Читать книгу The Princess Brides: The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess - Jane Porter - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

THE king continued his examination, coming round full circle a second time before stopping in front of her, just inches away.

Nic held her breath, fighting for poise, trying not to blink or flinch but keep all responses hidden even though he did something crazy to her senses. Her head swam and her pulse quickened and right now she found herself fascinated by a dozen little things like the line of his jaw, the shadow of his beard, the deep hollow at his throat—

‘‘You’re taller than I expected,’’ he said, breaking the taut silence.

She’d inherited her father’s height, as well as his blond hair, and her height had been a problem for a lot of men, ‘‘So are you.’’

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘‘Your coloring is a little off, too.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘But then I suppose people always look different on television.’’

‘‘You are disappointed.’’

One of his flat black eyebrows lifted. ‘‘Did I say that?’’

Nic’s temper flared yet again, and she didn’t understand it. Normally men didn’t trouble her. Men didn’t upset her. She was usually so adept at handling them. She understood the way they thought, the things they wanted, how best to soothe their fragile, ruffled egos. But the sultan didn’t appear fragile, or egotistical, and so far, she hadn’t a clue how to deal with him.

Malik calmly met Nicolette’s furious blue gaze.

The princess had cheekbones and an attitude, he thought, smiling faintly. He didn’t know why it made him smile. The attitude he’d expected—she was one of the beautiful Ducasse sisters after all—but the cheekbones intrigued him. In the princess the cheekbones were sculptural, architectural. Something one wanted to touch, trace, caress.

She’d only just arrived and yet he wanted to take her face in his hands and stroke the sensuous curve of cheekbone that stretched from her hairline to just above her full mouth.

But then, she didn’t just have cheekbones. She had lips, too. Lovely, full lips and wide winged eyebrows that reminded him of two birds flying free.

Where was the restrained regal face of Chantal? This wasn’t the face of a gentle princess. The face before him had an edge of sensuality, and fierceness. He had no doubt that this woman could be strong, very strong, and he’d be a fool to let her long soft curls and soft full lips tell him otherwise. He knew from his own mother that the most delicate beauties could hide a tiger’s heart.

‘‘Did you bring no one with you?’’ he asked, breaking the tension. ‘‘No secretary or valet? No one to handle your social calendar?’’

Nic shrugged. ‘‘I didn’t think it necessary, Your Highness. I have cleared my calendar, made myself completely available to you.’’

‘‘How thoughtful.’’

‘‘I try,’’ she said demurely, bowing her head, missing Malik’s speculative expression.

She was up to something, he thought, looking at her bent head, her dark brown hair shiny, silky. Her hair was long and she wore it pulled in a low, loose ponytail. The style flattered her high cheekbones but somehow did little to soften her strong jaw. She had a firm jaw and chin for a woman. She was a woman accustomed to getting her way.

‘‘But of course you need help,’’ he said after a moment, knowing why she’d traveled alone, and understanding it had little to do with the Ducasse family’s strained finances. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford help. He guessed she wanted to be incognito. She didn’t want any familiar staff assisting her.

The princess, he thought, was playing a game.

‘‘Since you weren’t able to bring anyone from home, I’m happy to provide staff for you,’’ he offered sympathetically. ‘‘I have a few people in mind, and all have undergone rigorous training as well as a thorough screening for security.’’

The deepness, the richness of his voice still sent little shock waves through her. Nic felt the tremors on the inside, wondered how any man’s voice could be so husky. ‘‘I don’t really need a staff, Your Highness.’’

He brushed aside her protest. ‘‘You have a very busy schedule, Princess. You have many functions, and many activities planned. It is vital you have help organizing your calendar, as well as your wardrobe.’’

