The Desert Kings
“How did he help?” Zayed persisted.
“He offered advice and wisdom. He listened to my goals. He made introductions when he could.” She looked at Zayed, saw the skepticism in his expression and shrugged. “I know it sounds strange. Your brother is a powerful man, a very wealthy man, but he’s also a compassionate man, and I think in his own way, he needed me as much as I needed him.”
“Sharif needs no one. He’s the rock of the family. Invincible.”
Rou wrinkled her brow. “You think so?”
“From birth he’s been groomed to lead. From the start he’s known what is expected of him and he’s done it, without complaint.”
“But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t felt loss, or pain. Or worry, or doubt.”
“You’re not describing my brother—”
“And you just don’t want to see your brother as a man, and vulnerable.”
“Sharif isn’t vulnerable. He’s never been vulnerable, and he’s going to be found. He’ll be back in Sarq, running the country again in no time.”
Rou studied him curiously. “If you really believe that, then why go to all the trouble of finding a proper wife and getting married? Why not just wait for his return?”
“I can’t.” His tone was curt, his frustration evident. “Sarq law requires a present king, therefore I must assume the throne, but I can’t without a bride.”
She was silent a moment, digesting this, as well as wondering how to best word what she wanted to say next. “Sheikh Fehr, I have to be honest. If you want a woman to marry you so you can assume the throne, then that’s one thing. But if you want a woman who is your life partner, that’s entirely different.”
“The woman needs to be one and the same. I need a bride, and I want a successful marriage. Surely you have someone in your system who would be open to a short courtship? Someone not opposed to, say, an arranged marriage? Someone who would benefit from my position, and wealth? Someone who could contribute to our lives here …?”
She knew the answer. It was no. None of the women she’d met and represented would want to be whisked here, married within days, and then left here for the next twenty-some years. For most modern women it’d be a horrific prospect. “Forgive me, but Sarq is in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yes.”
“You’re isolated.”
“And …?”
“Do you intend to remain here permanently, then? Or will you live part-time in Monte Carlo? I know you have a home there.”
“As king I have to live where my people live.”
“And your new bride?”
He gave her a look that indicated she might have lost her mind. “She’d live with me, of course.”
She ran a hand over her eyes, already exhausted. This was impossible. He had to realize that, didn’t he? Wonderful, successful, intelligent, confident, strong women didn’t just run to the Middle East and marry a sheikh and stay there, buried in the desert. It was one thing if a woman was desperate, or had no choice, but the woman he described as his ideal wife would have a choice, and she wouldn’t find his life as a desert king appealing. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re describing an arranged marriage, and if you want an arranged marriage, you’re better off with a woman from your own culture—”
“No.”
“—who could embrace the concept of arranged marriage,” she continued as though he’d never spoken. “Western women won’t.”
“Why not?”
“You know the answer to this. You’ve only dated Western women for years. Women in the West don’t want to get married because they have to, or because he has to. They want to marry because they’re desired and loved and cherished.”
His strong, black brows flattened, emphasizing the lines of his high, hard cheekbones and straight nose. “But I would respect and cherish my wife.”
She noted he said respect and cherish, not love and cherish but she didn’t comment on that. “It takes time for a woman to know that, as well as examples. Proof. That’s why men court women. They’re showing women how they’d be treated … what they can expect. It’s a wooing, and you’re not leaving time for that.”
“I’ll do it after the ceremony. Just let her know it will happen.”
“After the ceremony?” She gave him her sternest look. “And now one last question. It’s sensitive since I know we’re coming from two different cultures, but I need to know about the political and social rights of women. Are women considered equals in Sarq? Are there laws to protect them? What rights do women have?”
“Women do not have all the rights of men—yet. But that is something Sharif has been working to change, and I will make this a priority, as well.”
“So what if a woman—your woman—breaks the law? What would happen to her?”
“I’d protect her.”
“But could you?” Rou leaned forward, urgency in her voice. “Could you truly?”
“Do you doubt my word?”
