The Desert Kings
When still in the chemical rush of love, having one’s heart broken is a form of death. For others, it’s like detox. The brain, suddenly starved of the opiates that had previously fed it, craves the beloved, needing contact, needing that flood of chemicals and hormones that comes with togetherness.
After twelve years of research she understood that love, falling in love, was the most potent drug man would ever know. Love was maddening, delicious, addictive. And when it went wrong, destructive.
“I know she came to you,” Zayed added tonelessly. “I was the one who gave her your name. I thought you could help her.”
Rou sank back down into her chair. “You sent her to me?” She gave her head a slow disbelieving shake. “Why?”
His brow furrowed and he lifted his hands as if the answer was self-explanatory. “I was worried about her.”
“So you do have a conscience.”
“I didn’t love her, but I didn’t want her hurt.”
She eyed him with disdain. “Then maybe you should stop seeing women with hearts and brains.”
One black eyebrow lifted. “What are you suggesting?”
“Puppets. Robots. Rag dolls. Blow-up dolls.” She smiled thinly. “They won’t be hurt when you cast them aside.”
There was a flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe—and then it was gone. “You’re angry.”
Rou realized Jamie was still hovering in the doorway and she gestured for her to give them five more minutes. Once Jamie was gone, Rou looked at him. “I’m not angry. I just don’t have any need for you.”
“Need?” he drawled.
“Let me be clearer.” She leaned forward, her gaze intent on his. “I don’t particularly like you, Sheikh Fehr, and because my practice is very successful and very busy I can afford to be selective. Therefore, I’d never work with you.”
“Why not?”
“Why not, what?”
“Why won’t you work with me?”
“I already said—”
“No, you’re giving personal opinions. I want a professional opinion. You are a scientist, are you not?”
God, he was arrogant. “I know too much about you. I couldn’t approach your situation without prejudice—”
“Because I didn’t love Angela?”
“Because you don’t love. You can’t love,” she blurted, before grinding her teeth together in remorse. She wasn’t supposed to say that last bit. It was something Angela had told her. Angela had said that Zayed had used his inability to love as the reason to end their relationship. Apparently he didn’t love, couldn’t love—seemed he’d never been in love—and because he couldn’t love, he thought it best to end their relationship as Angela’s feelings had grown too strong.
Classic narcissist.
Her father had never loved anyone but himself, either. Narcissists couldn’t love anyone else. Couldn’t see anyone else as separate or having individual needs.
“I’m sorry,” she added. “That was inappropriate of me. Doctor-patient confidentiality. But you can see why I can’t work with you. After counseling Angela, after knowing certain things about you, I believe it’d be too much of a conflict of interest.”
He looked at her levelly. “Of whose interest?”
“Yours.”
“And this is all based on my six dates with Angela?”
No, she answered silently, it’s also based on my personal experience with you. But she didn’t say that, as she’d never let him know she was aware of what he really thought of her. “It’s not complicated, Sheikh Fehr. You’re being deliberately obtuse.” Her voice hardened. “You told Angela you’d never marry. You said you’d never fallen in love, and that you were unable to love, and therefore, you didn’t believe you could be loyal to any woman—”
“I’ve changed.” His lashes lifted and the light golden gaze met hers.
“That’s not possible.”
“Isn’t it?” His gaze skewered her. “You are a psychologist, aren’t you?”
Jamie’s head appeared around the corner of the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt again, but your escort’s arrived, Dr. Tornell. She’s waiting in the lobby.”
Rou nodded at Jamie and yet she never took her eyes off Zayed. She waited for the door to close. “I have to go.”
“Time is of the essence, so let’s meet for dinner. We’ll start tonight. The profile, the background information, everything—”
“No.” She rose to her feet, wound more tightly than she could ever remember. “Never.”
“Never?”
“It wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t represent you fairly, and—” she took a deep breath “—I’m not sure I’d want to.”
“I’m not asking you to find a cure for cancer, Dr. Tornell. I’m asking you to find me a wife.”
She moved from the desk. “You might as well ask me to find a cure. It’d be easier.”
