Like many abused women, part of Chantal believed that somehow she had brought the pain on herself, that she must have done something wrong along the way, that Armand’s cruelty wouldn’t have happened if Chantal had been a better wife, woman, mother.
Malik’s long tanned fingers tapped the rim of his glass. ‘‘Did he hit you?’’
Nic held her breath. The air felt hot and sharp inside her lungs. She could hear Chantal in her head, no no no, could see her sister’s beautiful eyes pleading, don’t say a thing, don’t tell him what horrible things I went through. He’ll think less of me, he’ll think I’m bad, that I’m somehow…dirty.
Nic’s eyes filled with tears. Damn Armand to hell. He had no right laying a hand on Chantal. No right putting his fist to her face. ‘‘Yes.’’
Malik’s eyes searched Nic’s. ‘‘Did he ever touch your daughter?’’
‘‘He was rough.’’ Nic swallowed. She didn’t like talking about her sister’s marriage, didn’t like airing such horrid secrets. It was shameful, she thought, understanding for the first time why Chantal couldn’t talk about the abuse, why Chantal only wanted to move on. Forget.
‘‘Were Armand’s parents aware of the problem?’’
Her shoulders shifted. ‘‘They couldn’t have been oblivious. Armand lost his temper in front of them frequently.’’
‘‘But they did nothing?’’
‘‘No. But his mother did come to me once. She’d intimated that early in her marriage Armand’s father had behaved the same, but that it was our duty to forgive them, that they are good men. They just don’t manage their anger well.’’
‘‘She wanted you to put up with it since she had to.’’
Nic nodded. She’d told Chantal the very same thing. ‘‘They say abuse often perpetuates itself.’’ She felt a gnawing restlessness. She needed to get up, move, escape this dreadful dark emotion filling her. Chantal had been through enough. Chantal would be saved. Chantal would have a chance at freedom. Independence. There was no reason for Chantal to ever have to agree to a loveless, arranged marriage again.
‘‘I want Lilly out.’’ Nic swallowed, forced herself to focus. ‘‘I want her away from La Croix.’’ She drew a slow breath. ‘‘You’re the only one who could possibly get her out.’’
‘‘Her grandparents won’t let her leave the country?’’
Nic’s gaze was direct. ‘‘They can be persuaded.’’
Malik said nothing.
Nic felt the lump in her throat grow but it only made her more determined. Lilly would get out. Chantal would be free. ‘‘There are all kinds of persuasion,’’ she added, glancing at her hands, then up into his face. ‘‘I believe her grandparents might accept…compensation…if you will.’’
‘‘Buy them off?’’
‘‘It could be possible.’’
‘‘Those are desperate measures.’’
Nic smiled but her eyes felt hard, her skin felt cold. ‘‘And I am a desperate woman.’’
He stood, held out an arm. ‘‘Come, let’s walk. It’s feeling a little close in here.’’
Nic rose, slipped her trembling hands into the pockets of her slim linen overcoat, wondering if she’d alienated Malik with her honesty. Then so be it, she immediately answered. If he couldn’t handle truth, if he couldn’t deal with reality, then he wasn’t the right one for her. Correction, the right one to help Chantal.
Because she was here for Chantal. This wasn’t about her…this wasn’t for her…Or was it?
Nic sucked in a breath, wondering what was happening. She was feeling a kinship with King Nuri, a new sense of belonging. But Baraka wasn’t home, and wouldn’t be home. Her life was in sunny Melio on the other side of the Mediterranean with its scent of cypress and oranges, shades of olive-green and dark green, the rocky cliffs and the sun drenched pastures.
Malik’s arm rested lightly around her as they walked from the palace to one of the exterior courtyards, massive even by European standards, and the warmth of his body against hers flooded her with hot sensation.
She wanted so much more than just an arm on her waist. She longed to feel him all the way against her, wanted the pressure of his chest, his hips, his legs. She drew a deep breath, exhaled even more slowly. The desire to be part of him was growing stronger day by day. This was a dangerous place, she thought, and somehow the splash of fountains and the sun glinting off cobalt-blue tiles while the scent of jasmine hung in the air only added to the ache inside her.
She glanced up into his face, her gaze taking in his hard, regal features, his dark hair combed back from his broad brow. He looked pensive. Preoccupied.
‘‘Did I shock you?’’ she asked, wishing she didn’t care one way or the other what he thought, but she did care, she cared very much. The fact was she liked King Malik Roman Nuri more than she’d liked any man in oh—years.
He was hard, sexy, sensual. Male. She knew by the way he touched things, he understood fingers, skin, pressure, sensation. She knew by the way he moved that he was aware of himself, aware of others. Even now with his arm lightly around her waist she felt his strength and energy ripple through her, hot, sensitive, alive.
‘‘No.’’
‘‘You’ve gone quiet.’’
His palm pressed against the dip in her spine, warm, strong. Nicolette had never felt so safe. She’d never felt in danger before, but this was different. Malik Roman Nuri was a man who cared about women. Protected women. He was a man who’d always do what was right for the women in his family.
‘‘You’ve given me much to think on.’’ The pressure of his hand eased. ‘‘I realize that you come here with unique needs of your own.’’
Was that a polite way of saying she had an agenda? She wasn’t going to deny it. Arranged marriages were about strengthening one’s position, forming an alliance, creating stability.
‘‘We both want something,’’ she answered frankly. ‘‘The question is, what do you really want from me? You already know what I want from you.’’
‘‘Do I?’’ He shot her a curious glance. ‘‘I know you want freedom for Lilly, and stability and security for your country, but what about you? You don’t strike me as a woman who has no dreams for herself.’’
The splash of the fountain soothed Nic’s nerves. She listened to the gurgling water and it sounded cool, refreshing. She felt more at peace than she had in days. ‘‘It would be enough for me to know that my family is happy, healthy, and safe.’’ And Nic realized that it was true. Maybe she didn’t have her mother’s talent and desire for fame, but she had her mother’s courage. She wasn’t afraid to risk all to ensure that those around her would be protected.
Nic knew she was tough. She’d always been strong. She didn’t need approval. She wanted to stand on her own two feet. ‘‘And equality,’’ she said after a moment. ‘‘Equality for women. Everywhere.’’
Then remembering where she was, standing in what had to be one of the most luxurious courtyards in the world, Nic realized she was speaking not just to Malik, but to a sultan, a king of a country that had once been part of the powerful Ottoman Empire, in a country where men outnumbered women in higher education ten to one.
Perhaps she’d said too much, been too honest. Nic glanced up at Malik again, tensing inwardly, waiting for his reprimand.
Instead he nodded, his expression sober. ‘‘I