Читать книгу The Princess Brides: The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess - Jane Porter - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

HIS cool silver gaze rested on her face, his eyes touching her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her eyes. ‘‘A man naturally wants what is best for his woman.’’

She felt a shiver race down her spine. His woman. But she wasn’t his woman. She had no intention of ever becoming his woman. ‘‘A woman finds it difficult to respect a man that doesn’t allow her to use her brain.’’

‘‘This isn’t a political exercise, Princess Thibaudet. I’m simply asking you to study our language and culture—’’

‘‘All day long.’’

His jaw tightened. ‘‘It’s not as if you’re actually in school. You’ll be studying with my cousin Fatima, who is not only a member of the royal family, and close to your age, but a true Barakan scholar. I expect that the two of you will become great, close friends.’’

Great, close friends? Nic flashed back to last night, and Fatima’s cool welcome. The Sultan was dreaming. ‘‘Yes, I’ve met Lady Fatima, and Your Highness, my frustration isn’t with the teacher, but the lessons themselves. I’m concerned that less than twenty-four hours after arriving I’ve already lost—’’ she broke off, biting back the word control.

She wasn’t upset because she was going to learn a new language. She was upset because she was quickly losing control…of the wedding, her environment, her independence itself. Nic had spent her entire life fighting to keep the upper hand and yet less than twenty-four hours after arriving she felt as if she’d become a possession instead of a woman.

Nic struggled to find a more diplomatic way to say what she was feeling. ‘‘I’m asking you, Your Highness, to give me more input into organizing my schedule. I’d find the lessons and activities less objectionable if I had a choice.’’

‘‘But what would you do differently? Everything I’ve chosen for you is good for you.’’

He didn’t get it. Because he was a man, and a powerful man, he didn’t understand what it was like to be told where to go, when to go, how to get there. ‘‘But that’s precisely my point, Your Highness. Women want to choose for themselves!’’

He sighed, glanced at his watch, and shook his head. ‘‘As interesting as this is, I’ve people waiting in my office, and I’m afraid I’ve spent all the time on this discussion that I intend to spend. I regret that you’re unhappy with my choices, but I expect you’ll enjoy the lessons once begun.’’

And that was it. He was done. He turned away, headed for the door and Nic watched his departing back in astonishment. He was serious. He was really done.

The fact that he’d walk out on her blew her mind. Her temper surged yet again. ‘‘I’m not going to the lessons,’’ she called out. ‘‘I’ll look my schedule over and see if I can’t adapt the activities to better suit my needs.’’

Ah, that caught his attention. She suppressed a smile of satisfaction as he stopped at the door, and slowly turned around. His silver gaze grew flinty, his expression implacable. ‘‘The lessons are set.’’

‘‘Nothing in life is set.’’ She lifted her chin, temper blazing, emotions high. ‘‘And I won’t be dictated to. If you wish a marriage with a modern princess, than you’d better expect a modern partnership. I didn’t travel this far to become a royal doormat.’’

His dark head cocked, his jaw rigid. ‘‘A doormat?’’ he repeated softly. ‘‘I find the description highly offensive. I have nothing but the utmost respect for women, and the women in my life are cherished and protected. And if you learning our language is so objectionable—’’

‘‘It’s not the language, Your Highness!’’ She was walking toward him, frustration and irritation coiled so tightly inside her she couldn’t keep still. ‘‘I’ve never minded learning your language, but I shouldn’t have to be immediately immersed in language coursework first thing on arrival. Your country is bilingual. Everyone in Baraka speaks French. And my country is also bilingual. We speak Spanish and French.’’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘But French is part of our colonial past while Arabic is the future.’’

She stopped in front of the sultan, arms folded just like him, mimicking his pose. ‘‘So why marry a European princess, Your Highness? There must be plenty of Arabic princesses if that is indeed, your future.’’

He didn’t answer her question but leaned toward her, brow furrowed, and she instinctively held her breath as his lips grazed her ear. ‘‘It’s not too late to put you on a plane and send you home.’’

She gritted her teeth, eyes narrowing. How typical. Met with conflict, he’d rather send her home than compromise. ‘‘Maybe you should. You’re not ready for the reality of marriage, Your Highness.’’