She blushed. She’d never been serious about fashion, and the few smart pieces she had were gifts from various French and Italian designers. ‘‘I brought very little in the way of wardrobe.’’ Her polished smile hid her inner turmoil. He was not going to be easy to negotiate with. ‘‘I thought this was just a preliminary visit. Get acquainted, set the date—’’

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, looking alarmingly Western. ‘‘But of course the date is set. We discussed this—’’

‘‘No, Your Highness, we never discussed this. You might have suggested a short engagement, but no date was ever set.’’ She loved that she could be firm. No one had ever been able to bully her. ‘‘I would have remembered.’’

He gestured casually, and shrugged. ‘‘Regardless, I think two weeks is sufficient time, considering the fact that we both are anxious to move forward with our lives. One of the first staff members you’ll meet is your wedding planner—’’

‘‘Two week engagement?’’ she interrupted, torn between laughter and indignation. Two week engagement for a princess? ‘‘It is impossible to prepare for a wedding in fourteen days.’’

‘‘It’s two weeks from Saturday which makes it eighteen days.’’

The issue wasn’t fourteen days or eighteen days. The issue was not getting married…or at least, not getting married his way. If he wanted a wedding, she’d give him a wedding, she just wasn’t about to be a bride, trapped in Baraka. ‘‘I have thoughts on the wedding, Your Highness. I’ve made some preliminary arrangements of my own.’’

‘‘You have?’’

‘‘Yes. As my mother was American, I thought we’d fly to the States for the actual wedding.’’ She saw his incredulous expression and hurried on. ‘‘I’d hoped to marry in my mother’s parish church, just outside Baton Rouge, Louisiana.’’

His jaw tightened. ‘‘I’ve never even been to Louisiana. Have you?’’

‘‘No, which is why I want to go. I’d like my mother’s family to be able to attend—’’

‘‘They can attend the wedding here.’’

‘‘They’re—’’ she swallowed hard, ‘‘—poor, Your Highness. Most have never been outside their county, much less on an airplane to a foreign country.’’

‘‘So we’ll send my jet. Problem solved.’’ The Sultan walked to a bureau hugging a far wall, retrieved something from the top drawer and returned to her side. ‘‘Your schedule,’’ he continued, handing her an appointment calendar. ‘‘As you can see, you’ll be quite busy helping plan and prepare for the wedding here. Some things you’ll do on your own. Many things we’ll do together—’’

‘‘King Nuri,’’ she interrupted, fingers burning from the brief touch of their hands, ‘‘forgive me for being obtuse, but I don’t understand why we can’t at least discuss my ideas for the wedding.’’

He lifted his head, met her gaze, his cool silver gaze still. ‘‘But of course we can discuss your ideas,’’ he said after a moment. ‘‘I think its essential to incorporate as many of your family traditions into our ceremony here. This is exactly what I wish you to tell your wedding planner. You’ll be meeting with her later today—’’

‘‘Today?’’

‘‘Tonight.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘But to ensure you’re not overwhelmed, your assistant, Alea, and the wedding planner will discuss your agenda, make sure you’re comfortable with your various duties, as well as answer any question you might have with your schedule. I think you’ll find both women most helpful.’’

She suppressed a wave of panic. A wedding planner. A personal assistant. How many handlers did she need? ‘‘I’m quite capable of handling the preparations myself.’’

‘‘I realize you have a great deal of experience at planning receptions and the sort, but you’re to be my wife, Queen of Baraka. It wouldn’t do to have you inundated with fatiguing details. I’ve brought in the most competent professionals available. I know you’ll like your staff—’’

‘‘But I don’t need a staff!’’

‘‘You do.’’ He smiled almost benevolently. ‘‘It’ll help you manage the stress.’’

‘‘I don’t feel any stress.’’

He smiled even more benevolently. ‘‘You will.’’

Actually, she had lied. She was feeling unbelievable stress at the moment. If she couldn’t get out of Baraka…if she couldn’t get her sister and Lilly to the States…if the wedding went forward without an escape route…

To hide her worry, Nic opened the bound leather calendar and skimmed the pages, noting the various names and dates written in. Meet personal assistant, first Arabic lesson, first fitting for wedding gown, selection of wedding ring, second Arabic lesson, first engagement party, culture lesson, third Arabic lesson, city tour with King Nuri, fourth Arabic lesson. And on and on all the way until the wedding.

