curved faintly. ‘‘My pleasure.’’ He lifted his hand in a small imperial gesture and the translator discreetly exited the room.
They were both standing, far too close for Nic’s comfort, and the sultan studied her fierce expression for a long moment before knotting his hands behind his back and slowly circling her.
It was an examination. A study before a purchase.
Like a camel at an open-air market, she thought uneasily, as he circled a second time, his hawklike gaze missing nothing.
‘‘Do I meet your approval, King Nuri?’’ She choked, her sarcasm lost as her voice broke. This was not going to be a two-week vacation. She was scared. Not for Chantal, but for herself. King Nuri had a plan, and as the wild beating of her heart reminded her, his plan was swiftly annihilating her own.
CHAPTER TWO
THE king continued his examination, coming round full circle a second time before stopping in front of her, just inches away.
Nic held her breath, fighting for poise, trying not to blink or flinch but keep all responses hidden even though he did something crazy to her senses. Her head swam and her pulse quickened and right now she found herself fascinated by a dozen little things like the line of his jaw, the shadow of his beard, the deep hollow at his throat—
‘‘You’re taller than I expected,’’ he said, breaking the taut silence.
She’d inherited her father’s height, as well as his blond hair, and her height had been a problem for a lot of men, ‘‘So are you.’’
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘‘Your coloring is a little off, too.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘But then I suppose people always look different on television.’’
‘‘You
