The Princess Brides: The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess

Jane Porter grew up on a diet of Mills & Boon® romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight, and spent many of her school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her gorgeous husband and two sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com.

Don’t miss Jane Porter’s classic The Sheikh’s Virgin available in October in the M&B™ collection The Desert Sheikh’s Marriage.

In September 2008 Mills & Boon bring back two of their classic collections, each featuring three favourite romances by our bestselling authors…

THE PRINCESS BRIDES by Jane Porter The Sultan’s Bought Bride The Greek’s Royal Mistress The Italian’s Virgin Princess

IN THE AUSTRALIAN’S BED The Passion Price by Miranda Lee The Australian’s Convenient Bride by Lindsay Armstrong The Australian’s Marriage Demand by Melanie Milburne

The Princess Brides

by

Jane Porter

THE SULTAN’S BOUGHT BRIDE

THE GREEK’S ROYAL MISTRESS

THE ITALIAN’S VIRGIN PRINCESS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE SULTAN’S BOUGHT BRIDE

by

Jane Porter

For CJ Carmichael. Thank you for everything, Carla. I am so very lucky to call you my very good friend. Jane.

PROLOGUE

‘‘YOU’RE not going to go.’’ Princess Nicolette tossed the heavy parchment paper into the garbage can. ‘‘You just pick up the phone and tell the sultan—or sheikh—or whatever he is that you’re not doing this disgustingly barbaric arranged marriage thing again. For heaven’s sake, Chantal, you’re a woman—not a human sacrifice!’’

Chantal’s mouth curved, but the tight smile didn’t touch her gray eyes, or her tense expression. ‘‘He’s wealthy, Nic. There’s a chance he might be able to buy Lilly’s freedom, and if this is the way—’’

‘‘It’s not the way! Absolutely not the way. You barely survived one hellish marriage. How could you even consider another?’’

‘‘Because our country needs it. Our people need it.’’ Chantal’s slim shoulders lifted, fell, as did her voice. ‘‘My daughter needs it.’’

Chantal’s resignation killed Nic. Her sister had lost her spirit, her backbone, her courage. The last couple of years had virtually annihilated the elegant princess, the eldest of the Ducasse royal grandchildren.

‘‘You have needs, too,’’ Nic shot back. ‘‘And you need to be treated kindly, lovingly, with respect. Another marriage of convenience—to another playboy—will only crush you.’’ Nic’s emotions ran high. If Chantal couldn’t fight anymore, then Nic would have to do it for her. ‘‘And I know you want to help Lilly, but your daughter needs to come home to Melio, Chantal. She doesn’t need another foreign country, another foreign culture, or another foreign nanny saying no princess, you can’t princess, don’t smile princess, we don’t approve of laughter, princess!’’

Chantal winced. ‘‘You’re not helping, Nic.’’

Nic dropped to her knees, and wrapped her arms around Chantal’s legs, holding her sister close. ‘‘So let me help. Let me do something for a change!’’

Chantal’s fine dark brown eyebrow arched and she lifted one of Nicolette’s long blond curls. ‘‘You’ll marry the sultan?’’ Chantal gently mocked. ‘‘Come on, Nic. You’d never agree to a marriage of convenience. And you’re not even close to being ready to settle down. You’re still sowing all your wild oats.’’

Nicolette pressed her cheek to Chantal’s knees. ‘‘I’m not sowing wild oats. I’m just dating—’’

Her sister laughed and tugged on the long blond curl. ‘‘You don’t date, love. You hunt and destroy.’’

‘‘You make me sound like the Terminator! I don’t destroy men. I just haven’t found Mr. Right yet.’’

‘‘And how are you going to find the right man when you sleep with all the wrong ones?’’

‘‘I don’t sleep with everybody.’’

‘‘But you do like sex.’’

Nic eyed her sister thoughtfully. ‘‘Uh-oh, big sis doesn’t approve.’’