Eighteen days of activities. Eighteen endless days of pretending to be somebody she wasn’t. Eighteen days of acting as if she were about to become King Nuri’s queen. ‘‘I have something scheduled every day.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’

It boggled her mind. He’d thought it all out. He was training her for the wedding. Language lessons, beauty lessons, public appearances, private activities with her betrothed. It was a whirlwind of activity to ensure a smooth wedding and transition into married life. ‘‘King Nuri—’’

‘‘Malik,’’ he gently corrected.

‘‘Malik,’’ she amended, wondering where to even start with her concerns. ‘‘Is this all necessary?’’

‘‘You’re to be Queen.’’

‘‘Yes, but some of this can happen after the wedding. The language lessons…the cooking classes…’’

‘‘It is better to take care of as much as possible now, before the wedding.’’ His tone allowed for no argument. ‘‘I expect you’ll be carrying my child soon after the wedding, and I understand some women do not feel up to much activity in their first trimester. My desire is to simplify your life so that after the wedding you are free to concentrate on the family.’’

This was definitely not part of the plan.

The plan was to rescue Lilly via America—not get stuck here in Baraka with a wedding ring on her finger and a sultan’s baby in her womb. ‘‘You want to try for children immediately?’’ Nic prayed she didn’t sound as horrified as she felt. Nic loved kids—other people’s kids. She wasn’t the nesting sort. Felt no intense maternal urges. Had never been one to want to hold the babies when friends came by the palace with their latest.

‘‘But surely you want more children?’’

More, that’s right. He saw her as a mother already. She had one daughter, what was oh, five or six or seven more?

‘‘Yes, of course, but we’re still strangers….’’

‘‘We won’t be in a few weeks time.’’ He gestured to the calendar she held limply in her hand. ‘‘If you’ll check your schedule you’ll see we spend a significant amount of time together every day. Some days we’ll be dining alone. Some days we’ll be entertained. Other days we’ll be shopping for necessities like a marriage bed.’’

Marriage bed. A fate worse than death.

Nic felt the blood drain from her face. She didn’t want a marriage bed. She wasn’t going to share any bed with Malik Roman Nuri, especially no bed that had ‘‘husband and wife’’ hung over it.

Making love was one thing. Getting married for the rest of your life was another. Unfortunately, King Nuri had them on a fast track to the ceremony, and right now, he was providing no loopholes.

Wasn’t this just what Grandfather Remi had predicted? He’d said for years that one day Nic was going to meet the man who was more than her match.

‘‘Not all men are going to roll over and play dead just because you snap your fingers,’’ Grandfather had said. ‘‘There are men who can be shaped, directed, and then there are men who do the shaping.’’

Malik watched her face, seeing the wariness in the princess’ blue eyes. He’d never seen a less eager bride in his life. But then, he understood some of her apprehensions. When he realized he’d have to marry, he’d had plenty of his own.

He was marrying out of necessity. The issue of succession had become more pressing since the assassination attempt last year. His younger brother, Kalen, wasn’t about to leave London, having renounced all ties to Baraka and his royal family. Malik had sisters with young sons, as well as numerous male cousins, but none had remained in Baraka, all choosing Western culture over their own.

That left the issue of succession to him. He needed heirs. Boy or girl, it didn’t matter. He could rewrite law, change the rules. The key was having a direct descendant. And he’d chosen the Princess Ducasse to bear him that descendant. ‘‘I don’t want you to worry,’’ he added soothingly. ‘‘I shall be a loyal, monogamous husband dedicated to fulfilling my responsibility as husband and mate.’’

