Читать книгу The Princess Brides: The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess - Jane Porter - Страница 13

CHAPTER EIGHT

HIS smile was slow, wicked, and rising from the couch Malik walked to a console panel on one of the walls. He touched a few buttons, and music sounded, spilling from hidden speakers. It wasn’t Eastern music, but a popular rock and roll ballad. ‘‘You did say the other night you wanted to dance.’’

She couldn’t tear her gaze from the small smile playing at his lips. He was tall, dark, handsome in a bone-melting kind of way. ‘‘I didn’t think you danced with women.’’

‘‘Not in public.’’

She couldn’t speak, adrenaline coursing through her veins and he moved toward her, his energy leashed, his powerful body graceful, languid. ‘‘But then,’’ he added in that deep sexy voice of his, ‘‘there’s lots of things I can’t do in public that I love to do in private.’’

He stood before her, arms loose at his sides, his chest bare. ‘‘Come here.’’

Her mouth had grown dry and Nic shook her head in a desperate plea for sanity. ‘‘You have no dinner engagements tonight?’’

‘‘None.’’

She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, trying to moisten them. ‘‘No appointments?’’

‘‘Completely free.’’ His smile was in his eyes. His arms were strong, relaxed. He had all night. He could afford to wait. ‘‘I thought you’d like this song.’’

The group was one of her favorite bands. She’d met the band members on their last European tour, too. ‘‘I do.’’

‘‘So come here.’’

She didn’t know why she couldn’t go to him, but her legs wouldn’t move, her feet felt rooted to the floor, and dread hummed through her, reminding her that she was not who or what she seemed. ‘‘You come to me,’’ she whispered, praying he wouldn’t, praying he’d turn and walk away.

He laughed. He was so confident he could find her insolence amusing. Malik closed the distance between them, pulled her against him, shaping her body to his, silver gaze glinting with laughter. ‘‘Like this, princess?’’

She shuddered at the press of his thighs, his body hard, his torso firm. Nic’s eyes closed as Malik bent his head, pulled back her robe and kissed her bare shoulder.

He must have felt her shudder as he kissed the same sensitive spot again and this time as the shiver raced through her, he cupped the side of her breast, feeling her nipple harden in his hand.

Her legs went weak and she hid her face against his chest as the music wound around them, warm, seductive, intimate. Nic found herself drawn closer against Malik’s chest, his smooth hard bicep pressed to her shoulder. She liked his arms around her. She liked the way he slid his hands down her ribcage, as if counting each rib, shaping each rib, until he reached her hip bones. He knew how to make a woman feel like a woman, and when he rested his hands in the small of her spine, she thought she could stay that way forever, savoring his warm, his spicy fragrance, how easy he was with her. No strangeness, no awkwardness. No formality. No royal games.

Just Malik and Nic.

She felt a twinge of guilt. Make that Malik and Chantal. But she didn’t want to be Chantal anymore. She wanted to be herself with him. She wanted him to want Nic.

Impulsively she reached up and touched his prominent cheekbone, tracing the sweeping length of bone and the shape of his chin. Everything in his face was strong, everything in his eyes was mysterious. Yet she knew he’d answer any question she put to him. He’d talk openly, candidly, about any subject she chose.

What would it be like to love you? She silently wondered, letting her hand return to his shoulder, feeling emotion grow and swell inside her chest, her heart strangely tender. For a second her eyes burned, little pricks of pain everywhere.

She’d love to spend hours with him. She’d love to take it all so slow. No rush, no hurry, no goal. Just time together.

She’d never been one of those glassy-eyed optimistics. She didn’t believe in excess of hope, didn’t believe in romantic dreams that couldn’t be fulfilled. Dreaming for her was a precursor to action. If she desired it, she did it. It wasn’t a challenge but a fact. If there was something she wanted out of life, she went for it.

‘‘Thinking about Lilly?’’ Malik asked, interrupting her thoughts, his fingers playing her spine, sending rivulets of feeling in every direction.