Suddenly his hand was against the back of her neck, his fingers curled against her warm sensitive skin. She shivered. He felt the shiver and his fingers tightened perceptibly. ‘‘You can not blame me entirely, Princess. You’ve changed. A month ago you were most eager for this union. Two weeks ago you expressed nothing but eagerness, willingness.’’

He’d drawn her close, so close that she was nearly held against his chest. She could feel his body’s warmth, his leashed energy, his innate strength. There was no escaping him this time. Not until he chose to let her go. ‘‘What has caused this change of heart, Chantal? You’re nothing but difficult today.’’

‘‘I’m not difficult. I’m merely honest.’’ He was manhandling her, dominating her, and his arrogance infuriated her. There was no reason to trap her like this against him, render her helpless with his body…his will. ‘‘Yet it appears I’m not allowed to have an opinion.’’

His fingers stroked the side of her neck, his thumb drawing small circles which she found maddening. She liked his touch. She hated his dominant strength. It was as if her body loved the pleasure, but her mind detested his control.

‘‘Of course you’re allowed to have an opinion,’’ he answered calmly. ‘‘But your opinions so far express only displeasure and discontent—’’

‘‘You can’t say that based on the ninety minutes we’ve spent together!’’

He forced her head back, ensuring that she saw his full displeasure. His jaw flexed. His silver gaze shone brittle. He was barely hanging onto his temper. ‘‘Do you ever stop and think before you speak, Princess?’’

‘‘And do you bully everyone into doing what you want, King Nuri? I understand you’re the sultan, but surely, others—your family, your subjects—are allowed a modicum of free speech?’’

‘‘You’ve tasted more than free speech,’’ he retorted, pressing a finger against her lips. ‘‘In fact, I’ve heard all I want to hear from you.’’

‘‘Well, I won’t be quiet!’’ she talked despite the finger shushing her, talked to push him away, talked to keep from falling apart. The tension between them was overwhelming and Nicolette had never been so afraid. He excited her. He terrified her. She could only imagine how wild, how explosive their lovemaking would be.

‘‘You won’t?’’

She swallowed convulsively, feeling prickly with heat, her nerves screaming in anticipation. The tension crackling between them was unlike anything she’d ever known before. But then, she’d never challenged a man as powerful as Malik Nuri before. ‘‘No.’’ She drew a quick, shallow breath, trying somehow to regain her footing again. She could hear Chantal in her head, hearing Chantal’s disapproval. Chantal would never, ever challenge a man like this. Chantal believed in tact, diplomacy, quiet strength.

Nic’s strength wasn’t even close to being quiet.

But she wasn’t here as Nicolette, rebel middle daughter. She was here as Chantal, and King Nuri had expected agreeable Chantal.

His head lowered, his lips brushed her cheek. ‘‘I can not have a disobedient wife.’’

His deep cultured voice penetrated through her, electrified the most inner part of her. Her belly clenched in a knot of pleasure and fear. She craved, physically craved, his voice, his strength, his power. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted his hands all over her.

You’re mad, she choked inwardly. You’ve lost your mind if you want to take King Nuri on this way.

But she did. She wanted to provoke him. Test him. See how far he’d let her go. She wondered where he’d draw the line and what he’d do to make her toe the line.

Power. Control. Submission. Domination. She was strong. Very strong. So strong that she’d never met a man who could match her strength—until today. ‘‘A husband shouldn’t require obedience. He should desire a spirit of cooperation, and mutual respect.’’

His lips hovered above her cheek. ‘‘But a woman can’t respect a man if he lets her walk all over him.’’

‘‘I don’t believe you’ve allowed me to walk anywhere near you, Your Highness.’’

He tipped her chin up and his silver gaze burned into her eyes, seeing the fire and rebellion she couldn’t possibly hide. ‘‘You refuse to capitulate.’’

His touch was making her head spin. ‘‘But why should I have to capitulate? If you’re serious about wanting a wife with an education and a sense of self-worth, then you’d welcome my thoughts.’’

‘‘I do welcome them. I just don’t expect my bride to challenge every request I make.’’

‘‘I’m not your bride yet, and you’re not making requests. You’re making demands. There’s a difference. We both know it.’’ She jerked her head back, put her hands to his chest and gave a firm push. There was no way she’d let him knuckle her under.

His gaze swept down, from her warm cheeks, to her lips and even lower to the full swell of her breasts. ‘‘And if I ask you to attend language classes?’’