“No, I don’t doubt your word. I just want what’s best for your future wife—”
“And you think I don’t?” he interrupted almost violently, his features dark, his expression fierce.
She stared up at him in stunned silence. She’d never seen him like this, never heard this anger in his voice before, either. “No,” she stuttered.
“Good. Consider the subject closed.” He rose from the table and walked away, disappearing into a cabin at the back of the plane.
The back cabin of the jet had been designed as a small, snug and yet exceptionally comfortable bedroom. Zayed sat heavily on the edge of the low bed and covered his face with his hands.
He rarely lost his temper. He hated that he’d lost it now. But her questions … those questions …
She didn’t understand. She’d never understand. No one had ever understood.
He wasn’t like the rest of his family. He was different. Cursed. And yet once, he and his brothers had all been the same, all raised the same. Arab princes, beloved sons of the desert, children of fortune.
And although Zayed was the middle of the three princes, and the second-eldest of five, he’d been his father’s favorite and he knew it. He’d never wondered why he was the favorite, either, he’d just accepted it, just as he accepted his good fortune. Just as he’d accepted that he was destined for greatness, and great things. In the beginning it was so clear that fate had favored him, so obvious he would live a blessed life.
But he’d been wrong.
It wasn’t a blessed life. It was cursed. He was cursed.
And so he took himself away from the desert and his family, away from the people who might be hurt by his curse and turned to the pleasures of the world, only there was no pleasure when one was cursed.
Would he protect his wife?
He would try with all his heart and soul and might. But would it be enough?
If he didn’t love her, and she didn’t love him, would the marriage somehow escape the curse?
He didn’t know, but he could only hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROU watched the closed door of the plane cabin with her heart in her mouth. She didn’t exactly know what she said that had upset Zayed—something about protecting his wife—but clearly she’d offended him. She wanted to apologize, or at least try to set things right. They had so much to do. Tension wouldn’t help.
The flight attendant appeared after fifteen minutes to refresh her tea, and then another fifteen minutes later she returned to remove the dishes and take down the table.
“We’ll be landing in about fifty minutes,” she said, smiling at Rou. “Is there anything else I could get you?”
Rou shook her head and thanked her.
Just when Rou thought Zayed would never return, and the pilot had announced they would soon begin their final descent, Zayed arrived, and took his seat across from her, his expression blank, revealing nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly.
“You did nothing wrong,” he answered emotionlessly.
She didn’t feel any better, though, and her eyebrows tugged together. “I tend to be very blunt.”
“I prefer honesty.”
“And I ask a lot of questions.”
“It’s your job.”
Right. Rou exhaled slowly, heavily, definitely not feeling any better.
Zayed gazed fixedly outside the window and Rou, biting the inside of her lip, did the same, and they didn’t speak again until they were on the ground.
Their jet ended up landing at the Sarq air force airport, and it was only once the plane’s wheels touched down that Zayed explained this wasn’t where the Fehr family usually landed, as they had their own royal airport. But with Sharif’s accident, Zayed’s plane had been given a military escort to ensure his safe arrival. The country couldn’t lose two kings, not in a fortnight.
Heavy security awaited them as they deplaned. Armed soldiers, as well as undercover security in dark suits, lined the tarmac.
Rou sucked in a breath as she stepped from the plane into the late-afternoon sun. Heat rose from the black tarmac in scorching waves. It might be late October but the temperature hovered in the nineties and her gray wool suit felt suffocating now.
“It’s hot,” she murmured when Zayed turned to look at her where she still stood on the stairs.
“It’s actually cooler than it was just weeks ago.” He reached out a hand to her.
Rou glanced at his hand and then up into his face. He was still distant, still reserved. She told herself she should be pleased by the distance—she couldn’t encourage intimacy of any sort—but she worried about him now, and she didn’t want to do that, either.
Reluctantly she put her hand in his, and nearly jumped at the hot, tingly sensation of his skin against hers. It took all her concentration to make it down the steep stairs without falling.
Distance was good, she told herself, gripping her briefcase in the other hand. Distance was necessary.