‘‘Big sis worries about AIDS. Venereal disease. Herpes. Pregnancy.’’

But that wasn’t really what Chantal worried about, was it? Chantal wasn’t thinking about Nicolette contracting a disease. She was worrying about her sister’s reputation. ‘‘Is this where you make the Good Girls Don’t speech?’’

‘‘Well, Mother’s not here.’’

‘‘Which probably makes you glad because Mother wasn’t a Good Girl, either!’’

Chantal stiffened. ‘‘Don’t speak of Mother that way, and more importantly, you know we all need to make good marriages. This has been the plan for five years.’’ Because their kingdom, consisting of two small islands in the Mediterranean Sea, Mejia and Melio, would be split at year’s end. Mejia would revert to French rule, Melio to Spanish rule if the royal Ducasse family couldn’t pay their taxes and trade agreements.

Chantal had been the one to suggest marriages of convenience. If the three princesses all made good marriages they could save Melio and Mejia, infusing the economy with new money, new alliances, new power. So Chantal had been the first to marry to Prince Armand Thibaudet of La Croix and it’d been a nightmare from the start.

So, no, Nic hadn’t been overly anxious to marry, but that wasn’t to say she wouldn’t do her part. ‘‘You don’t think I can marry well anymore, do you?’’

If Chantal had heard the hurt in Nic’s voice she gave no indication. ‘‘I don’t know anything about your reputation, but I do know we all have a responsibility to take care of Melio. Succession depends on us. Melio’s security, and stability, must come through us. We are the next generation.’’

‘‘I’ve never shirked my duties. While you’ve been gone I’ve taken over your charities along with mine.’’

‘‘Charities are all very well and nice, but it’s money we need. Millions of dollars. And you have had two proposals, Nic.’’

‘‘Years ago.’’

‘‘Exactly! And nothing since. Because all the European royals know you’ve been voted by the press as the Ducasse princess least likely to settle down.’’

The criticism rang in Nicolette’s ears. It still rankled Nic that Chantal continued to perceive duty…responsibility…as the best of personal virtues. ‘‘You’re saying your sultan, King Nuri, would never propose to someone like me?’’

‘‘Well, he didn’t, did he?’’

Nic stared at Chantal for a long moment, realizing that even if duty-bound Chantal wanted to go to Baraka to meet the Sultan, Nic wouldn’t let her. Chantal had been through too much in the past few years. No one but Nic knew about Chantal’s private hell. Even Joelle, their youngest sister, knew little about the abuse Chantal suffered at the hands of her late husband.

‘‘There’s no reason for any of us to marry the sultan,’’ Nic said after a moment. ‘‘We can get him to help us without giving up our freedom, and yes, I do value my freedom.’’ Her gaze locked with Chantal’s. ‘‘We’ll get Lilly free. We’ll bring her home.’’

Chantal shook her head. ‘‘Her grandparents will never let her go.’’

‘‘They will if pressured properly.’’ Nic’s gaze held her sister’s. ‘‘They will if King Nuri insists. You did say he was immensely powerful.’’

‘‘And wealthy,’’ Chantal whispered.

‘‘So I’ll go to King Nuri and ask for his help. He won’t say no to his future bride, will he?’’

‘‘Nic—’’

‘‘I’ll go, pretend to be you, get him to fall in love with me—’’

‘‘Nic.’’

‘‘He’s a man, Chantal. I know how to manage men.’’

‘‘It’s not going to work. You’ll never be able to pass yourself off as me. You’re blond, I’m dark—’’

‘‘I’ll dye my hair. As a brunette I could pass for you.’’ Nic suddenly laughed, empowered. ‘‘I’ll sneak in, sneak out. He won’t even know what’s happened.’’

‘‘Oh, Nic, this is a disaster waiting to happen!’’

‘‘Not if I’m smart,’’ she answered smugly. ‘‘Trust me. I can do this. I’ll put together a plan, and you know me, Chantal. When I want something, I always win.’’