The weight of his gaze on her breasts made them ache. It was as if he was touching her, caressing her, and her nipples peaked, hardening. ‘‘I’d consider your request.’’ Her voice had dropped, grown husky. He had to know what he was doing to her, had to know the sensations he was stirring within her.

His gaze slowly lifted again, traveling up her neck, over her full, soft mouth, past her flushed cheeks to her eyes. ‘‘Not everything between us needs to be a fight.’’

His inflection was nearly as husky as her own. She felt warmth creep through her, a seductive wash of awareness…and desire. ‘‘I’m not fighting now.’’

The corner of his mouth lifted in the briefest smile. ‘‘No. But I expect this is but a momentary reprieve.’’

Oh, that smile of his. It was dangerous. Mysterious. It was as if he knew all sorts of things about her that she didn’t even know. ‘‘You don’t like to fight?’’

He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘‘No.’’ His silver gaze warmed, the gray-green depths turning rich, molten. ‘‘There are too many other things I’d rather do with women, particularly if she happens to be my woman.’’

There. His woman again. More possession. And she didn’t want to be a possession.

‘‘Now let’s see how well this works,’’ he continued softly, a husky note of compulsion in his voice. ‘‘Princess Chantal, I’m asking you to please consider attending the language and culture classes that begin in—’’ he glanced at his watch ‘‘—fifteen minutes. It’s important to me that you familiarize yourself with our culture. Can you manage to squeeze the lessons into your busy schedule?’’

He really wasn’t giving her a choice, though, and she knew it. He was asking her, but he was fully expecting her to say yes. Damn him. Malik Roman Nuri was really hard to manage. ‘‘I’ll check my calendar,’’ she answered crisply. ‘‘But if my morning is open, I’ll do my best to make the first lesson.’’

His eyes gleamed. His smile was mocking. He reached for her again, his fingers curling through her long hair. ‘‘You, Princess, have had too many Western men.’’

His words, his touch, his knowing smile made her tremble inwardly. The power continued to shift. The boundaries seemed practically invisible. He touched her as if she was already his. And her body was responding to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘‘I said I’d try.’’

He released her leisurely, drawing his fingers from her thick hair even more slowly. ‘‘You will. We both know you will. You’re in Baraka now, laeela. My will, Princess, will soon be your command.’’ Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles. ‘‘Enjoy your time with Fatima. I’ll look forward to getting a full report on your lessons tonight.’’

Nic watched him leave, feeling a bubble of hysteria form in her chest. How was she going to convince him to go to America? How was she going to convince him to do anything? He wanted her to submit—not the other way around!

You’re in so much trouble, she told herself, feeling like a ship with a hole in the stern. She was going to sink. The only question was how much time did she have left before she went down?

Nicolette met Fatima in an airy salon, where the wood shutters at the tall arched windows were folded back, allowing the bright sun to bounce off the pale apricot walls and drench the marble floor with its dramatic black and ivory diamond pattern.

The language lesson seemed to last forever, but then a serving girl carried in almond pastries and mint tea.

Fatima poured the tea, glancing at Nicolette as she did so. ‘‘You know we have a saying here, Princess Thibaudet. There’s no escaping death and marriage.’’ Fatima smiled grimly, handed Nicolette her tea cup. ‘‘It’s true, you know. A girl’s place is in the home. Tending to the family.’’

Nic shrugged, sensing the other woman’s hostility thinking of the life Chantal had lived so far in La Croix, knowing that they were supposedly discussing Chantal’s future, not hers. ‘‘I don’t have a problem with that, Lady Fatima. I have a daughter. I’m comfortable being home. I’ve lived this way for years.’’

Fatima blew delicately on her hot tea. ‘‘Your daughter will marry a man chosen for her, too, then?’’

Nic startled, picturing her young niece being forced to marry against her will. Never. ‘‘There’s no reason for Lilly to do that.’’

‘‘Yet…if you are to marry the Sultan,’’ Fatima’s smile was hard, and it made her dark eyes gleam like polished onyx, ‘‘your other children will have to follow our traditions. Surely it would be better for Lilly to do the same.’’

Nicolette couldn’t answer. She felt cold on the inside. Scared, too. ‘‘Your cousin has never spoken of this to me.’’

‘‘Not yet, no. But he will. After I have introduced our culture to you.’’ Fatima sipped from her cup. ‘‘That is my job, you realize. To introduce you to our ways.’’