If she’d hoped to quell him, she’d failed, as he laughed a deep bitter laugh. “I thought you were a professional.”
“I am.”
“Then do your job. It’s what you’re good at, and apparently the only thing you’re good at.”
Her breath caught as though she’d been sucker punched. “That’s low, and mean-spirited.”
“And you haven’t been? You judged and sentenced me before even meeting with me today. Fine. I don’t need your approval, but I need your time and your skill.”
“If you did your research you’d know that I don’t just accept everyone as a client. I take less than five percent of the applicants that come to me. My success is based on the fact that I’m exclusive. I only work with people I believe I can help.”
“And you could help me. I have an entire country waiting for me to return. Do this and I promise you that you will be compensated handsomely.”
“This isn’t about money. It’s about values and ethics, and working with you goes against my ethics, and frankly, no amount of money could induce me to compromise—”
“Not even five million pounds?”
For a moment she didn’t speak, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “Five million pounds?” she finally repeated, even as she mentally translated it to eight million American dollars. Eight million American dollars. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never charged anything close to that, and I’d never accept a figure like that. The very offer smacks of desperation.”
“Determination,” he corrected. “And it’s sufficient compensation for you to overcome your objections, don’t you think?”
“No! I don’t care about money,” she spat, her patience shot. “I don’t do what I do for money. It’s never been about money. I do it for … I do it because …” But her voice failed her. The words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t say it, couldn’t tell him why she did what she did. It was far too personal for a man like Zayed, a man who didn’t care about anyone or anything but himself.
“Then don’t think of it as money. Think of it as funding for your research center, the one you’ve been wanting to open in Oakland for the past several years. Find me a wife I can take to Sarq as my queen, and you have your facility. I can’t think of a fairer bargain. I get what I want, and you get what you want, and everyone is better off.”
“But I don’t know that anyone would be better off—”
“Isn’t that the problem? You don’t know,” he said, almost gently, as he got to his feet. “You don’t know me. You think you do. But you don’t.” His golden gaze held hers, challenging her. “Perhaps you could do a little research before you jump to any conclusions. Just as I did my research before I came to you.”
He was moving to the door, about to walk out when Rou stopped him. “So what did your research turn up, Sheikh Fehr?”
He paused in the doorway, looked at her. “I know why you’re so rigid and repressed. I know why you’re more machine than woman. It has nothing to do with money, and everything to do with your parents’ divorce. It broke your heart, didn’t it?”
She was speechless. He knew. No one knew. She’d never told anyone. How could he know?
He tipped his head. “You have an appearance at Fireside Books tonight at seven. I’ll pick you up from there at nine. Good luck with your interview.” And he was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
BUT she wasn’t at Fireside Books when he arrived, a half hour before the signing was to have ended. She’d cut the event short, citing illness, and she’d left.
Zayed rocked back on his heels as he stood outside the bookstore digesting the information. It was a crisp night and the late-October wind sent red and gold leaves swirling past his feet.
The ice maiden had run rather than meet with him.
That was a first, and certainly a change from how attentive she’d been at Lady Pippa’s wedding three years ago. That night Rou Tornell had clung to him like Velcro, hanging on his every word. But then, women were forever throwing themselves at him, eager, so eager, to be his next lover.
Fortunately, he’d always treated his women well—Angela included. Even after the relationship had ended, Zayed made sure the women were okay. Financially. Emotionally. He might be hard, but he wasn’t a complete ass. He had had sisters, after all.
Zayed pulled his phone from his pocket, knowing already that Rou Tornell would no longer be found at the Fairmont. If she’d left the store early, he suspected she’d left town early, and not for San Francisco, which was her home, but to Austria where she’d be attending another one of her high-profile weddings in just two days. Which was perfect, actually. He’d been invited to Ralf and Princess Georgina’s wedding, too.
I now pronounce you man and wife.
The guests erupted into applause as the groom lifted Georgina’s veil and dipped his head and bent her back over his arm to kiss her, her silk gown sparkling with the five thousand crystals hand stitched across the delicate fabric.