CHAPTER ONE

KING MALIK ROMAN NURI, sultan of Baraka, stood on the ancient harbor wall constructed nearly seven hundred years ago, in the shade of a sixteenth century Portuguese fortress and watched the royal Ducasse yacht sail into his harbor, ship’s purple and gold banners flying high.

His princess was here.

His thick lashes lowered as he heard his band strike up a song of welcome, and he wondered at her thoughts, the thoughts of the beautiful Ducasse princess who’d left her home for his. Her world was Western, his was Eastern. She must feel some fear. He felt fear for her. She was coming to a world far different from her own. Her life would never be the same.

Did she even know it yet?

Standing on the gleaming wooden deck of the Royal Star, the Ducasse yacht named after Nic’s late mother, Nicolette adjusted the long dark head covering she’d donned, and listened to the ship’s flags snap in the hot afternoon wind, even as her own body crackled with tension.

She was determined. Focused. She knew what she had to do.

Her plan would work. There was no reason it shouldn’t.

She’d arrive in Baraka, pretend to be Chantal, proceed with the wedding, and then once Chantal and Lilly were safe in America, the wedding would be called off.

Simple. Doable.

With her narrowed gaze on the horizon, the formidable stone walls of Atiq, Baraka’s capital city, took shape. The fortified rampart facing the sea appeared to be centuries old, buffeted by storm and sea, and countless marauding neighbors. Nic could easily imagine those ruthless neighbors—The Greeks. The Romans. The Turks. The Portuguese. The French.

Everybody wanted to own something. If not a woman, then a piece of land. She could just picture the sailors, the soldiers, the adventurers grabbing up chunks of soil and sand. Anything for power.

Nic stifled the wave of irritation. She had to be careful, needed to keep tight rein on her temper. She had to be charming, not angry. Sweet-tempered, not feisty. It was vital King Malik Nuri believe she was really Chantal.

Pulling the head scarf closer to her face, concealing her mouth and nose, she drew a deep breath and chased away all thoughts of conquerors and kings. Instead she studied the looming port with the dots of green palm trees shadowing the glaring white walls of the inner city.

For a moment, Nic’s curiosity upstaged her emotions. Was this where she’d stay during the next couple of weeks? Did the sultan live in the harbor city of Atiq? Or was his palace elsewhere…perhaps tucked inland, protected by the massive dunes of the Sahara?

And as her gaze focused on the distant horizon, music wafted over the water. She spotted the enormous crowd gathered on the rampart walls. Hundreds and hundreds of people waited for her.

So much for sneaking in and out.

Beneath Nic’s long robe, something she’d cheerfully put on as it aided her disguise, her toes curled inside her sleek leather pumps, the shoes matching her hidden lavender silk suit perfectly, the suit vintage designer—something from her mother’s collection, and she shook her head at Chantal’s choices all over again.

Why on earth would someone like King Malik Roman Nuri choose Chantal for his bride? And why on earth would Chantal even consider saying yes to yet another unfaithful husband?

Nic had spent all last week on the Internet, poring over media archives. She’d done her research and she knew King Malik Roman Nuri for what he was. A handsome, but irredeemable playboy.

From the few grainy photos she’d been able to pull up, he was certainly attractive. He had hard, masculine features, a thick head of hair, and apparently a stunning libido.

The gossip magazines claimed the sultan, Malik Nuri, was The Casanova of Arabia. According to several sources close to the sultan, King Nuri had mastered seduction, turned lovemaking into an art, and kept numerous mistresses—all in splendid style.

Fine. He was a world-class lover. He spoiled his mistresses. After Chantal’s experience with one manipulative and unfaithful husband, she certainly didn’t need another who’d never keep his vows of fidelity, much less loyalty.

Nic grit her teeth. Chantal deserved a prince of a man, not a sultan unable to keep his royal trousers on!