Nic’s head spun, the words husband and mate swimming through her tortured brain. Mate…mate…mate. ‘‘Most royals have separate bed chambers,’’ she said at length, fingers knotting around the calendar. ‘‘Is that not the custom here?’’

‘‘My parents always shared their bed.’’

‘‘Ah.’’

‘‘Yours did not?’’ he swiftly rebutted.

She was losing focus. King Nuri was too smart, too fast, too sharp. He was taking their discussion places she really didn’t want to go. ‘‘My parents had a love marriage.’’ Her parents’ marriage had been scandalous. Surely he would have heard of it even here.

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.

Not waiting for the bath to completely fill, Nic sat in the tepid water, soaped up with the scented bath gel and quickly rinsed off before dressing. She usually thought fast on her feet but right now she had no ideas, no answers, no possible escape routes.

The Royal Star had returned to Melio. She’d traveled without a great deal of cash. Even if she wanted to run, how on earth would she get out of here?

Well, if you really had to run, you could always tell him the truth, the little voice chanted as Nic combed her long dark hair, pulling it back into a smooth coil at her nape.

But if you tell him the truth, Lilly remains in La Croix.

Not if he develops feelings for you…

It’s horrible to use a man like that.

Yet lots of men have developed feelings for you, and you’ve never worried overly much about hurting them before…

A knock sounded on her door. Relieved to escape the conflict of her conscience, Nic took the bobby pin from her mouth and tucked it into the coil of hair at her nape. ‘‘Come in.’’

Malik entered her room. ‘‘Am I interrupting anything?’’

She pulled another pin open with her teeth and plucked it into the coiled mass. ‘‘I’m just doing my hair.’’

He entered her room, closed her door behind him. ‘‘You do have beautiful hair.’’

The sincerity of the unexpected compliment made her flush. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘I’ve always loved hair that color. I was admiring the shade yesterday.’’

Nic didn’t know what to say. It was a bottle-brown, something Nic had washed in herself. ‘‘I’m flattered, Your Highness.’’

‘‘It’s odd,’’ he continued, ‘‘but I’ve never been attracted to blondes.’’

Nic’s hand shook, and the coiled hair, not properly anchored, slipped loose, delicate pins tumbling free. ‘‘You don’t like blondes?’’ Men loved blondes.

‘‘Not particularly.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘I don’t want to be stereotypical, but…’’

‘‘But what?’’

‘‘Well, in my experience, I’ve found most blondes to be…shallow. Self-absorbed. Less intellectual.’’

Nic blinked to chase away the veil of red before her eyes. In his experience. What kind of blondes had he met? ‘‘My sister, Nicolette, she’s a natural blonde, and she’s extremely intelligent.’’

‘‘Really?’’ He frowned skeptically.

‘‘Yes,’’ Nic answered firmly, outraged that he could hold such a ridiculous prejudice against women based on hair color. ‘‘Nic holds advanced degrees in mathematics and science.’’

‘‘Speaking of your sister,’’ he said, changing topics. ‘‘That’s why I’ve come. As we’re not married yet, I wouldn’t normally visit your room uninvited, but since your sister called, I thought it might be urgent.’’

‘‘Which sister?’’

‘‘I could have sworn she said Chantal.’’

‘‘Impossible.’’ Chantal must have made a mistake and said her own name.

‘‘Exactly.’’ His gaze met hers and held. ‘‘Chantal’s here.’’

‘‘Maybe it was Joelle. Sounds a bit like Chantal.’’

‘‘Maybe.’’

‘‘Or Nic,’’ she added, seeing a spark of a smile in his eyes, and the cool mocking smile put her teeth on edge. What was he thinking? What did he know?

‘‘Didn’t sound like Nicolette,’’ he answered, reaching into his pocket, pulling out the phone. ‘‘This sister sounded sophisticated. Refined. And from what I’ve heard, that’s not your sister Nic.’’

