‘‘Time passes quickly.’’
Not quickly enough, Nic silently retorted, furious, hanging on to her temper—barely. Fatima’s company was becoming intolerable. ‘‘And you,’’ Nic said, turning the focus onto the twenty-five-year old. ‘‘What are your cousin’s plans for you? Is there a husband on the horizon, or are you going to remain here, devoting your life to him and me?’’
Fatima’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘I haven’t heard who he has selected for me, but I am interested, of course. Why? Have you heard something?’’
‘‘No.’’
For the first time since they sat down together this morning, Fatima expressed uncertainty. ‘‘But if you do hear something, you’ll tell me?’’
‘‘Of course, Lady Fatima. We should help each other, not hurt each other, don’t you think?’’
Returning to her room, Nic glanced at her calendar, unable to believe that every morning would be spent in virtual hell with Fatima, unnerved by the fact that she was making every decision—including decisions about meals and coffee—based on a calendar. Malik Nuri’s calendar! It was an insult to her intelligence. A test of her control.
Insult or not, Nic knew that according to the calendar, she had just enough time to freshen up and change before dinner. According to her appointment book, she and King Nuri would be dining alone together, and Alea had clothes already waiting, a pale pink trouser set with a long slim silk overcoat.
Nicolette wasn’t in the mood for pink, but she didn’t have the energy to protest, especially not when she had more pressing matters on her mind.
Managing her emotions—and reactions—around the sultan was an issue. Lady Fatima was already posing a problem. And Nicolette was no closer to convincing the sultan that the wedding should be moved to Baton Rouge than when she arrived yesterday afternoon.
So think of tonight as an opportunity, she told herself, as she was escorted to King Nuri’s quarters. This isn’t a chance to fail, but a chance to succeed.
They ate Western style, sitting at a small table in one of the elegant courtyards. Torches illuminated the tiled walls, reflecting off the ancient mosaics decorating every surface. During the meal, Nic struggled to think of a natural way to bring up her concerns about the wedding—and Lady Fatima—but no opportunity presented itself. But the wedding first.
‘‘I attended the lessons today,’’ she said, cringing a little at her inept opening. There had to be a better way to approach the topic than this. ‘‘Lady Fatima is certainly…knowledgeable.’’
‘‘She is, isn’t she?’’
Nic forced herself on. ‘‘She expressed thoughts that troubled me.’’
‘‘Indeed?’’
He wasn’t being very helpful here. ‘‘Despite her education, she sounds quite conservative, at least in terms of women’s roles in your society.’’
His shoulders shifted and the candle light flickered over his face, his features even, controlled. ‘‘Fatima has always been most comfortable as a woman. She embraces the unique differences between men and women.’’
Was he purposely taunting her? ‘‘Sounds perfect for you. I’m surprised you never considered marrying her.’’
His gaze clashed with hers. ‘‘Did I say that?’’
‘‘Did you propose?’’
‘‘No. I respect her immensely, but she’s like a sister to me.’’
Finally some insights into his world. Ever since arriving in Atiq, Nicolette had floundered, struggling to get her feet on the ground. Just who was Malik Nuri? What did he want? What did he really believe? ‘‘Have you ever proposed to anyone?’’
‘‘I’ve waited a long time to marry.’’ His expression revealed nothing, and his tone was deceptively mild. ‘‘I’ve waited a long time for you.’’
‘‘Not me—’’
‘‘Yes, you, Princess.’’
She wasn’t sure what to say next. Maybe she should just be glad he’d presented her with an opportunity to address her wedding concerns. ‘‘Have you had a chance to think about my request? It really does mean a great deal to me…marrying in my mother’s parish.’’ She tried to keep her tone casual, although beneath the table her fingers were knotting her linen napkin. There were so many undercurrents between them—personal, physical, sexual.
‘‘Your mother, the American.’’
‘‘I know you want to be married here, in Atiq, but perhaps we could find a compromise. Instead of just one ceremony, we could have two. We go to Baton Rouge for my church ceremony, and then return here for a traditional Barakan ceremony.’’
‘‘Two ceremonies?’’
‘‘It’s not unheard of, Your Highness—’’
‘‘Malik. Please. We’re discussing our wedding.’’
The way he said our wedding made her blush and she nodded awkwardly, immediately aware of the size of him, the strength of him, as well as the sense that despite the differences between them, they’d be eventually matched in bed. ‘‘Dual ceremonies are being done more and more these days,’’ she said, voice almost breaking. ‘‘It’s one way of addressing the various aspects of culture.’’
He hesitated, lips pursing. ‘‘Perhaps. I’ve never thought of drawing this out, but that’s not to say we couldn’t make it happen.’’
Yes. Nic felt herself exhale in a deep rush. But her relief was tinged by something else…an emotion far more personal, one that had nothing to do with Chantal and Lilly and only to do with her attraction.
‘‘We’d marry here first, then,’’ he added, as if thinking aloud. ‘‘You’re already here. The plans have been made. After the palace ceremony, we could fly to Louisiana, invite your friends and family to join us there.’’
His words popped whatever brief fantasy she held. She was being ridiculous, the daydream she had been having of a lazy afternoon in bed was even more ridiculous. He was a sultan. She was a princess. She wasn’t even the princess he wanted. ‘‘Your Highness—’’ she saw his frown, and quickly substituted his name ‘‘—Malik. I appreciate you considering my suggestion, and I’m grateful you’re willing to travel to the States, but if we should do all that, I’d really like to walk down the aisle first…be a bride in white.’’
‘‘A bride in white,’’ he echoed thoughtfully.
And then remembering she was supposed to be Chantal she forced a tight smile. ‘‘I know I’ve done it before, but it’s still…traditional.’’
‘‘And you’re the traditional sister, right?’’ He leaned away from the table and the candles, having burned low, turned the table into a shade of rose-gold. ‘‘You mentioned this morning that the Ducasses are half French?’’
It was a quick switch. He was very good, she thought, rinsing off her fingers in her water bowl, wiping her hands dry. He controlled the conversation. He controlled her physical reactions. He controlled her emotions. This was certainly a first for her.
‘‘French and Spanish,’’ Nic answered after a moment’s pause, gathering her wits about her, knowing she needed them more than ever. He let nothing slide. He remembered every word she said. ‘‘Although throughout history many Ducasse kings took English brides.’’
‘‘Royal brides?’’
‘‘Only royal brides.’’
‘‘So you were raised speaking…?’’