The band’s bright notes jarred her, even as they filled the air. Two weeks, three weeks, she told herself, fighting her temper, not a day more. They’d leave for the United States as soon as it could be arranged. She’d propose a wedding in her mother’s home town, something very small and private, yet meaningful, and once they were in Baton Rouge, Nic would call the wedding off.

If she handled this right—flattering the sultan, giving him the kind of attention she knew how to give a man—the whole charade would be nothing but a feminine escapade. The engagement would be short. Sweet. Painless.

‘‘Your Highness?’’ The ship’s captain had appeared at her side. ‘‘We have arrived.’’

Nic turned to the captain, a man she’d known nearly half her life. He’d aged in the past decade, but then hadn’t they all? And he didn’t know what she knew: this would be his last voyage as captain of the Royal Star. The Royal Star was being put up for auction on the ship’s return to Melio. ‘‘Excellent.’’

‘‘We’ve just about moored, Your Highness. Are you ready to disembark?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ And then she swallowed around the fierce lump in her throat as she looked up into Captain Anderson’s weathered face, the creases at his eyes deep from years of squinting against the sun. ‘‘And may I thank you for your years of loyal service, Captain? You’ve been truly magnificent.’’

‘‘It’s been my pleasure, Your Highness.’’ He bowed. ‘‘We’ll see you on your return home.’’

With the stringed instruments plucking, drums and tambourines beating, Nic stepped onto the gangway and halfway across, colorful confetti streamed down. It wasn’t paper confetti, the bits of orange and red and pink were flower petals and the sweet scented petals drifted onto her covered head and shoulders.

It was like entering a dream world—the music, the colors, the hint of spice in the air. Nic had the strongest sensation that this new world would soon dazzle her with its exotic secrets.

By the time she reached the end of the gangway, time had slowed. Faces blurred. People were cheering and clapping but none of it sounded real. The language was different, the faces weren’t familiar, there was nothing here that resembled the life she’d known.

Her gaze searched the crowd, trying to find a landmark…a personal touchstone. She found none. Instead the heat beat at her, hot and humid and oppressive, and the noise rang in her ears, too loud, too insistent, and for a half second everything swam before her eyes, a blur of orange and crimson, sharp, discordant sound, and she blinked once, trying to clear her head, trying to find herself again.

Nic gripped the gangway railing and tried not to dwell on the fact that she, Tough Girl, was suffering from a case of nerves. Focus, she lectured herself. Find a face in the crowd. Get your legs under you. Pull yourself together.

And she did.

She found a remarkable face in the crowd. It belonged to a man of course, she’d always had a soft spot for the opposite sex, and this man certainly caught her interest, quickened her pulse.

Arresting, was the first word that came to mind. Darkly arresting. She liked his strong hard face with the dark sunglasses, the thick black hair which framed his wide brow. She even liked the way he wore his sophisticated dark suit, with his crisp white shirt open at the collar.

He looked cool, calm, different from the others.

Her gaze clung to him, grateful for the normalcy. No robes, no camel, no chanting from him.

Good.

His sunglasses shaded his eyes and added to his mystique. She tried to imagine what his eyes would be like. Dark? Sable brown? Golden, perhaps?

It really didn’t matter, not with that thick, slightly wavy hair, and a face that made her think of lips…kisses. His jaw was as broad as his brow, his nose rather long but his lips curved faintly. They were very nice lips.

Then he pulled off his sunglasses and she inhaled a little, intrigued by his expression. It was arrogant. Proud. Challenging. He looked like a man who enjoyed a good fight. Interesting. She enjoyed a good fight, too.

Nothing turned her on as much as a man wrestling with her, rolling her beneath him, pinning her hands to the bed.

Mmm, it’d been too long. Too bad they weren’t in Melio. What she wouldn’t give for a night alone with him. She’d like to test his pride as well as taste his intensity. He’d be great fun on board the Royal Star, or for a night playing in nearby Monte Carlo, but there was no way anything was going to happen here. She was Chantal, she reminded herself, ending the brief fantasy, and she was in Baraka to discuss a wedding.