Nic stared into her small cup, her emotions growing hot, replacing the ice around her heart. Had Chantal considered this? Thank God Chantal was not here. Thank God she would not have to listen to this. Be tortured like this. Chantal and Lilly had been through too much already.

Gracefully Fatima set her cup on the low table, lifted the plate of pastries out to Nicolette. ‘‘Please.’’

It’d be impossible for Nic to eat now. She’d choke on the pastry. Her throat was dry as dust.

Fatima inclined her head. ‘‘Back to our discussion about your daughter. Do you really think it is fair to her to make her an outcast? To treat her differently than you’ll treat your children with the sultan? Please try to think of it from her perspective, of what would benefit her most. How do you think she will feel being different? And how shall your choices impact her later? Because, Princess, no Barakan man will ever marry her, and if she can’t marry here then you are choosing to send her far away.’’

Nic’s tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth. She felt horribly close to choking. ‘‘She’s four, Lady Fatima. Just four years old. A little girl still. I think these decisions don’t need to be made for a number of years.’’

‘‘Time passes quickly.’’

Not quickly enough, Nic silently retorted, furious, hanging on to her temper—barely. Fatima’s company was becoming intolerable. ‘‘And you,’’ Nic said, turning the focus onto the twenty-five-year old. ‘‘What are your cousin’s plans for you? Is there a husband on the horizon, or are you going to remain here, devoting your life to him and me?’’

Fatima’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘I haven’t heard who he has selected for me, but I am interested, of course. Why? Have you heard something?’’

‘‘No.’’

For the first time since they sat down together this morning, Fatima expressed uncertainty. ‘‘But if you do hear something, you’ll tell me?’’

‘‘Of course, Lady Fatima. We should help each other, not hurt each other, don’t you think?’’

Returning to her room, Nic glanced at her calendar, unable to believe that every morning would be spent in virtual hell with Fatima, unnerved by the fact that she was making every decision—including decisions about meals and coffee—based on a calendar. Malik Nuri’s calendar! It was an insult to her intelligence. A test of her control.

Insult or not, Nic knew that according to the calendar, she had just enough time to freshen up and change before dinner. According to her appointment book, she and King Nuri would be dining alone together, and Alea had clothes already waiting, a pale pink trouser set with a long slim silk overcoat.

Nicolette wasn’t in the mood for pink, but she didn’t have the energy to protest, especially not when she had more pressing matters on her mind.

Managing her emotions—and reactions—around the sultan was an issue. Lady Fatima was already posing a problem. And Nicolette was no closer to convincing the sultan that the wedding should be moved to Baton Rouge than when she arrived yesterday afternoon.

So think of tonight as an opportunity, she told herself, as she was escorted to King Nuri’s quarters. This isn’t a chance to fail, but a chance to succeed.

They ate Western style, sitting at a small table in one of the elegant courtyards. Torches illuminated the tiled walls, reflecting off the ancient mosaics decorating every surface. During the meal, Nic struggled to think of a natural way to bring up her concerns about the wedding—and Lady Fatima—but no opportunity presented itself. But the wedding first.

‘‘I attended the lessons today,’’ she said, cringing a little at her inept opening. There had to be a better way to approach the topic than this. ‘‘Lady Fatima is certainly…knowledgeable.’’

‘‘She is, isn’t she?’’

Nic forced herself on. ‘‘She expressed thoughts that troubled me.’’

‘‘Indeed?’’

He wasn’t being very helpful here. ‘‘Despite her education, she sounds quite conservative, at least in terms of women’s roles in your society.’’

His shoulders shifted and the candle light flickered over his face, his features even, controlled. ‘‘Fatima has always been most comfortable as a woman. She embraces the unique differences between men and women.’’

Was he purposely taunting her? ‘‘Sounds perfect for you. I’m surprised you never considered marrying her.’’

His gaze clashed with hers. ‘‘Did I say that?’’

‘‘Did you propose?’’

‘‘No. I respect her immensely, but she’s like a sister to me.’’

Finally some insights into his world. Ever since arriving in Atiq, Nicolette had floundered, struggling to get her feet on the ground. Just who was Malik Nuri? What did he want? What did he really believe? ‘‘Have you ever proposed to anyone?’’