The kiss ended, and the couple turned to face the congregation, and Rou’s breath caught in her throat at the expression on Georgina’s face. She was so happy, so deeply in love and it struck Rou that while St. Stephan’s Cathedral glowed with candlelight and the glittering guests, none shone more brightly than Georgina herself.
The light in Georgina’s eyes alone made Rou’s heart ache.
Rou’s heart turned over as music swelled, filling the grand Gothic cathedral as the beaming bride and groom walked down the aisle. Georgina’s found her match. She’s found her mate.
Weddings always moved her, but this one, this was exceptional. Georgina had been hurt so badly three years ago when her fiancé left her at the altar and she’d sworn off men, sworn off love, sworn off being a wife and mother.
Rou, Georgina’s childhood friend, refused to accept that one of her oldest, dearest friends would never have a happy ending, and she’d worked quietly behind the scenes looking for the right man. And then she’d found him. Baron Ralf van Kliesen, an Austrian count by title, born and raised in the Australian Outback by his Australian mother. Ralf was perfect for Georgina—strong, independent, handsome, brilliant, but kind, very kind, and that was what Georgina needed most. A strong yet tender man to love her. Forever.
Forever.
The lump in Rou’s throat grew and spread, pressing hot and heavy on her chest, and up behind her eyes so they stung with brilliant unshed tears.
To be loved forever. To love forever. To be so blessed.
As a young girl, Rou had once felt safe and loved, but when her parents’ marriage changed, it changed so dramatically, so violently, their lives were never the same again. Worse, because her parents were so famous, their divorce and destructiveness played out in the media, their battles gossip fodder, their phone calls taped and played for the press. They both fought hard for custody. They both claimed they wanted Rou, needed her, must have her. But neither truly wanted her. They just didn’t want the other one to win.
Love wasn’t about winning, and love wasn’t abuse. Love was generous and kind. Respectful. Supportive. And this was why Rou did what she did—matched couples by values, beliefs, needs. Not by externals like appearances, although appearances counted. People fell in love with an image, but there had to be something behind the image. There had to be a real connection, a genuine understanding.
Rou was still more emotional than she liked when she exited the cathedral, descending the stone steps to the street. The moon was already yellow in the sky and even in the city the autumn night smelled of crackling leaves and a brisk hungry wind.
Climbing into her waiting limousine, she pressed the collar of her soft velvet cloak to her throat. The rich crush of the material warmed her. It was such an extravagant thing, lined with black silk, the silver clasp studded with genuine diamonds. It had been her mother’s cape, bought to accompany her father to a premiere of one of his movies. Rou remembered the framed photo of her mother and father on the red carpet, her mother smiling her dazzling smile, the cape snug about her shoulders.
The photo was long gone—burned, just as her mother had destroyed all the clothes she’d worn while married, cutting some, burning others. But the cape escaped. It’d been left in England after one of her mother’s trips back home, and it’d hung in Grandmother’s closet forgotten until Rou found it at sixteen, two years after her mother’s death.
The limousine had arrived at the palace, and inside she checked her cherished cloak, and turning toward the ballroom, hesitated for just a moment before the doors, aware she was alone, aware she’d turn no heads, but also grateful for her anonymity. Her parents’ beauty bewitched the world. Rou dazzled no one. But it was also better this way. She could live quietly. And she could remain in control. Control being very important to her well-being.
With a quick hand over her hip, she smoothed the jersey fabric of her conservative black gown and entered the gold-and-white ballroom illuminated by a thousand gleaming candles.
And the first person she spotted across the ballroom was Zayed Fehr.
She froze.
Couldn’t be, she told herself, stepping back as if she could escape into the shadows. Instead she bumped into a waiter and spilled one of the glasses of champagne he carried.
She apologized profusely in German, and glanced over at Zayed Fehr again.
It was him. Had to be him. No one else looked like that, or moved like that. And God help her, it appeared he was coming toward her.
Panicked, Rou disappeared into the crowd and then fled the ballroom for the hall where she retreated to the elegant ivory-and-gold ladies’ room.
Rou paced the lounge area of the ladies’ room, so agitated she chewed on a knuckle, something she never ever did.