Conscious of a thousand pair of eyes resting on her, cymbals still clanging in her ears, Nic wished the sultan would step forward and get the introductions over.

For a moment no one moved, then a small, very stout robed man with dark mustache and beard moved toward her.

‘‘Princess Chantal Marie Ducasse?’’

The man barely reached her shoulder. Nic was tall, taller than either of her sisters, but this man would have been short standing next to even them. ‘‘Yes.’’

He bowed. ‘‘May I present to you, His Royal Highness, King Malik Roman Nuri, sultan of Baraka, prince of Atiq.’’

The crowd shifted expectantly and their tension sent arrows of dread straight through her middle. For a half second she regretted agreeing to this, wishing she’d stayed comfortable and ignorant at home.

Then she straightened her shoulders and the front row of the crowd opened, allowing a tall man in a dark suit to pass through.

Him.

No, she silently cried, not him. Anyone but him. But he was moving toward her, slowly, languidly, and her legs went weak.

This was not a good thing.

She swallowed, tried to see past his sunglasses which were again hiding his gaze, but instead looked at his mouth. The mouth that had made her think of lips, and kissing and…sex.

Her mouth dried. She suppressed a wave of horror. She’d seen the Sultan’s picture on the Internet and she wracked her brain, trying to put together the grainy photos with this man but it didn’t fit. She’d imagined a shorter man, heavier set, easily man aged and rather spoiled…

This man didn’t look easily managed at all.

‘‘His Royal Highness,’’ the short man intoned with a deep bow.

Her heart thudded, turned over, and her legs felt quivery. ‘‘Your Highness?’’ she murmured, hearing the doubt in her own voice.

The sultan closed the distance between them and studied her for a long silent moment. Nicolette was the first to look away, glancing down to the ground to hide her confusion.

But the Sultan wouldn’t let her escape. He tilted her chin up with his fingers, again gazed down into her face, and then apparently satisfied, he kissed her on each cheek.

‘‘S-salamu alikum,’’ he said soberly, his voice so deep she had to strain to hear him.

‘‘Peace on you,’’ the short man translated with another bow. ‘‘His Highness welcomes you to his beloved Baraka. Land of a thousand dreams.’’

Land of a thousand dreams. Interesting. And rather provocative, too.

‘‘Thank you,’’ she murmured, her cheeks still hot from the brush of his lips, and her brain racing to assimilate everything she was learning—such as the fact that the sultan didn’t speak English. ‘‘Would you please tell His Highness that I am flattered by the warm welcome his people have given me?’’

The translator passed the message on before turning back to Nicolette. ‘‘His Highness thinks it would be good to get you out of the sun. His car is waiting just there,’’ and he pointed to a dark limousine behind them, surrounded by uniformed guards.

The translator sat on one long seat in the limousine while Nicolette and the silent sultan sat on the other.

She and King Nuri didn’t speak during the brief drive, and although he barely looked at her, Nic had never felt so uncomfortably aware of anyone before.

She was conscious of the way he sat, feet planted, knees parted, thigh muscles honed. She felt the way he breathed—slow, deep breaths as if he owned the very air. His fragrance was light and yet the faint hint of spice made her want more.

He shifted abruptly, his arm extending on the back of the black leather upholstery seat, his hand precariously near her shoulder. Nic shimmered with sudden heat, her skin prickling all over. She felt each fine hair on her nape rise, and her nipples tighten.

Bizarre. Impossible. She hadn’t responded to a man this strong since…since…

She shook her head, not wanting to go there. It was bad enough trying to cope with her dazed senses without throwing memories of Daniel into the mix.

‘‘Your luggage will follow,’’ the translator volunteered after a few tense minutes. ‘‘But if there is anything you require before your luggage arrives, you need only ask.’’

