Duty, Desire and the Desert King

by Jane Porter

  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—”

  “Ten years ago, I imagine from the look of the sleeves.”

  Her eyes widened, the blue irises almost black with fury. “Go away,” she said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  The air caught in Rou’s throat as he turned more fully toward her, his shoulder grazing hers. “Both.”

  He was so close to her she could see shots of bronze against the gold of his eyes and faint creases at the edges of his eyes. His body was big, sinewy, and his thigh brushed hers until she dragged her own legs farther away.

  “I’ve already told you, I’d never help you,” she answered, aware that her pulse had quickened and her body felt warm and dangerously sensitive.

  “That’s because you’re making my request personal, but it’s not personal. It’s so much bigger than that. This is about my country. My brother. My people. You hold an entire country hostage right now.”

  He leaned closer, so that his head was just inches from hers and his arm stretched along the back of her chair, his fingers dangerously close to her skin. “All I want is the same opportunity you’ve given your other clients. Do the preliminary assessment properly. Do the paperwork, the background research. I will make my life available to you. I am at your disposal for the next however many weeks it takes to complete the process.”

  She’d stiffened in protest when he moved even closer, breathing deeply to calm herself, but breathing deeply meant she inhaled his fragrance—the scent soft, spicy, seductive—and she wasn’t sure if it was his scent, or his warmth, but her nerves clamored to life and her senses swam.

  She felt as though she were drowning at sea. And he was doing it to her. He
was overwhelming her, threatening her very safety. She couldn’t allow it. She couldn’t. He made her feel as if her own survival was at stake, too.

  And survival was not to be taken lightly.

  She’d known he was dangerous from their first meeting at Pippa’s wedding, and yet she’d danced with him anyway and even gone and sat in the hotel bar for hours. She’d felt overwhelmed then, too, but it’d been almost wonderful to feel so aware of someone. Now she knew it wasn’t wonderful, and Zayed Fehr wasn’t wonderful. He’d use whatever he had to get what he wanted. It was his way. And she despised him for it.

  “Go away,” Rou choked, stumbling to her feet. “Please. Please, Sheikh Fehr. Just go away and leave me alone.” She was trembling from head to foot, knew she’d lost all reason, knew she’d lost all control.

  This was what she’d wanted to avoid. This was why she’d left Vancouver. Zayed Fehr threatened her. He shattered her control. He made her feel like a panicked girl instead of the scientist she was, and she couldn’t allow it. She wasn’t that strong. Smart, yes; successful, yes; strong? No. No. Only on paper. Only on the surface.

  Her gaze darted around the ballroom as she planned her escape. If she skirted the dance floor, cut through the tables in the corner, moved behind the ice sculpture, she’d reach the doors on the side that led to the entry hall with the cloakroom.

  Zayed placed a restraining hand over hers, preventing her from leaving. “Calm yourself, Dr. Tornell….”

  “I can’t! You won’t let me. You won’t leave me alone.”

  “I’m not trying to hurt you, Dr. Tornell. I need you. I need…”

  Rou didn’t hear the rest. She was suddenly enveloped in a giant hug. “Rou, you naughty thing, where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you!” Georgina’s breathless voice penetrated Rou’s panic-fogged brain.

  Gratefully she hugged Georgina back. Georgina. The wedding. Vienna. Everything was fine. Everything would be fine.

  “You look beautiful,” Rou whispered unsteadily, giving Georgina a hard squeeze. “I’ve never seen a happier bride.”