What was he doing here? Why would he be here? Oh, but she knew the answer to that. He’d wanted her help. She’d refused. So he’d hunted her down here. Damn him.
For twenty minutes, she hid in the ladies’ room until she heard the trumpets herald the arrival of Ralf and Georgina. Surely Zayed would be gone by now.
But she was wrong. She’d taken only four steps into the high-ceilinged hall before he appeared before her, blocking her access to the ballroom.
“How did your Vancouver event go?” he asked conversationally, as if they were old friends, good friends.
Rou’s mouth dried even as her pulse jumped. She couldn’t have answered him if she tried. Instead she longed for her cloak, to bury herself inside the comfort of velvet and hide.
“I heard from the store owner that it was a smaller turnout than expected,” he added. “Were you disappointed?”
Her eyes snapped at him. “No.”
“So the lackluster turnout wasn’t why you hightailed it out of town?”
Rou hated that she blushed, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know if she was blushing because he’d discovered that her event had been less than stellar, or if it was because he’d actually turned up at the store as he’d said he would, and by the time he showed, she’d already taken off, rushing for Vancouver Airport to catch her flight to Munich and then on to Vienna. “I can’t believe you chased me all the way from Vancouver to Vienna.”
“I was invited to the wedding, and I wouldn’t use the word chase—”
“No, you would say you were being persistent,” she flashed bitterly.
Zayed nearly smiled. “Or determined,” he agreed. “But I am determined, and once I’ve set my mind on something I always succeed. You must know that you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”
He was wearing a tuxedo with tails, and the jacket hugged his broad chest, tapering at the waist. He looked sinful, darkly handsome, his golden eyes intense in that striking face.
She averted her own eyes, pretending to watch those still arriving. “The only difficulty is your inability to accept rejection.”
“That’s not quite correct, Dr. Tornell. In Vancouver you led me to believe there was a possibility of us working together. You did agree to meet me after your event, and I was there. I waited for you. And when you didn’t emerge from the store, I went in looking for you. The owner was there. The cashier. Your media escort. A couple of readers still lingering in the afterglow. But you, you were long gone.”
She studied one couple disappearing into an alcove, arms entwined, eager to touch, to be alone. Early love was like that. A craving for contact, a craving for skin. She couldn’t imagine such an intense physical need. She’d never felt a physical need.
With an effort she turned her attention back to Zayed. “I have already made commitments to others, clients currently under contract. I don’t think it would be fair to them to take on someone new right now.”
“And yet you just met with a prospective client this morning, and I believe she walked away under the assumption that you would take her on?”
Rou rarely blushed and yet again heat surged to her cheeks, her face burning from her chin to her brow. Her thoughts were just as chaotic. For some reason she couldn’t think when Zayed Fehr was near. All her logical thought disappeared in a puff of panic, a cloud of emotion. And Rou didn’t trust emotion. “Are you spying on me?”
“I don’t spy, but I do have bodyguards and personal assistants. Butlers, chauffeurs and valets—”
“I get the picture,” she said stiffly, “and for a man so powerful, I can’t help but wonder why you chose me to help with your search for a queen.”
“You’re successful. And your matches endure. I’ve yet to hear of one marriage ending in divorce.”
Rou felt a shiver race through her. The very word divorce made her cold. Divorce. Attorneys. Judges. Courtrooms. Nasty, hateful, deceitful allegations. Seven years it’d taken her parents to finalize everything. Seven years. And by the time they finally had an agreement in place, they’d destroyed everything and everyone, including their own daughter.
It had taken Rou all of her teens and well into her twenties to heal, and the only reason she did heal was her friendship with Sharif Fehr. He’d made sure she returned to school, made sure she had the funds to continue through graduate school. With his financial support, she’d been able to keep her vow that she’d work to make sure that no child, and no family, should ever suffer the way she had.
Chilled, Rou thought of her soft velvet cape in the cloakroom and then of her cozy hotel room at the exquisite Hotel Bristol. She was ready to return to her room, ready for the safety and warmth the four walls provided. “It’s late and I’m still very jet-lagged….”
