Jane Porter - The Princess Brides - The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess

Her parents had married against the wishes of her father’s parents and it’d been shocking at the time, the golden boy, Prince Julien marrying the trashy American pop star. Everyone said the marriage wouldn’t last the year. It lasted ten, and they were still together, still happy together when they died in the car accident on the coastal road near St. Tropez.

Nic glanced at the calendar in her hand, the edge of the small appointment book pressed to her palm. ‘‘Apparently I meet my staff in an hour and a half.’’

‘‘After you freshen up. Tea and sandwiches will be served to you in your room. You’ll even have time for a short nap.’’

Suddenly her temper snapped and she turned the little leather book around, flashing the pages. ‘‘Really? Are you certain? I don’t see it in my calendar.’’

King Nuri didn’t even glance down at the book. He simply stood there, considering her. After a moment he said, ‘‘If you do not want this marriage, Princess Chantal, say so.’’

The quiet authority in his voice echoed in the elegant salon.

Ashamed that she’d so completely blown her cool, Nic slowly closed the leather book, drawing it against her chest. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

He waited until she looked up from the intricate pattern of the crimson carpet at their feet. ‘‘I do not hold a gun to your head, Princess. This isn’t obligatory. If you are dissatisfied with me as a groom, speak now. This is the time to break off the plans, not one week before the ceremony, not one day before the ceremony. The wedding is a fortnight away. We have not yet publicly celebrated. If you have reservations, tell me. I will not judge you, and I promise I will not be angry or cruel.’’

His words streamed in and out her ears, but the only thing she heard was the phrase, if you have reservations…

She only had reservations. Nothing about this was right. Nothing they were discussing was going to come to pass. She was a hypocrite. She was standing here, lying to him, intentionally deceiving him.

But how could she tell him the truth? If she told him who she really was, and why she was in Baraka, the engagement would be off, his assistance would end, and all efforts to free Lilly and Chantal would be for naught. No, she couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t stop what she’d started until they were in America, Chantal and Lilly secreted away and Nic was boarding the first plane home.

‘‘Well?’’ he quietly prompted, clearly at the end of his patience.

He’d never forgive her for dumping him at the last minute.

He’d never ever forgive her family for humiliating him…

Nic closed her eyes, forced herself to block out everything but little Lilly’s delicate face. Lilly, like a butterfly, so small, so fragile, so painfully vulnerable.

Just thinking of Lilly trapped in La Croix made Nic’s temper flare. How could people…society…be so unjust? Girls should be raised without fear and intimidation. Girls should be protected.

She opened her eyes, met Malik’s dark gaze. ‘‘My only reservation is that I am to be married so far from those I love.’’ Lie, lie, lie . She wanted to be married in America only because the country was vast, Louisiana was clannish, and her mother’s network of old friends and distant relatives would definitely provide cover for Chantal and Lilly once they went into hiding. ‘‘I would feel much more comfortable if you’d be willing to consider my…thoughts…my request.’’

He stared at her for a long, heated moment, before inclining his head. ‘‘If it means so much to you, yes. I shall consider your thoughts, and think more on your request.’’

Nicolette felt a dizzying wave of relief. She could do this, she told herself, encouraged. She’d pull this off yet. ‘‘Thank you, Your Highness.’’

‘‘But of course. I want you happy. Our wedding is special. The day of the wedding will be a national holiday in Baraka. The ceremony shall be televised, so all our people can celebrate with us.’’

No pressure there. ‘‘Excellent.’’ Some of her relief faded. Standing up the sultan in front of hundreds of thousands of his people was not her idea of a good time. ‘‘What a fabulous idea.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ His silver gaze glinted. ‘‘Now let me show you to your suite. I’m sure you could use some time alone.’’

In her room, Nicolette fished out her own pocket organizer from the bottom of her suitcase and flipped quickly through her scribbled notes. Hotels, rental cars, bank numbers, phone numbers, maps of downtown Baton Rouge and vicinity. She’d already wired money to the Bank of Louisiana’s Baton Rouge branch, bought a used car, had it gassed and prepped with maps and an emergency road kit, and spoken to the priest at her mother’s childhood church. Everything was set. Everything would work. It was simply a matter of getting them there.

It seemed as though no time at all had passed before a knock on her door forced Nic to zip her notes back into the inner compartment of her suitcase. She ran her fingers through her hair and opening her door, discovered a cluster of women in the hall. Nicolette’s new staff had arrived.

For two hours the women chatted, introducing themselves, explaining how each would assist the princess. They all spoke excellent English.

The wedding planner was young and very efficient but there was little opportunity to discuss the wedding in detail. Nicolette’s assistant, Alea, was beautiful with dark hair and kind eyes and there were numerous other maids as well who fussed over the princess. Nicolette’s head spun with all the names and various duties. She’d never had this much help in her life.

At nine fifteen, Nic’s bedroom door opened again, and an attractive young woman, elegantly dressed in a vivid emerald-green gown with elaborate gold embroidery at the seams, entered Nic’s room.

The other women sitting with Nic immediately rose and bowed. ‘‘Welcome, my lady,’’ they all chorused, several falling into deep curtsies.

The young woman—close to Nicolette’s own age—approached Nic with a cool smile. ‘‘I’m sorry I’m late.’’ She stopped before Nic, and she took a moment to scrutinize Nicolette from head to toe. ‘‘I am Lady Fatima, cousin to the sultan, a member of the royal family. I’ve been asked by my cousin to help you adjust to our customs.’’

Fatima’s words were polite but Nic heard the aloof note in Lady Fatima’s voice. Lady Fatima did not intend for them to be friends. But Lady Fatima didn’t need to feel threatened. Nic had no intention of permanently staying. The sooner she and the Sultan headed to America, the sooner the charade could end.

The women finally left close to midnight, and Nic fell into bed exhausted.

There were too many people getting involved, she thought, curling on her side, too many people spelled trouble.

But you’re already in trouble, a little voice mocked her, and she bunched her hand in her silk coverlet, knowing that if she wasn’t very careful, she could soon be trapped in Atiq forever, married to the sultan, mother to his sons. And Grandfather Remi would have the last laugh of all.

Nic, married.

Nic, Queen of Baraka. Royal Babymaker.

Nic didn’t usually wake up in a bad mood, but her dreams had been so intense, so upsetting, that by the time she headed into her mammoth adjoining bathroom with the enormous white and sunken tiled tub, dread filled every muscle and pore.

She needed to talk to Chantal. She needed advice quickly. There’d never been a back up plan, and that was a mistake. Nic realized now that they should have discussed emergency measures, like other destination alternatives to America, and how to extricate Nic from the engagement without creating an international scandal.