On the tarmac Zayed gestured to her briefcase. “Leave that. Someone will bring it.”
“But it’s my computer and files. I need it.”
“Security must check all bags and luggage before anything is permitted to enter the palace grounds.”
“Oh. Okay.” She handed him the briefcase. “But I will get it back as soon as possible?”
“As soon as possible,” he promised before handing the briefcase to one of the security detail waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
The drive to the palace in the armored car with the bulletproof glass was quiet, but it wasn’t a comfortable silence. They were sitting side by side on the soft leather seat and the seat had too much give and Rou felt as though she was sitting far too close to Zayed, but there was really nowhere else to go. He was big, and his shoulders broad, and his legs—long and muscular—crowded her own.
She could feel him even though he wasn’t touching her, and the more aware of him she was, the warmer she became, and the warmer she became, the faster her heart beat.
Why did she have to do this around him? Why couldn’t she treat him like any other man? Why did she care that she felt so dowdy and gawky and dull?
Because a little part of you likes him, a small voice answered inside her.
A little part of you wants him to like you back.
Ridiculous! she silently flashed, cutting off the little voice. He’s shallow and unkind, selfish and untrustworthy. Why would I like him?
But when Zayed’s head suddenly turned and he fixed his gold gaze on her, her stomach flipped and her chest grew tight and she drew a quick, panicked breath, terribly dizzy.
This was such a bad idea coming here with him….
“This is Isi,” he said, nodding to the buildings and landscape beyond the window, “Sarq’s capital city.”
Grateful for the distraction, she turned her head to have a better look at the city that gleamed beneath the hard glaze of sunlight. So many of the buildings appeared new, and fountains and palm trees lined the wide, elegant boulevards. Whereas there were robed women on the streets, there were also a surprising number in fashionable Western dress.
Their caravan of armored Mercedes limousines turned down a long drive bordered by towering stuccoed walls covered in lush purple-and-pink bougainvillea, while soaring palm trees dotted the drive with puddles of sunshine and shadows.
The cars stopped as massive wood-and-iron gates, gates that had to be easily ten feet tall or more, swung slowly open and then they were passing through the gates and around more walls until Rou got a glimpse of a sprawling pink building marked by fanciful domes and arches.
“The palace,” Zayed said gruffly.
She glanced at him, saw the mixture of pride and pain in his face and turned back to the view of the elaborate compound.
The entrance, marked by exquisite carved columns and a gold-painted dome, was suddenly filled with white-robed staff. They lined the entrance, bowing, welcoming Zayed home.
A prince’s welcome.
Security opened the car door and stepped back so that Zayed could exit. She’d expected him to move on toward his staff, but once again he turned to her first, helping her from the car and waiting for her to adjust her suit skirt and jacket before they moved forward.
Once she was ready, they walked inside, between the silent, bowing staff, and through the carved columns into the cool, serene interior.
Whereas the exterior of the palace was pale pink like a delicate flower, the interior walls were painted white and the ceiling a mosaic of gold and blue. Columned hallways led in every direction and priceless sculpture filled the airy halls. It was spectacular, and Rou, who had visited her share of palaces, had never seen anything so wonderful, or so exotic. This was like something from Arabian Nights, or a Hollywood film set.
“It’s amazing,” she breathed, as Zayed turned to her after greeting key staff. “This is where you grew up?”
His lips curved ruefully, the first smile since the phone call earlier that morning in Vienna, and something in his smile made her heart turn over. His smile hinted at the boy he’d once been, a boy she suspected he rarely acknowledged. “This is home,” he admitted.
She felt another quick stab of feeling, a strange protective emotion she didn’t understand. “You are a prince, aren’t you?”
His smile slowly faded. “You wouldn’t know it from the way I behaved. Is that what you’re saying?”
“No! Not at all.” She put an impulsive hand on his sleeve, shocked that he so misread her, but when Zayed glanced down at her hand, she realized she’d committed a faux pas. Commoners probably weren’t allowed to touch the royal family.