Nic nodded jerkily, grateful for the protective head scarf, knowing her cheeks were as hot as the rest of her. ‘‘Thank you.’’

They reached the outer gates of the palace, and Nic discovered the sultan’s palace was actually a modernized fort, although to Nic’s mind, the huge and richly embellished main gate seemed more suitable for decoration than defense.

Once inside the ornate gate, a miniature city appeared, gardens, courtyards, white stone buildings each elegant and unique, nearly all fronted by endless white marble columns.

Guards in white trousers, white shirts, black boots and white robes bowed as King Nuri led Nicolette and the translator across the central courtyard to the central building. The building they entered was larger than the others and the facade grander, but the large carved doors failed to hint at the grandeur inside.

The great doors were gilded, and in the interior the ceiling soared, at least two stories in height, every surface covered in gold, mosaic murals, and bronze detailing. Gold, treasure, and impossible beauty.

Awed, Nicolette followed King Nuri into an elegant salon, rich crimson carpets covered the marble floor. The King gestured to one of the low couches in the middle of the room.

Nicolette gratefully sank down on the edge of one couch, the cushion covered in stunning ruby silk, cocooned by the luxury and elegance.

‘‘Refreshments?’’ the translator offered as a serving girl entered with a silver tray.

The smell of dark rich fragrant coffee made Nic’s mouth water. She’d never needed fortifying as much as she did now. ‘‘Please.’’

Still standing, King Nuri gazed at Nicolette with unnerving focus. Then he broke the silence, and when he spoke, his voice was so deep and smooth that his words sounded like honeyed candy.

The translator explained the sultan’s words. ‘‘His Highness trusts your journey was safe.’’

She nodded, forcing a calm smile. ‘‘Yes, thank you.’’

‘‘No problems on your journey?’’ The sultan added.

Nic listened to the sultan’s voice in her head, lingering over his syllables. He had the most unusual voice. Deep. Husky. Again her pulse lurched, her heart finding it hard to settle into a steady rhythm. ‘‘The trip was uneventful,’’ she answered, knowing she’d better find her footing fast. If she couldn’t control her response to him, how could she possibly control him?

‘‘Hamadullah,’’ King Nuri answered, the corner of his mouth curved in a small private smile.

She forced her attention away from the Sultan’s lovely mouth. Remember his stream of mistresses, she told herself. Remember his reputation. ‘‘What does hamadullah mean?’’

‘‘It means, ‘Thanks be to God’.’’

Nic mulled over the King’s response.

King Nuri spoke again, and the translator hastened to explain. ‘‘It is customary here to express gratitude to God for our blessings.’’

Nic shot King Nuri a quick glance. His lips curved fractionally. Hollows appeared beneath his strong cheekbones. ‘‘And my arrival is a blessing?’’

‘‘Without a doubt.’’ The translator answered, speaking for the sultan.

She shot King Nuri yet another wary glance. She’d thought she was prepared for this trip, thought her plan was bullet proof, but now that she was here, and he was here, and they were together…this wasn’t at all how she’d imagined it. She’d pictured him rakish. Handsome but a little thick in the jowls, a little paunchy at the waist. She’d told herself he’d flirt outrageously, come on too strong, and probably wear flashy clothes, but that wasn’t the man facing her now.

The sultan took a seat close to her on one of the low couches. When he reached for his coffee, his long arm nearly brushed her knee and she shivered inwardly, tensing all over again.

Had she hoped he’d touch her?

Had she feared he’d touch her?

The sultan was speaking Arabic again, and Nic glanced from King Nuri to the translator and back. The King’s profile was beautiful. He was beautiful. Definitively male.

‘‘His Highness expresses his satisfaction that you are here. He says that he and his people have waited a very long time for this day.’’

Nic’s fingers tightened around her small espresso cup, trying to keep her calm. The King was practically reclining, and his eyes, a cool silvery green-gray, rested on her as if he found her absolutely fascinating.