Nic shook her head, feeling guilty. He must think she was a terrible mother. She sighed heavily. She was in this so deep, wasn’t she?

What was she doing here? What was happening between them? They were on a collision course with disaster.

Nic felt as if she were beginning to suffocate and she stepped back, putting space between them so she could try to think. ‘‘Can we sit down?’’

‘‘Certainly.’’ He took a seat, and she knew he expected her to join him, but she hesitated. If she sat next to him in her little flimsy robe she might as well give up the battle now. If he touched her again, peeled the robe from her shoulders, kissed that sensitive spot on her neck, or her collarbone, she’d hold his lips to her skin and ask him to just keep on going…

‘‘Maybe I should go put some clothes on first.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘You know why.’’

He cocked his head, studying her. ‘‘I can’t believe you’re so afraid to make love with me.’’

Talk about honesty. Nicolette flushed. ‘‘If you were a terrible kisser we wouldn’t have a problem.’’

He rubbed his brow, ruffling his crisp black hair. ‘‘I could try to kiss badly. If that’s what would make you happy.’’

She groaned, exasperated. ‘‘It wouldn’t.’’

‘‘You’re very difficult to please, Princess.’’

‘‘Yes. I know.’’ Nic felt like she was losing her mind. ‘‘Even more so than usual.’’

‘‘What’s wrong?’’

She pressed her hands to her head, trying to quiet all the guilty recriminations, the little voices that wouldn’t let her rest. ‘‘I think I’m developing a split-personality.’’

Malik had to work very hard at keeping a straight face. ‘‘Really?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Tell me about them.’’

Nic paced in front of him. ‘‘There’s the virtuous Chantal,’’ she said, shooting him a swift glance, ‘‘and then there’s the impulsive Chantal, the one that really likes you.’’

‘‘So what is the problem?’’

She stopped pacing. ‘‘If I don’t even know who the real me is, how will you?’’

‘‘I can tell.’’ He gestured to her. ‘‘Come here.’’

He was making her nerves dance, and she moved toward him, drawn to him despite her better judgment.

Malik reached up to clasp her hand, his fingers locking with hers, and smoothly, firmly, he drew her down onto his lap, and she gasped at the naked touch of skin. Her thighs rested against his, and even though they were wearing their robes, the silk fabric didn’t contain him. He was aroused and his body pressed against her, teasing her tender flesh, making her even more sensitive.

His hands curved around her hips, his fingers firm on her hipbones and he tilted her hips forward, and back, shifting her pelvis between his large strong hands.

‘‘You belong to me.’’ He placed a kiss on her mouth. ‘‘Married or unmarried, queen or friend, you can call us what you want, but you,’’ and he shifted her again, pulling her forward so his erection rubbed inside her thighs, at the apex of her thighs, ‘‘you were made for me, and I for you.’’

Her mouth had gone dry. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Of course she wasn’t his, and there was no way she belonged to him, but it’d been years since she felt this raw physical craving for anyone.

‘‘Do you do this with all your wives?’’ she asked breathlessly.

‘‘Harems are passe´,’’ he answered, his hand rising to cup her breast through the silk fabric, his thumb strumming her nipple, playing the taut peak as if he had all the time in the world. And indeed, he did. He was planning on keeping her, making her his wife legally, and in Baraka wives were permanent.

Oh, if he kept touching her like that, she’d do just about anything. She linked her hands around his shoulders, needing to hang tight and as he strummed her nipple his other hand played on her hip.

Nic couldn’t stand the tension within her. She dragged herself closer to him. ‘‘I want you.’’ Her voice sounded faint, breathless, and indeed, she was seeing stars, her vision dark and silvery all at the same time.

‘‘I know,’’ he said, and he kept playing her body, playing the nerves and she was shivering against him, dancing a helpless dance.

She felt heat rush through her in a torrential wave. He’d turned her so on, turned her into an inferno. She felt her skin prickle and burn across her cheekbones, along her brow and even her lips felt hot, full, aching.