“Running away again, Dr. Tornell? And yet aren’t you the expert at teaching women to stand their ground, and face their fears, and look reality in the eye?”
“Yes. But I’m also the expert who says women should trust their gut, and my gut says you are dangerous.”
He laughed, and his laughter silenced her.
He should have been appalled, angered, but no, he laughed.
She lifted her chin. “I’m deadly serious, Sheikh Fehr.”
“I’m sure you are, but you’re so wrong in this case, so completely off base, that I can’t help but wonder if you’re really a scientist or if those are someone else’s degrees from Cambridge tacked on after your name.”
“I assure you, I’ve earned every doctoral degree, thank you.”
He smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Then act like a scientist, because that’s what I want. I’m most certainly not interested in the woman in you.”
“That’s good, because the woman in me despises the man in you.”
She walked away then, legs shaking with every step. She felt ill. Exposed. Any other time she would have left the reception, but this night was Georgina’s night and she couldn’t leave, not yet, not until dinner was over and the dancing began.
Zayed let her walk, watching her slim, black-clad figure disappear through the ballroom doors toward the dinner tables.
She’s changed, he reflected, as she faded into the crowd.
Three years ago she was a chatterbox—nervous, tense and gawky. Now she had more polish—her success, maybe?—but she was far colder, and harder. Interesting how time and success changed one.
But her brittle hardness didn’t deter him. He needed her. Time was running short, and his intensely meddlesome mother was already starting her matchmaking, and God kew he didn’t want a traditional Sarq girl. He knew himself and feared he’d destroy such a woman in no time. Girls in Sarq were still raised to be meek and mild, compliant and acquiescing. A young Sarq woman wouldn’t know how to converse with him, or argue properly. She’d simply nod and say, Yes, my lord. Yes, my love, yes.
How he’d hate that. How he’d hate a partner that wasn’t strong, wasn’t an equal. But finding an equal in his world was next to impossible. He wasn’t ugly, far from it, and that was the problem. Women saw his face and they all found it tragically well put together. They heard his name. Learned of his title, his power, his staggering wealth and they all fell, tumbling to his feet, so eager. Too eager.
He couldn’t marry a woman like that, either.
He wouldn’t trust or respect a woman like that. And without trust or respect, he’d soon be irritated, which would make lovemaking a chore, dooming the relationship.
Zayed was many things, and he’d broken many rules and many laws, but even he believed marriage to be sacred. He’d never slept with a married woman. And he’d never cheat on his wife.
So he needed the right wife. The perfect wife.
And frigid, rigid Rou Tornell might lack charm and personality, but she was supremely skilled at matchmaking. And he was determined she’d find him a match.
He followed her.
She’d just taken her seat at the dinner table. It was assigned seating and he wasn’t at her table, but he pulled out a chair next to her and sat down anyway.
She turned her head and shot him a furious, frosty look. “Go away.”
He shrugged, smiled carelessly and leaned closer, his broad shoulders crowding her. “I can’t, Dr. Tornell. I need your help.”
She averted her head, apparently watching the guests in mute fascination.
They were a stellar bunch, he acknowledged, a dazzling mix of royalty, international aristocrats, celebrities and socialites—all dressed as if they had personal stylists, and most, he suspected, did.
Rou was perhaps the only one who looked as if she’d dressed herself. His gaze flickered over her sedate black gown. It seemed painfully familiar, and he wondered if it was the same black gown she’d worn to Lady Pippa’s wedding three years earlier.
“Isn’t this the same dress you wore three years ago?” he asked now.
She turned her head, cheeks suffused with color. “Yes. Why? You don’t like it?”
He’d scored a direct hit, he thought, observing the emotions flashing across her face. And in that moment, she looked almost pretty, her eyes dark, her cheeks deep pink, her lips trembling with outrage. “You could probably find a more flattering style and color,” he answered.
Her lips compressed and her gaze leveled on his. “Black is always in style.”
“No, not true, especially when black makes you appear sallow. You’d do better in pinks.”
“For your information, this is a designer gown of good fabric which I bought at Barney’s in New York—”