Embarrassed and uncomfortable she pulled her hand away, clenched it into a fist and hid it behind her back. “I should get to work. Just show me to a desk and I’ll wait for my computer.”
Zayed turned to one of his staff, spoke in a language she didn’t understand and then turned back to her. “Arrangements have been made for you to use one of our family suites.”
He saw her expression and added, “Don’t worry. It’s no longer in use and it has good light, plenty of space where you can work and access to a small private garden should you need some fresh air.”
The servant in the white robe stepped forward. “If you will come with me, my lady,” he said formally, bowing to her.
The room Rou was given wasn’t merely a room, but an entire suite of rooms, one of those elegant compounds down a columned, arched corridor. Late, lingering sunlight poured through the arched glass doors, flooding the sunken living room with light, turning the silk pillows on the couch into glowing gems. A massive arrangement of fragrant coral-hued roses dominated the low table in the middle of the room and scented the room with spicy perfume.
A young robed woman appeared under one of the arches. “Welcome,” she said shyly with a bow. “I am Manar, and I am to make you comfortable. I will be here with you as long as you are here.”
“Thank you, Manar. That is very kind of you, but I don’t really need anything. Just my computer so I can start working.”
“It is here,” Manar answered with a gesture toward a small antique desk in the corner of the room. The desk had been angled to provide a view of the garden wall, and her briefcase sat on top of the desk.
“Wonderful.” She pushed up her suit’s wool sleeves and approached the desk. “I think I’m set then.”
Manar looked at her doubtfully as Rou took a seat at the desk. “You do not wish to bathe or change?”
Rou was already pulling out her computer and preparing to set it up. “Hmm?” she asked, realizing Manar was waiting for a response.
“You do not wish to change into something more comfortable for work?”
Rou shook her head briskly, determined to do what she needed to do so she could leave as soon as possible. “No. I’m fine. But thank you.” And then she was turning her computer on and all thoughts were on the work before her.
Alone in the living room, she adjusted the reading light on the desk, and stacked her notebooks next to her computer, and prepared to enter the information she’d learned this morning and during the flight. But her fingers wouldn’t obey. She balked at completing the online spreadsheets.
It just seemed wrong to do this.
It seemed wrong to be helping Zayed find a wife this way. Her gut said that Zayed needed a love marriage, not an arranged marriage. Her gut said he was a man with deeper feelings than he let on. But he wasn’t asking for her intuition, he wanted her skills to pair him with a suitable woman. At least, if there was sufficient time.
Just input the rest of the profile, she told herself. Do what he’s hired you to do.
But still she couldn’t type. Her fingers wouldn’t respond. Her mind wouldn’t respond.
When she closed her eyes in frustration all she saw was Zayed, and not just his beautiful profile but his tortured expression, and she could hear his anger and she knew there was something else bothering him, something else eating at him. Only what?
Yet her obsession with Zayed was beginning to annoy her. She was here to work. This was business, pure and simple. So why then was she so conflicted?
Why was she acting so out of character? Rou never let herself dwell on emotions. She didn’t cater to them or acknowledge them and certainly didn’t give in to them. Emotions were the enemy of the scientist. Thoughts, logic, reason—those were the basis for all scientific theory.
She just needed to focus on science now. Needed to clear her head and remember what was important, what mattered.
Theory. Study. Proof.
And yet, and yet … there were feelings inside her that wouldn’t be stifled. Feelings that were disturbingly intense, and distractingly real, and they ached in her now, and it was a physical ache, a heartache. And it was all because of him. Zayed Fehr.
Rou exhaled and, resting her elbows on the desk, she covered her face with her hands.
She still had feelings for him. That’s why she still responded to him. That’s why she wanted him to like her, admire her. Foolish, foolish Rou, she thought. So book smart and so people stupid.
She sat for a long moment, face hidden, heart thudding, stomach knotted with misery.
And then the survival instinct kicked in. She knew what she had to do. She had to get him matched and married and she had to get out of here. Soon. Because Zayed Fehr was dangerous. If she wasn’t careful, he’d take that too-warm, too-tender spot in her heart and rip it wide-open.