‘‘No, Malik, you don’t know how much I want you. You just think you do…’’ She bent her head, pressed her face to his neck, breathed in his spicy cologne and the warm scent that was him, and he smelled delicious, smelled like everything she wanted in life.

Keep me, a tiny voice whispered inside her. Keep me forever and never let me go. It’d been since Daniel, she thought, reaching for Malik again, sliding her hands up through his hair, tightening her fingers against his scalp, feeling the crisp cool strands of Malik’s hair bunch in her fist.

‘‘I think I know what you need,’’ he whispered against her mouth, pulling her closer so that their two bodies felt almost as one.

And as close as they were, it still wasn’t enough. Nic needed to be possessed by, filled by him. There’d been years of dates and several lovers since Daniel but no one made her feel like this anymore, no one made her want like this. This was as hot and intense as she’d ever known. ‘‘Can we make love? Is it illegal to be intimate before the wedding?’’

‘‘It’s not illegal.’’ His lips brushed the corner of her mouth. ‘‘If it were, I’d change the law.’’ He lifted her long heavy hair from her neck, stroked her sensitive nape.

She shuddered against him. He held her in his thrall. He was powerful but he never used force. He didn’t need to speak harshly, or use strong language. He didn’t need threats or boasts. He wore his confidence like his silken robe. Comfortably. Naturally. He’d do anything for his people. He’d protect them at all costs. He’d protect her, too.

Malik lay her down on the settee, and stretched out over her, his weight braced on his elbows. ‘‘You’re trapped,’’ he said, studying her lying beneath him. ‘‘My prisoner.’’

‘‘So what are you going to do to me?’’

His gaze settled on her mouth. ‘‘Make you talk.’’

‘‘Talk?’’

‘‘I want to know what you think about when you go so quiet on me.’’ He traced her lips with the tip of his finger, lightly following the bow shaped curve of the upper lip and the swollen lower lip. ‘‘I want to know what you don’t talk about.’’

She felt her lips quiver from his caress. ‘‘Why do we always have to talk?’’

‘‘Because I want to make sure you know what you’re doing. I want to make sure I know what you’re thinking. Better to face the facts than run away from them.’’

He was caressing her ear, lightly running his fingertip along the curve of her outer ear and then gently along the sensitive lobe.

She couldn’t think when he was doing that, couldn’t concentrate on anything but the way he made her body blister and burn. ‘‘All right. Ask me a question.’’

‘‘What does no one know about you?’’

What did no one know about her?

She tried to blot out the delicious sensations he was stirring within her, by staring up at the elegant domed ceiling, all gold and cobalt-blue tiles, and the breeze outside the open window rustled the thick date leaves. What did no one know about her? What had she kept hidden from everyone for all these years?

Daniel, of course.

She’d fallen for him so hard.

He’d worked at the palace. A mechanical engineer. Daniel built and restored race cars and she’d wanted it to work between them, had wanted to be with him as much as she could, but their relationship was doomed from the start. Perhaps her father could get away with marrying her mother, but there was no way she could run off with Daniel Thierry. No way she could live with him. No way she could love him. But that didn’t stop her from wanting him with a desperation that nearly drove her mad.

She might have run off with him too, if it hadn’t been for Chantal’s wedding to Prince Armand. Somehow Nic couldn’t run away with Daniel when Chantal was marrying a man she didn’t love in hopes of protecting Melio’s future.

Chantal had been such a beautiful bride—not radiant the way magazines liked to say—but poised, ethereal in her loveliness. With her warm brown hair and gray eyes she looked like a Dresden figurine. Perfect. Flawless. Petite. Her full skirts and long veil with the high diamond tiara captured the fairy tale elements of the royal wedding and her picture was on the front of nearly two hundred magazines the week after the wedding.

Chantal was happy, Nic assured herself, not blissful, but happy enough.

Yet the fact that Chantal had the strength and conviction to go through with an arranged marriage undermined Nic’s insistence on doing only what she pleased.