Thank God Chantal wasn’t here. King Nuri would have seduced her, married her, and abandoned her in no time. If he was a man who lived off his conquests, then Chantal, so broken by marriage and life, wouldn’t be enough of a conquest.

‘‘I look forward to getting to know His Highness,’’ Nic said in her most careful diction. ‘‘And to discussing my ideas for the wedding.’’

‘‘Your ideas?’’ The interpreter asked.

Nic couldn’t hide her impatience. ‘‘Yes. Of course. It’s my wedding. I have ideas about my wedding.’’

No one spoke for a moment, and King Nuri’s dark head tipped, his black lashes dropped as he studied her. His cool gaze examined her face, taking in each feature, the curve of bone, the very shape and texture of her lips.

The translator expressed her thoughts to King Nuri.

Then the sultan spoke, and the translator turned to her. ‘‘The king understands that you have just arrived, and everything feels quite new and alien, but he also asks you to trust him with the wedding details so they will comply with his beliefs and our customs.’’

‘‘Please tell His Highness that I’d like to trust him with the wedding details, but a wedding is quite a personal event, and I insist I be part of planning it.’’

‘‘The king thanks you for your concerns, and assures you that you need not worry, or be troubled. As the wedding details are set, there is nothing for you to do in the next two weeks but relax and familiarize yourself with our life here in Baraka.’’

Nothing to do in the next two weeks but relax? Nic puzzled over the king’s answer. ‘‘What’s happening in two weeks?’’

The translator bowed his head. ‘‘The wedding, Your Highness.’’

The wedding already planned. The ceremony here. In two weeks. It couldn’t be. Surely this was a language problem, an issue with the translation. ‘‘I’m afraid we’re losing something here. Are you telling me that the wedding date—and all the detail—has already been set?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Nicolette touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. She’d been in Baraka, King Malik Nuri’s North African kingdom, less than two hours and already things were wildly out of control. What had happened to her plan? What about the quiet, private ceremony she’d dreamed up in America? ‘‘How can it be set?’’

The robed translator bowed his head politely. ‘‘His Highness has chosen a date blessed by the religious and cultural calendar.’’

Nicolette glanced past the stout translator to King Nuri reclining on the sofa. This was going to be far more difficult than she’d anticipated. King Nuri was the kind of man she’d assiduously avoided—smart, suave, sophisticated—and far too much in control. ‘‘But the king hasn’t consulted my calendar,’’ she said firmly, turning toward the sultan, meeting his gaze directly to convey her displeasure. ‘‘He can’t set a wedding date without my input.’’

The translator nodded again, his expression grave, and still unfailingly polite. ‘‘It is customary for the king to consult with his spiritual advisors.’’

‘‘The king is very religious then?’’

The translator paused, appeared momentarily at a loss for words before recovering. ‘‘The king is the king. The ruler of Baraka—’’

What nonsense was this? ‘‘And I am Princess Chantal, of the royal Ducasse family.’’ Her temper was getting the best of her. She hated double-speak, especially hated royal double-speak. This is one reason she’d always dated commoners. Playboys, her sister’s voice echoed in her head. ‘‘Perhaps you’d care to remind your king that nothing is set until I say it’s set.’’

The translator hesitated. He didn’t want to translate this.

Nicolette’s jaw hardened. ‘‘Tell him. Please.’’

‘‘Your Highness—’’ the translator protested.

She shifted impatiently, set her cup on the low wood table. ‘‘Perhaps it was a mistake coming to Baraka. I’d assumed King Malik Nuri was educated. Civilized—’’

‘‘Western?’’ the king concluded, languidly rising from his sofa to again dominate the royal chamber.

Nic’s jaw dropped even as her stomach flipped.

So he spoke English. But of course he spoke English. She’d discovered on the Internet that he’d gone to Oxford for heaven’s sake. Yet he’d allowed all introductions, all awkward conversation, to be made via the translator. He’d had their first meeting conducted like an interview.