His lashes lowered as he watched Nic turn away, focus on an object beyond her shoulder and he realized that Nicolette was struggling to conceal her anger. What had Fatima said now?
Suddenly Nic turned her head and looked at him. Her blue gaze met his. The corner of her mouth pulled and her expression turned wry.
Save me, her expression seemed to say. And yet she wasn’t complaining. She was half amused, half resigned. The not-sostorybook-life of a modern princess.
It was obvious she’d been through this before, many, many times. The princess at a state dinner. The princess, guest of honor at a charity ball, princess, keynote speaker at a fund-raiser.
She might be the family rebel—she might have covered up her gorgeous blond hair with a horrible brown hair dye—but she never shirked her duties.
She might think she wasn’t a proper princess, but she understood family and loyalty, she understood what it was to protect and honor.
She’d make a perfect queen. Little did she know that by taking Chantal’s place, Nic had given Malik everything he ever wanted in a bride.
Malik made his way across the room and the ladies surrounding Nicolette bowed and parted, leaving him alone with his betrothed.
‘‘Enjoying yourself?’’ he asked, seeing that Fatima alone stayed at Nic’s side.
Nicolette shot him an exasperated glance. ‘‘It’s a fine party.’’ Her lips pursed. ‘‘If you’re eighty.’’
So she was bored. ‘‘Too slow for your tastes?’’
‘‘Your Highness, no one is doing anything.’’
‘‘And what would you like to do?’’
‘‘Real conversation wouldn’t hurt, or maybe turn on some music and let people dance.’’
He shook his head regretfully. ‘‘We can’t dance in mixed company.’’ Then he smiled. ‘‘But you and your ladies could dance if we men excused ourselves.’’
‘‘Dance with women?’’
He liked the way her cheeks darkened. Nic didn’t blush very often and the pink was most becoming, especially tonight in her lime green gown, the color deliciously cool on her lightly tanned skin, making her look as if she were a mouth watering sorbet. ‘‘Of course. Dancing with women can be quite exciting.’’
The silver charm bracelet on her wrist tinkled as she gestured displeasure. ‘‘Your Highness, I don’t dance with other women.’’
‘‘It’s not a slow dance with women. It’s a fast dance. Energetic.’’ He was trying hard not to laugh at her hand hovering before her mouth, her blue eyes wide and indignant. ‘‘The dance gets your heart pumping, your body moving.’’
‘‘Aerobics?’’
‘‘Think of it as an Arabic version of Jazzercise.’’ He saw her incredulous expression. ‘‘I know what Jazzercise is. One of my sisters lives in San Francisco. She loves her aerobic classes—’’
Nicolette started to laugh. She tried to stifle the sound by covering her mouth but it didn’t work. The more she tried to stop laughing, the harder she laughed. Tears filled her eyes. She wheezed behind her hand. ‘‘That’s priceless.’’
Fatima looked on in horror but Malik found Nic’s laughter sexy…refreshing. Nic had laughed with her whole face. Her laughter was contagious and it healed something in him that had been damaged from the attempt on his life a year ago.
He needed to laugh. He needed to feel hope. Nicolette gave him hope, and wasn’t hope a wonderful thing?
He leaned toward her, preventing his cousin from hearing his words. ‘‘We could always leave,’’ he murmured. ‘‘I’m sure we could find some diversions back at the palace.’’
CHAPTER SIX
HEAT flared in Nic’s eyes. Her soft lush lips parted and his own body instantly hardened. He knew exactly what she was thinking. He was thinking the very same thing.
When he kissed her earlier, he hoped to contain his attraction, curtail some of his less inhibited thoughts, but the kiss did nothing to quiet his imagination. He’d thought of nothing but her since then. Wanted nothing but her beneath him, against him, above him.
When would he be able to take her to his bed? Make love to her properly?
Not while they were here, that was for certain.
First they had to get through their goodbyes, and it took a good ten minutes, but they were finally finished and escaping to the car when Fatima appeared and asked for a return ride home.
Nic groaned inwardly. She’d been thrilled at the idea of a long private drive home. Now the long drive would be anything but relaxing, or private.
The three settled into the back of Malik’s waiting limousine, Fatima and Nicolette on one side, the sultan on the other.
‘‘Glad to be gone, Princess?’’ Malik asked, as the limousine pulled away from the state building.
‘‘I was tired tonight,’’ Nicolette admitted with a small sigh. She’d felt off balance tonight, not quite herself. It was the newness of everything, she tried to tell herself, the different food, the different language and customs. But deep down she knew her headache was due to adrenaline. Her body felt hot, sensitive, her pulse quick like an engine revved.
He’d started something with that kiss. Now she just wanted him to finish it.
In the dim light of the interior Malik smiled briefly, acknowledging her honesty. ‘‘Do you find it difficult being the only foreigner in the room?’’
Nic plucked at her green silk sleeve, letting the weight of the cool silver beads fall against the back of her hand. ‘‘I’m accustomed to being the only foreigner at state events. But I have to admit, tonight I did feel…different.’’
‘‘You are different,’’ Fatima interrupted. ‘‘You don’t dress like women in Baraka, you prefer not to robe and veil yourself—’’
‘‘I’ve never asked her to, either,’’ Malik quietly reproved his cousin. ‘‘Princess Ducasse is entitled to be herself here.’’
‘‘Then how can she be a proper queen if she isn’t a role model?’’ Fatima flashed.
‘‘Enough,’’ he answered, curtly. ‘‘This is not your concern.’’
Fatima dropped her head, but Nicolette saw the anger flare in Fatima’s eyes. Nic struggled to think of something to say. What could she say? She and Fatima had had a rocky relationship from the very first meeting.
The limousine wound through the quiet city streets, turning from one wide palm-lined boulevard onto another. Minutes passed in silence. The air conditioner blew, a quiet hum of artificially chilled air. Nic adjusted her delicate wrap, covering her shoulders more thoroughly.
‘‘Is the air too cool?’’ Malik asked.
‘‘It’s fine, thank you,’’ Nic answered, touched by his concern. ‘‘It feels good after the warmth of the party.’’
‘‘I was warm, too,’’ he said, and then paused, his attention focused on her. Nic felt his interest, his gaze resting on her face, or what he could see in the flashing light and shadows. ‘‘Our older buildings were designed with high ceilings to draw the warm air up, but the newer government buildings lack adequate ventilation.’’
Nic