She tensed at his criticism. He didn’t even know Nicolette and yet he sounded as if he were the font of all wisdom. But he was holding the phone out to her, asking her if she wanted to take it. ‘‘Do you want to call?’’ he was asking. ‘‘I have the number saved.’’

So who would have called, Nic wondered? Her grandparents didn’t even know she was here—so obviously they hadn’t phoned. Joelle knew Nic was gone, but believed she’d headed off for a visit with Chantal in La Croix, leaving only Chantal to phone, but that wasn’t a call Nic wanted to make in front of King Nuri. ‘‘I can phone later.’’

His expression didn’t change. His arm remained extended, offering the slim phone. He was dressed casually today, khakis, crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up a couple times on his forearms. ‘‘It could be urgent. Just hit Redial.’’

Nic tried not to glare at him as she took the phone, moving past him to stand at the window overlooking a pretty interior courtyard. Pressing the redial button, Nic heard the phone ring and almost immediately was connected with Chantal.

‘‘Thank goodness it’s you,’’ Chantal said, wasting no time on preliminary greetings. ‘‘I’ve been worried sick.’’

‘‘No reason to worry. Everything’s fine.’’ Lie again.

‘‘So how is it going?’’

Nic knew she couldn’t tell Chantal the truth. Chantal was the typical first born, big sister. A worrier, overly responsible, Chantal was also a guilt-ridden perfectionist. The last thing she needed was one more reason to blame herself. ‘‘I’m fine. Honestly.’’

Chantal hesitated. ‘‘How…how is he?’’

Nic tried to close her eyes and blot out King Nuri’s presence, but he wasn’t easy to dismiss, and even with her back turned, Nicolette felt his proximity. The man radiated energy. ‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘Is he giving you any trouble?’’

‘‘No.’’ Nic glanced over her shoulder, caught Malik’s eyes. He’d been watching her with interest. As well as amusement. ‘‘How is Lilly?’’

Chantal let out a small breath. ‘‘We’re making plans. I’ve been in contact with mother’s high school friend, Andrea. She’s agreed to help us once we reach Baton Rouge.’’

‘‘Good.’’

There was a moment of silence on the line. ‘‘I appreciate what you’re doing,’’ Chantal said quietly. ‘‘I’m not sure it’s the right thing—I still think it’s awfully risky for you—’’

‘‘No regrets,’’ Nic interrupted. ‘‘No second thoughts, either. This is for Lilly. I love her dearly. You know that.’’

‘‘I do.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ Nic’s heart felt tight. There was so much at stake. Just hearing her sister’s voice made Nic realize all over again how much depended on her. ‘‘We’ll talk soon.’’

The call ended, Nic returned the phone to King Nuri. ‘‘Thank you. You’re right. The call was important.’’

‘‘I heard you mention your daughter. I trust she’s fine?’’

Nic saw Lilly’s wide blue eyes, already too troubled. Four-year-old children weren’t supposed to worry so much. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘When is she going to join you?’’

‘‘Soon.’’ Nic mustered a tight smile. ‘‘I hope.’’

He nodded, hesitated. ‘‘I don’t see you again until later this evening, and I imagine you’ve looked over today’s agenda. Did you have any questions?’’

His question suddenly reminded her of why she’d woken in such a lousy mood. He might exude raw sensuality, but he was nothing short of a dictator. ‘‘I’m not a child, Your Highness.’’

‘‘I didn’t think you were.’’

She felt her temper swell, her anger was fueled by completely contradictory emotions. She’d never been so attracted to anyone before, and yet he was entirely unsuitable for a relationship. ‘‘So why have you—without consulting me, or asking for any input—put me back into school? According to my schedule, I have classes from morning until afternoon, starting with a two-hour Arabic lesson in fifteen minutes.’’

‘‘I’ve done only what is necessary—’’

‘‘Forgive me, Your Highness,’’ she interrupted sharply, ‘‘but these are decisions I should be making for myself. Perhaps here men decide for the women, but in my country women have a say about what happens in their lives.’’