Lavender shadows dappled the courtyard outside her window by the time Rou finished inputting her information. It had taken her far longer than usual to complete the profile, but at last it was done and now the computer program she’d designed would match him with suitable candidates.
She waited while the computer sorted and then put together a list of possibilities. The program gave her thirty. Not bad.
Rou was still reading through the profiles when Manar returned. “His Highness would like to see you. Are you able to receive guests now?”
“Yes, of course,” Rou answered, rising, even as she reached up to touch her hair, thinking only now that perhaps she should have run a comb through it, or freshened herself a little.
But Zayed arrived immediately, and she remained on her feet as he entered the suite.
“I have your first candidates,” she said nervously. “I can print off the profiles and you can study them when you have time, or we could go through them now—”
“It is his plane.” Zayed’s voice was low, rough. “It doesn’t appear there were any survivors.”
Rou slowly sat back down in her chair. “No.”
“The bodies were charred, nearly unrecognizable….” He came to a stop, arms at his sides, and for the first time there was real despair on his face, in his voice. “They have to run tests. They’ve asked for dental records.”
Rou stared at him in mute horror. So it’d come to this. The jet. The remains of the bodies. Sharif’s body. Her mind shuddered in grief, in horror. “His wife,” she whispered.
“Beside herself.”
She bit down into her lower lip, biting hard to keep tears from welling in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he added roughly.
He was sorry? He was apologizing to her? Rou’s eyes filled with tears. Her chest burned with livid emotion, emotion she hadn’t felt in years. “I’m sorry,” she choked, “I’m so sorry for all of you—”
“I have to make this right.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will make it right.” He walked toward her, crossing the sunken floor, and it wasn’t until he stepped into the light that she realized he was wearing a white robe. She’d never seen him in traditional Sarq dress. “But there isn’t a lot of time. The coronation is in forty-eight hours.”
She looked from the white robe up to his bronze profile. He was recently shaven and his cheekbones jutted high and hard against his skin. “So soon?”
“Can you find me a queen in forty-eight hours?”
Her gaze held his. This wasn’t a moment of celebration, it was a tragedy, a travesty. The whole country would be mourning. Sharif’s family would be mourning. “Perhaps we can find you prospects—”
“No, not prospects. A bride. I told you, I have to be married. There must be an actual ceremony.”
“But how does anyone expect you to marry and become king within two days of learning that your brother is dead?”
He stopped in the middle of the sunken living room, stared down at the bowl of lush, lavish roses. “Kings are not like other men. They sacrifice for the good of their country.”
He leaned down to snap a blossom from the stem and carried it to his nose. “These roses were planted after my sisters died. Sharif created the memorial garden for my parents and when the twelve rosebushes arrived, he dug each of the twelve holes, planting the roses personally.” Zayed lifted his head, looked at Rou. “I must honor my brother. I must serve my country. I must make the transition of power as smooth, as easy as possible. It is the least I can do.”
With the rose still cupped in his palm, Zayed turned to leave, but he paused on the steps. “I will have a printer brought to you and if you could please print off the profiles and bring them with you, we will discuss them later.”
“You don’t wish to look at them now?”
“I have to speak with Khalid. I’ve an emergency cabinet meeting. The press—” He broke off, jaw grinding hard, eyes glittering with unspeakable sorrow. “But I want to see them. I will meet you later.”
“Of course. Anytime.”
He nodded, staring blindly across the room. Silence stretched. Finally he spoke, his voice low and hoarse. “I thought he’d survive. I was sure he’d survive. I was sure …”
She swallowed around the knot filling her throat. “Maybe he did.”
Zayed shot her a sharp look. “You’re just as bad as I am.”
“Until they give you proof …?”
He shook his head, a short savage shake. “I clung to hope before. I won’t do it now. The disappointment is too severe.” He drew a breath, his chest rising, and then exhaled hard. “I’ll meet you for a late dinner. We’ll talk then. Bring the profiles.”