‘‘I’ve waited a long time to marry.’’ His expression revealed nothing, and his tone was deceptively mild. ‘‘I’ve waited a long time for you.’’

‘‘Not me—’’

‘‘Yes, you, Princess.’’

She wasn’t sure what to say next. Maybe she should just be glad he’d presented her with an opportunity to address her wedding concerns. ‘‘Have you had a chance to think about my request? It really does mean a great deal to me…marrying in my mother’s parish.’’ She tried to keep her tone casual, although beneath the table her fingers were knotting her linen napkin. There were so many undercurrents between them—personal, physical, sexual.

‘‘Your mother, the American.’’

‘‘I know you want to be married here, in Atiq, but perhaps we could find a compromise. Instead of just one ceremony, we could have two. We go to Baton Rouge for my church ceremony, and then return here for a traditional Barakan ceremony.’’

‘‘Two ceremonies?’’

‘‘It’s not unheard of, Your Highness—’’

‘‘Malik. Please. We’re discussing our wedding.’’

The way he said our wedding made her blush and she nodded awkwardly, immediately aware of the size of him, the strength of him, as well as the sense that despite the differences between them, they’d be eventually matched in bed. ‘‘Dual ceremonies are being done more and more these days,’’ she said, voice almost breaking. ‘‘It’s one way of addressing the various aspects of culture.’’

He hesitated, lips pursing. ‘‘Perhaps. I’ve never thought of drawing this out, but that’s not to say we couldn’t make it happen.’’

Yes. Nic felt herself exhale in a deep rush. But her relief was tinged by something else…an emotion far more personal, one that had nothing to do with Chantal and Lilly and only to do with her attraction.

‘‘We’d marry here first, then,’’ he added, as if thinking aloud. ‘‘You’re already here. The plans have been made. After the palace ceremony, we could fly to Louisiana, invite your friends and family to join us there.’’

His words popped whatever brief fantasy she held. She was being ridiculous, the daydream she had been having of a lazy afternoon in bed was even more ridiculous. He was a sultan. She was a princess. She wasn’t even the princess he wanted. ‘‘Your Highness—’’ she saw his frown, and quickly substituted his name ‘‘—Malik. I appreciate you considering my suggestion, and I’m grateful you’re willing to travel to the States, but if we should do all that, I’d really like to walk down the aisle first…be a bride in white.’’

‘‘A bride in white,’’ he echoed thoughtfully.

And then remembering she was supposed to be Chantal she forced a tight smile. ‘‘I know I’ve done it before, but it’s still…traditional.’’

‘‘And you’re the traditional sister, right?’’ He leaned away from the table and the candles, having burned low, turned the table into a shade of rose-gold. ‘‘You mentioned this morning that the Ducasses are half French?’’

It was a quick switch. He was very good, she thought, rinsing off her fingers in her water bowl, wiping her hands dry. He controlled the conversation. He controlled her physical reactions. He controlled her emotions. This was certainly a first for her.

‘‘French and Spanish,’’ Nic answered after a moment’s pause, gathering her wits about her, knowing she needed them more than ever. He let nothing slide. He remembered every word she said. ‘‘Although throughout history many Ducasse kings took English brides.’’

‘‘Royal brides?’’

‘‘Only royal brides.’’

‘‘So you were raised speaking…?’’

‘‘French for father, English for Mother, and our nanny was from Seville, so we spoke Spanish with her.’’

‘‘Any other languages?’’

Her heart was no longer racing. She felt calmer again, dignified. ‘‘I read Latin, of course, know some Greek, a fair amount of Italian and can get by with my German.’’

‘‘A linguist.’’

She shrugged. ‘‘I’m a mathematician. They say language and math use the same parts of the brain.’’

‘‘Interesting.’’ His fingers tapped the table, his expression almost brooding. ‘‘I didn’t realize both you and Nicolette studied mathematics at university. I knew she had—you’d mentioned that this morning—but didn’t know you had as well.’’

Nic gave herself a hard mental kick. You’re Chantal, act like Chantal! But it was proving harder to do than Nic ever expected. Having never wanted to be anyone but herself. ‘‘It’s all the same gene pool,’’ she said lightly. The table had been covered by an elegant purple cloth shot with gold threads so the entire table seemed to glimmer and shine in the soft candlelight.

