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.
CHAPTER FOUR
LATER that evening, after returning to her room, she lay in bed, staring at the wood shutters where just the faintest edge of light could be made out around the edges. She couldn’t sleep.
Couldn’t turn her brain off.
She was beginning to worry, really worry. First her dinner conversation with King Nuri played in her head, and then as soon as that conversation ended, she heard her last conversation with Chantal begin, the conversation they had just hours before Nic had boarded the Royal Star yacht.
‘‘It’s just a meet and greet, right?’’ Nicolette had asked, drumming her fingers on her locked steamer trunk. ‘‘You wouldn’t actually marry him. It’s just a chance to say hi—bye—and know what you’re not getting involved with?’’
Chantal’s eyebrows lifted. ‘‘Be careful, Nic. This isn’t one of your fun-loving Greeks. This is King Nuri—’’
‘‘A man—’’
‘‘A King.’’
Nic shrugged. ‘‘So he’s a royal, but so are we—and just because a man says jump, it doesn’t mean we have to.’’
So she didn’t have to jump, but the wedding was less than two weeks away and she had no idea how she was going