Truth was, she couldn’t run away with her beautiful Daniel.

Truth was, there couldn’t be a future with Daniel.

He might kiss her senseless, and he might make her laugh, and she might feel most comfortable with him, but he wasn’t even remotely what Melio needed.

A month after Chantal’s lavish wedding Nicolette ended it with Daniel.

It was the hardest thing she’d ever done as an adult. In fact, she changed her mind once, getting back together with him for a stolen night, but later, the next day, she forced herself to call him and make a complete break.

He was out shopping when he answered his phone. She could hear the voices of other shoppers, could hear him periodically place things in his basket, could hear the mundane sounds of normal life all around him and it cut her, realizing in that moment it was really all over. She’d never be part of his real world again. She’d never do the ordinary things with him that she’d wanted to do. No trips to the movies, no snuggling under the covers late on Sunday morning, no going out on the spur of the moment for sushi or Chinese.

Don’t take my calls, she’d said. Don’t let me change my mind.

In the store, in the middle of his shopping, Daniel went quiet. He’d said absolutely nothing.

She’d felt the tears rise, felt the distance growing by the second. No one had made her feel so good about herself, and losing him—leaving him, was breaking her heart.

She had to talk quickly to get the rest of the words out, and they came in a rush. ‘‘If you see my number, don’t pick up,’’ she said, holding the tears back. ‘‘If I show up at the garage, don’t talk to me. Don’t let me change my mind.’’

‘‘If that’s what you want,’’ he finally said.

Is that what she wanted? No. Is that what Melio needed? Yes. She held the phone tighter, closed her eyes, and tried to be responsible. Think about Grandmama and Grandfather, she told herself. Think about Joelle. Think about all the people who have worked and sacrificed to get us to this point.

‘‘It’s what’s right,’’ she said, emotion strangled inside of her, strangling her. If only he’d give her a good reason to throw respectability and responsibility away.

But he didn’t. He’d been a citizen of Melio his whole life. Yes, he’d gone to school in Rome, studied beneath the great DeLaurent family, but when he’d come into his own, he’d returned to his island kingdom and like everyone else, he understood the burden on the Ducasses, knew that one day the princesses would inherit.

He’d known from the beginning their relationship could go nowhere. But he’d taken a chance. Gone with his heart. And she had to admire that. The odds hadn’t been good, but Daniel had let the love carry him as far it would, and when it ended, he’d been a man.

He’d let her go without a word of complaint.

Staring up at the gold and blue domed ceiling, Nicolette blinked back tears. Giving up Daniel had put her emotions into a deep, cold storage and for the first time in a long time she could admit what her decision had cost her.

True love. A chance at lasting happiness.

She felt Malik’s gaze. He’d been patiently waiting for her answer. ‘‘I’ve no secrets,’’ she said at last. ‘‘My life is public knowledge.’’

He leaned forward, took her chin in his hand, turning her head to stare into her eyes. ‘‘Yet you cry.’’

She tensed. ‘‘I’m not crying.’’

‘‘I see tears. And sadness. You lost something and it’s never been returned.’’

My heart, she agreed silently, even as she masked her surprise that he’d read her so accurately, that he’d nailed the emotion and need. ‘‘My parents died when I was ten.’’

‘‘This isn’t about your parents—’’

He was interrupted by a rapid knock on the door. The outer door opened and Alea’s young voice could be heard calling for admittance. ‘‘Your Highness, forgive the interruption, but you’re needed immediately.’’

Malik sat up, closed his robe. ‘‘What’s happened?’’

‘‘Lady Fatima, Your Highness. They’ve called an ambulance for her. She’s terribly ill.’’

Nic waited for Malik to return. He did not. Instead he had servants bring Nicolette a dinner tray to her room.

Later a grim-faced Alea appeared to help Nicolette prepare for bed. Alea didn’t volunteer any information about Fatima, and out of politeness, Nic didn’t ask.