‘‘Speaking of the parental gene pool, I met your father once,’’ Malik said, again changing the topic, keeping her firmly off balance. Candlelight flickered across his face, playing up the length of his imperial nose, the uncompromising line of his jaw. ‘‘Years ago, when I was still in my teens, I heard him address a group of leaders at a European economic summit. He was brilliant.’’

‘‘He loved Melio.’’ Nic pictured her country’s beautiful old port, the narrow tree-lined streets, the pretty farms tucked between rocky hills. ‘‘He wanted the best for Melio, and was willing to make whatever sacrifices were necessary—’’

‘‘Except for giving up your mother,’’ the sultan interrupted thoughtfully. ‘‘Your mother wasn’t ever negotiable, was she?’’

Her mother, the American pop sensation…a star who’d risen from the poorest roots imaginable. Her mother had grown up hungry. Hungry for food, warmth, love, shelter. Hungry for recognition.

Only Nic’s grandparents hadn’t seen it that way. They’d thought her mother was hungry for power and they’d done everything in their power to break up Julien and Star’s marriage. They’d wanted so much more for their Prince Julien. ‘‘He would have given up the crown if he had to,’’ she answered flatly.

‘‘Your grandparents nearly disinherited him.’’

She shook her head, finding it all so ludicrous. ‘‘My grandparents underestimated my mother.’’ Nic had never visited her mother’s birthplace in Louisiana, but she knew it was considered rural. Rough. Poverty stricken, crime ridden. Definitely not roots to be proud of. ‘‘Mother may have been born poor, but she wasn’t afraid of challenges.’’ No one worked harder than her mother. She had little formal schooling, having dropped out of high school before earning her diploma, but she’d dreamed big and that counted for something.

Malik’s gaze rested on Nic’s flushed face. ‘‘You got along well with her?’’

‘‘Very.’’ Nic had adored her mother. In some ways they were one and the same. Fearless. Absolutely fearless. ‘‘I’m glad she wasn’t your typical princess. I’m glad she was poor, blue collar, American. She took nothing for granted. She taught us to take nothing for granted.’’

A maid appeared with a tray and a steaming pot of coffee and two small cups. As the maid poured the coffee Nic wondered how on earth had they gotten onto this topic in the first place. It was not her favorite topic. Nic was too much like her mother to understand those who’d criticized Star.

Malik waited for the maid to leave again. ‘‘Would you say you’re the same kind of mother to Lilly? What is your relationship with your daughter like?’’

And suddenly Nicolette felt wrenched all over again, remembering how everything they were saying, everything they were doing was a lie. She was supposed to be playing Chantal, instead she kept speaking from the heart, answering his questions honestly, openly.

Think like Chantal…think like Chantal. And Nic could see Chantal in her mind’s eye and knew that yes, Chantal was a fantastic mother. Chantal was the ultimate mother. ‘‘I think I’m more protective than my mother,’’ Nic said after a moment. ‘‘And Lilly, I think, is more trusting than most children, and considerably more vulnerable.’’

Malik sipped from his small cup. ‘‘Perhaps it’s losing her father so young in life.’’

Nic couldn’t help her jaw hardening. Armand…Armand…how she hated Prince Armand Thibaudet. ‘‘Perhaps,’’ Nic agreed quietly, but her voice came out cold, flat. ‘‘Or perhaps it’s that she’s very bright for her age, quite intuitive, and she senses that things are not…as they should be.’’

Malik stared at her, considering her, his expression curious, almost speculative. After a minute ticked by, he shifted in his chair, leaning back to make himself more comfortable, and yet the intensity of his gaze made her burn from the inside out. ‘‘From what I understand, your first marriage wasn’t a love match.’’

Her stomach was in knots. She could hardly concentrate. ‘‘Far from it.’’

‘‘Yet you came to Baraka…?’’

Because I didn’t have a choice, she wanted to tell him. You were pressuring Chantal, and Chantal’s had enough pressure. ‘‘I want Lilly happy,’’ she said at last, feeling the weight of the world rest on her shoulders. Somehow, in less than forty-eight hours, he’d tied her in knots. She wasn’t Nic. She wasn’t Chantal. She didn’t know who she was anymore. The only thing she did know was that the chemistry between her and King Nuri was wild…stunning…she’d never had this kind of response to anyone and there was no way—absolutely no way—she could let the attraction get out of hand.