The Princess Brides. Jane Porter

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