He smiled on the inside. He liked her. He’d liked her for a long time, not that he knew her well, either. But he appreciated what he saw, admired her attitude. He knew she was the Ducasse princess who didn’t want to marry. He’d heard all about her escapades, the problems she’d created in Melio, the headaches she’d given her beloved grandparents. He’d heard, too, how she didn’t worry about what others thought—she loved her family—but she wasn’t going to give up herself just to please them, either.
Like her, he’d dated extensively. He’d never worried about marriage, had known he’d have to marry one day, after all, he was the eldest son of the powerful Sultan Baraka, and he’d assumed that his bride would be loving, loyal, dutiful, and he’d imagined a quiet woman from his own country. But after the attempt on his life, his priorities changed.
He needed more than a quiet, obedient bride. He needed a woman who could face the challenges of life with courage, intelligence and humor.
They’d reached the end of the hall, and Malik opened the door to a very modern salon. The salon was outfitted with low couches covered in bright orange and violet velvet fabrics, the pale yellow walls were sheeted in long mirrors, and in the middle of the room was a small curtained platform for wardrobe fittings.
An elegant woman entered the room, and she bowed to King Nuri, and then turned to Nicolette. ‘‘Your Highness,’’ she said, smiling. ‘‘It is an honor to meet you, and an even greater honor to dress you for your wedding. You must be quite excited.’’
Excited was the last word Nic would have used to describe her emotions at the moment. Dread, disgust, terror, anxiety, fear…those were the emotions she felt right now as she stepped up onto the platform.
‘‘Do you have any thoughts on the type of gown you’d like to wear?’’ The designer asked, summoning two assistants who helped begin with the measurements.
Nic felt King Nuri’s watchful presence, and she glanced up at the curtains hanging from the ceiling. She knew the curtains could be closed, offering greater privacy, but no one moved to shut them. ‘‘No. I don’t really spend time thinking about these things.’’
‘‘You’d never had any ideas about the gown? The color, the style, the fabric.’’
Nic shook her head. Once, four or five years ago, she and her sisters had spent the night before Chantal’s wedding to Prince Armand planning their futures and Nic and Joelle had sketched their wedding dresses and described the kind of wedding they’d each have. Nic had said she’d do a Sleeping Beauty wedding, all pink and coral and green, because she’d have to be Sleeping Beauty to get married—go to sleep, wake up with a kiss and get dragged to the altar fast before she knew what was happening.
Joelle and Chantal had laughed, of course, but now the idea of being dragged to the altar fast appeared incredibly real.
With the measurements taken, the designer summoned for fabric samples, and the assistants carried out bolt after bolt, displaying them first before the sultan and then draping them across Nicolette’s shoulder.
The fabrics were all costly—rich delicately woven silks with even more delicate threads of gold. The colors were exquisite, sheer pastel hues ranging from grass-green to young lemon, the pink of dawn to the coral plucked from the sea.
‘‘This is just the beginning,’’ the designer said. ‘‘Later many dedicated hands will embroider fantastic patterns, but first we must find the right silk for you.’’
Malik had been watching everything closely from his position on one pumpkin-hued sofa. He suddenly spoke to the designer in Arabic.
The designer listened attentively, bowed and turning to Nic, she smiled. ‘‘You are very fortunate, Your Highness, the sultan wishes you to have a gown made from each.’’
Nic wished everyone would stop telling her how fortunate she was. She did not feel fortunate. She felt trapped. And a gown of each color would only trap her more.
Turning, she glanced at King Nuri where he reclined on the plush sofa. His rust-colored shirt had fallen open at the collar, exposing the higher plane of his chest. He was all hard, honed muscle.
She tried not to imagine how lovely all that hard, honed muscle would be naked. She was already far too aware of him, far too attracted to him. The last thing she needed was proof of his sensuality…sexuality…virility. ‘‘I appreciate your generosity, Your Highness, but I do not need so many expensive gowns.’’
‘‘It gives me pleasure to dress you,’’ he answered lazily, a spark of possession in his eyes.
Nic swallowed, thinking she didn’t like the possessive light in his eyes, or the expense, and waste, of gowns she’d never wear. She wouldn’t be here long enough to wear even one of them. ‘‘I understand you are a generous man—’’
‘‘Proud, too.’’
The pitch of his voice made her stomach flip. He looked so relaxed, and yet she felt distinctly uneasy. Was she imagining the note of warning in his voice?
Shaken, Nic looked down, saw the latest bolt of fabric wrap her breast and hips, the silk a wispy blue like the blue of the sky after a hard cleansing rain. She liked the blue. It made her feel almost calm.
‘‘And one of the blue silk, too,’’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘‘That is my favorite so far.’’
The fitting ended soon after, concluding in silence. The designer bowed deeply to the sultan, thanking him profusely, and then excused herself leaving Nic and King Nuri alone.
Nic heard the great wooden door softly close behind the seamstress. She remained where she was on the dais, feeling strangely alone, and unusually foolish.
‘‘Which will be my wedding gown?’’ she asked, stepping off the platform and adjusting the band collar on her simple white linen overcoat and long slim skirt.
The sultan cocked his head. ‘‘Does it matter?’’
No. It didn’t matter. She’d only been making conversation, trying to fill the awkward silence. It wasn’t as if she’d ever wear the gown anyway. ‘‘You’re angry with me.’’
‘‘No. Not at all.’’ He extended a hand to her. ‘‘Come. Sit here with me so we might speak more comfortably.’’
She moved to sit on a sofa across from his but he shook his head. ‘‘Here.’’ He placed a hand on the pumpkin silk sofa where he reclined.
Gingerly she sat next to him. ‘‘Comfortable?’’ he asked.
She ignored the mockery underlying the question. ‘‘Yes.’’ Maybe he wasn’t angry, but there was something on his mind.
He adjusted one of the gorgeous gold tapestry pillows, placing it behind her back. ‘‘Better?’’
‘‘I wasn’t uncomfortable.’’
‘‘Yes, but one could always feel more peace…more pleasure.’’ He folded his arms behind his head, studied her face, her expression outwardly serene. ‘‘Did you enjoy the fitting?’’
‘‘I think I mentioned before that I’m not particularly fashion conscious.’’
‘‘But the newspapers and magazines are always proclaiming your strong sense of fashion. Aren’t you the clear favorite in the design world?’’
Chantal was, of course. Every designer loved to dress the very slender, and inherently elegant, Chantal Thibaudet, the beautiful widowed princess of La Croix. Chantal had been beloved as the eldest Ducasse daughter, but once married and widowed, the public embraced her even more.
Nic’s emotions ran riot. Chantal didn’t obsess about fashion. She’d always been stylish, even sophisticated. The family used to joke that even as a baby Chantal would tug on her bonnet until