But once Alea left, carrying away the remnants of dinner, Nicolette paced her room. She was concerned about Fatima despite how the other woman had treated her. And after what had been interrupted between herself and Malik she felt like she was going crazy. She wanted to make love, not fall in love. She wanted passion, not emotion. She wanted to be with Malik now, not committing to the future.

Why was this so hard? She’d been with other men before, had made love but hadn’t worried about falling in love. Why couldn’t she do that here? Why couldn’t she stay breezy, light, keep it all superficial?

Because Malik wasn’t superficial, that’s why.

Nic slumped on the foot of her bed, pressed her fists to her eyes. She could see him even now, handsome, proud, intelligent, kind…

God, he was kind. He had such warmth and dignity and she couldn’t bear to hurt him. Disappoint him.

But she was. No matter what she did now, it’d disappoint. No matter what choice, it’d be wrong.

He wanted Chantal. She was Nic. He wanted forever. She only believed in the moment.

She didn’t even believe in marriage for heaven’s sake!

Letting her hands fall to her sides, Nic inhaled slowly, trying to calm the wild beasts stampeding inside her. Breathe, she told herself, just breathe.

But it was a struggle to even breathe. It was such a struggle being here, pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She’d stopped trying to pretend that she was handling the situation well.

What she needed to do was reduce it to the most elemental form, and in this case, it was physical attraction. Sexual attraction.

She wanted to make love with Malik. Maybe making love is just an escape, another form of running away, but at least making love, she’d feel something besides this…panic.

Making love she’d feel like herself again.

She hated pretending to be Chantal. She missed her natural hair color, missed her own strengths, and missed her own dreams.

If she could just become Nic again. If she could just find her sense of humor, and sense of adventure, again.

If she could just stop worrying about Melio, her grandparents, Chantal and Lilly, and the kind of future Joelle faced as well.

Her brow creased as she stared across her room to the door with the delicate arch. It was a lot to worry about.

But if she could just escape the worries for a while…

If she could just be with Malik, feel his arms around her, put her cheek on his chest…

If she could just close her eyes and think about nothing but sharing the moment with him. Just be close to him. Warm skin, his body, his heart beating beneath her ear…

And maybe his hands taking hers, pinning her arms down against the bed, his mouth on hers, his body moving over…

Maybe his body in hers…

Maybe…

Nic bit her knuckle, feeling as if she were dangerously close to losing control. She—who’d needed so few people in her life—had never felt as if she needed anyone or anything like one long intense night in Malik’s bed. He was a king. He had to know what she was feeling. He carried so many responsibilities on his shoulders. Surely he could give her some advice.

Or at least, be able to help her forget.

Just to be a person. A woman. Just to be Nicolette and loved for herself, wanted for herself…

Nic fell asleep waiting for some word from Malik and early the next morning, woke with an even heavier heart than before.

She had to go. That’s all there was to it. Time to go home, wash out this awful brown hair color, answer her mail, check her email, start dating again…

She swallowed hard, hating the lump that filled her throat. She’d miss Malik. She liked looking at him, liked listening to him, just liked him period.

Nic showered, dressed, wondered where breakfast was. Leaving her room she noticed a small congregation of servants in the hall. The gathering of servants troubled her. She hung back in the shadows watching the servants speak. She knew enough of palace life to know that the small groups of guards and servants meeting, murmuring, parting, only to assemble again further down the hall was not normal palace protocol.

Something was definitely wrong, and from the hushed tones of the guards and servants the problem had to be serious.

Had Fatima been sick before, and Nic didn’t know?

Guilt assailed Nicolette. What if Fatima had been recovering from something…in remission from cancer or leukemia?

Nicolette returned to her room, quietly shut the door, worrying about Fatima without really knowing what Fatima was facing.

Alea arrived a little later with coffee and a message from the sultan. Nicolette opened the folded sheet of paper. He’d written a note, letting her know that due to Fatima’s poor health, the morning’s language lesson had been cancelled.