by Jane Porter
“It’s because of Rou that we are all here,” Pippa added, beaming and patting Rou’s arm. “My darling Rou introduced me to Henry a year ago.”
Sheikh Fehr’s eyes had narrowed, gleamed, creases fanning at the corners of those magnificent eyes. The first sign that he wasn’t a lad of twenty, but a man in his prime, probably somewhere around thirty-two or thirty-three.
“How fortuitous,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in the driest, most mocking voice Rou had ever heard. And she’d heard plenty. She was a psychologist after all.
Rou stiffened, but Pippa was oblivious, too giddy with happiness, and the bride smiled radiantly at the sheikh. “Rou—Dr. Tornell—has a true gift. I am—can you believe it?—her hundredth wedding. She’s introduced one hundred couples now, couples that all ended up in marriage.” Pippa turned to Rou. “I got it right, didn’t I?” And then ecstatic Pippa was off, as her new husband was gesturing for her to join him, which left Rou alone with the sheikh.
But then, to her surprise, Zayed had invited her to join him at his table, and somehow they’d spent the rest of the evening together. They’d talked for hours, and then danced, and then later they’d left the wedding reception and gone across the street to the little hotel bar and had a nightcap together.
She remembered everything about that night. The warmth of his body as they danced. The seductive red walls of the hotel bar. The balloon glass of orange liqueur that she’d cradled in her hands.
Zayed’s attention had been dazzling. He’d listened to her, laughed at her nervous jokes, talked about his work and a few of his recent investments, including a new resort on the coast in his country, Sarq.
Those hours together were delicious. It’d been ages since she’d been on a date, much less with a man like Zayed Fehr who made her feel beautiful and fascinating. She’d fallen for him, and she sensed he’d fallen for her, too. As he put her into a cab late that night, he’d brushed his lips across her cheek and she’d been sure, so sure, he’d call her for a real date, and soon.
But Zayed didn’t call. And she would have never known how he really felt about her if Sharif hadn’t accidentally sent her an e-mail that wasn’t meant for her. He’d meant to reply to Zayed. Instead he’d somehow sent it to her. Sharif caught his mistake before she did, phoning to apologize, phoning to beg her forgiveness, phoning to plead that she just delete the offending e-mail without reading it.
But Rou, ever curious, read the e-mail instead.
Spending the evening with her was like a night at a museum of science—dull, dull, dull, but you get through it by convincing yourself you’re doing a good deed. More unfortunately, I could tell she liked me but obviously the attraction wasn’t mutual. She has all the warmth and charm of a department store mannequin.
“You’re still matchmaking,” Zayed said now, dropping into a chair opposite her desk.
A department store mannequin, Rou silently repeated, her cheeks burning at the memory. Dull, dull, dull. Her hands trembled in her lap. “Yes,” she said flatly, hating that his appearance had brought all those feelings back, too. The only saving grace was that Zayed didn’t know she knew about his e-mail to Sharif. Sharif had promised her that. “So what can I do for you, Sheikh Fehr?”
“You would know why I’m here if you had listened to my calls,” he said pleasantly. “I believe I left half a dozen messages for you. Never mind the e-mails.”
She eyed him for a long moment. He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit and white shirt—no tie—and his dark hair was cut shorter than it had been three years ago, better showing off the ideal shape of his head; the strong jaw; the long, straight nose; elegant cheekbones; and the eyes, golden eyes. “I’ve been traveling,” she answered shortly.
“Perhaps you need better technology.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So why are you here?”
“I’m thirty-six. I’d like a wife.”
Rou stared at him waiting for the punch line. Because it was a joke. Zayed Fehr, celebrated bachelor, Monte Carlo’s richest, most famous, reckless playboy, wanted a wife? She couldn’t stifle her laugh.
He didn’t crack a smile. He simply stared back at her, his gaze steady, never once blinking.
“What can I really do for you, Sheikh Fehr?”
“You could pull out your paperwork, that pile of forms you use and begin to fill them out. The name is Fehr, F-e-h-r. Zayed is the first name. Do you need me to spell that, too?”
“No.” She gritted her teeth at his tone as well as his voice. His voice was just as she’d remembered. Deep and smooth, so husky as to be almost caressing.
No wonder women fell.
No wonder she’d fallen.
How stupid she’d been to fall.
Old shame sharpened her voice. “Why a wife, why now? You’ve made it clear for years you’re not a fan of marriage—”
“Things have changed.” His voice changed, deepened. “It’s not an option. Not anymore. Not if I’m to assume the throne in Sarq. It is Sarq law. No man shall inherit the throne before twenty-five, and when he does assume rule, he must be married. The king must have a wife.”
“You’re marrying so you can be king?”
“It is Sarq law.”
She studied him, puzzled. Sharif was king of Sarq. She knew that, everyone knew that. But perhaps there was another country, or a Sarq desert tribe in need of a feudal king. She knew she was missing key pieces of information, but as Zayed hadn’t volunteered the information she wasn’t going to probe. The less she knew of him the better. “I am sure you could find an agreeable wife if you wanted one badly enough—”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“I see.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. But she didn’t see. She didn’t understand anything other than he was awful and she wanted him gone. Who did he think he was? And why did he think he could show up here after three years and demand her assistance? How could any man be more shallow or selfish?
“So you’ll do it?” Zayed pressed.
“No. Absolutely not.” And she didn’t feel bad in the least. In fact, she rather enjoyed her position of power. “Marriage can’t be rushed. Finding a suitable life partner takes time and careful study. And secondly, you’re not suitable—”
“I’m not what?”
She ignored his interruption. “—as a candidate for my practice. That’s not to say you couldn’t find a willing candidate if you did some legwork of your own.”
He smiled at her, all white straight teeth and gleaming eyes, but it wasn’t a friendly expression. “But I don’t want a willing candidate, Dr. Tornell, or an agreeable wife. If that were the case, I’d allow my mother to pick my bride. I don’t want just any bride, I want the right wife. That is why I am here. You are the relationship expert. You can find the right woman for me.”
“But I can’t,” she answered ruthlessly. “Sorry.” But not in the least sorry. She’d never find him a wife. She’d never help him. She’d never doom a woman to a life sentence with him.
And suddenly she thought of her own mother, the famous British model, a woman the world admired and envied, and yet a woman who couldn’t make her father happy.
A tap sounded on the door and Jamie stepped inside to gesture to her watch. Rou glanced at her own watch. Fifteen minutes had already passed. The media escort would be here in fifteen to escort her to the TV station and Rou still needed to change and freshen her hair. She rose, fingers pressed to the surface of the desk. “If you’ll excuse me, Sheikh Fehr, I must get ready for my next appointment—”
“Is this because of Angela Moss?”
Rou froze. “I don’t know—”
“She was your client. A year ago. Surely you remember her? Slim, striking redhead. Twenty-six years old. Former model turned purse designer. Ring a bell?”
Of course Rou remembered Angela.
The sheikh had wooed her, won her and then cast her aside within months, and because of Rou’s personal feelings about Zayed, she’d refused to take
Angela on as a client, but then Angela had tried to take her life, and Rou realized she had to help the poor girl. Angela was beyond desperate, and even with Rou’s help, it took months of patience and skill to walk her new client through the heartbreak.
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.
