by Jane Porter
“All thanks to you,” Georgina whispered. “You said there were no princes, but you found one for me!”
Georgina stepped back, and Ralf leaned down and dropped a kiss on Rou’s cheek. “I will always be in your debt, Dr. Tornell.”
And then Ralf and Georgina were turning their attention to Zayed, heartily welcoming him, and thanking him for coming.
“It is my pleasure,” Zayed answered smoothly, “and I offer you my family’s warmest congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you,” Ralf replied. “But tell us, have you news of Sharif? We’ve only just heard. It was on the television earlier.”
“Was it?” Zayed answered. “I didn’t think they were going to go public for another few days.”
Ralf and Georgina exchanged swift glances. “Is it true that there’s no sign of the plane? That it just totally disappeared from the radar?” Ralf persisted.
Zayed nodded.
“And Jesslyn?” Georgina asked. “Is she… Was she…?”
“She wasn’t with him, no. Nor the children, thank God.” Zayed’s expression shifted, hardened. “Although they were all supposed to be together.”
“I can’t believe it,” Ralf said, more to himself than the others. “Sharif is so…. so…Sharif.”
Zayed inclined his head, and Ralf quickly recovered and reached out to clasp Zayed’s shoulder. “We are praying for him, and all of you. We must not lose hope. And if there is anything we can do, any way we can aid the search, or help the queen, you only need to say the word.”
The wedding couple moved on.
Rou was silent for a moment after Georgina and Ralf walked away, but then she turned to Zayed, her expression fierce. “What’s happened to Sharif?”
“I’ve told you—”
“You haven’t.”
“He’s missing. His plane disappeared ten days ago. But I told you—”
“No, you didn’t tell me.” Her voice cracked. “You definitely didn’t tell me. You said throne, Sarq, kingdom. You didn’t say Sharif. You didn’t say he was missing. You didn’t. And you should have.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “He’s my hero. I adore him, and I’d do anything, absolutely anything, for him.”
CHAPTER THREE
THEY’D agreed they’d meet in the morning, at nine in his hotel lobby.
They were to start afresh.
At least that’s what she’d told Zayed. But Rou spent a sleepless night in her hotel bed, tossing and turning with the weight of her thoughts and the enormity of her dread.
She adored Sharif. She feared Zayed.
She’d promised to help Zayed but only because of Sharif.
If she hadn’t been the recipient of the Fehr scholarship at Cambridge. If she hadn’t been mentored by Sharif for six of her eight years at university. If she hadn’t admired Sharif so terribly, maybe she could walk away from Zayed now, but she had been a Fehr scholar, and Sharif had been her mentor, and she did think of him as the older brother she never had.
Sharif was missing. And Sarq was in turmoil.
Of course she’d help Zayed. How could she not? But she’d limit the time she spent with him and would monitor his proximity. There was no reason she couldn’t work with him over the phone, or via e-mail and fax. She’d just sit down with him in the morning, get the paperwork started and then complete the rest from a safe and sane distance.
The key thing was getting Sharif found, and Zayed back to Sarq where he could assume leadership until his brother returned.
Because Sharif would be found. Sharif would return—alive. It had to be. There was no other possibility. Not for his wife, Jesslyn, or his four children, or his country. Sharif was too well loved.
Zayed, on the other hand, was not as well loved. Rou knew from the little Sharif had said that Zayed, the middle brother, was the family black sheep, and had been for much of Sharif’s life, a thorn in his side.
Just as he was fast becoming a thorn in hers.
The next morning, Zayed’s bodyguards preceded him out of the hotel elevator and then took up positions as Zayed crossed the expansive marble lobby floor in search of Rou.
After a moment he spotted her, seated at a low table across the lobby, dressed in a sober gray skirt and jacket.
This morning her hair was drawn tightly back from her face in a severe knot at her nape, her thin body angled away from the table as she hunched over her computer leaving just her legs exposed. And they were, he noted with some surprise, endless legs. Long, shapely legs. Truly remarkable legs.
Zayed slowed his pace, frankly admiring the long legs that curved to the side of the gold chair, low kitten heels, her skirt a demure hem length, her sheer stockings revealing pale skin beneath.
Then, as if on cue, she with the long legs and severe blond chignon turned her head and looked directly at him.
He exhaled.
And she was back to being plain, uptight Dr. Tornell. In all fairness, Rou Tornell wasn’t greyhound ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful. She couldn’t even be called pretty. This morning she wore glasses, dark tortoiseshell glasses that looked stark against her pale skin, perching too large on her small, straight nose. Her mouth was thin. Her chin strong.
Zayed, so rarely amused by anything, nearly smiled now. Little Miss Muffet. That’s what she was. And he was the spider.
The only thing he didn’t know as he sat down across from her was how such a prim and proper Miss Muffet ended up with legs of sin?
Rou noticed Zayed’s peculiar expression as he took a seat in the upholstered chair across from hers. “Everything all right?” she asked.
“I haven’t heard anything new,” he answered, “if that’s what you mean.”
She nodded once. It was what she’d meant and Zayed, satisfied, opened his briefcase and pulled out folders, notebooks, handouts.
He slid one of the stapled handouts toward her. “I’ve already filled out your client profile, including family background and medical history.”
She glanced at the packet in front of her. They were her own confidential client forms. “These are my forms,” she said, clearly surprised.
“I told you, I did my research.”
“But where did you get these?”
Zayed shook his head, reading her like a book. “It wasn’t your assistant. I just did some legwork.”
Rou’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t cover for Jamie—”
“It was Pippa, if you must know. I phoned her and she was happy to send me copies of her paperwork. My secretary made me clean copies.” But Zayed was already moving on. “This is the Myers-Briggs personality test you use. I’ve completed it, as well, although I could have told you what I am—I’ve been tested before—but I was certain you’d want the proof in front of you.”
“You’ve left me very little to do,” she protested, although her tone indicated she was only half joking.
“Not at all. Now comes the important part. You find her for me. That is what all these forms lead to, isn’t it? Mate selection?”
Mate selection, Rou echoed silently.
Those were her words, from her own material, but it sounded so dry, so businesslike coming from him. She looked up at him, and as her gaze met his, her heart did a crazy lurch, a disturbing feeling that made her feel off-kilter.
Rou didn’t appreciate the way her pulse had begun to race.
It hadn’t raced this way in years, either. It’d been so long since she’d felt this desperate giddiness, this awful breathlessness. It’d been, well, since Lady Pippa’s wedding, when she’d allowed herself to be charmed by Zayed.
Only Zayed hadn’t been charmed. He’d found her dull and ridiculous, and he’d said so to Sharif.
You can’t let him do this to you again, she admonished herself severely. You’re not attracted to him, and it’s not emotion making you feel this way, either. It’s down to hormones and chemicals, silly involuntary chemicals like dopamine and adrenaline
. You don’t even like him. You resent him. You despise him. And you only respond this way because he makes you nervous, he makes you afraid.
And it was true. Every time she was around him, her heart raced, and her stomach got this sick, nauseous feel. As if she were on a rocking boat. Or a plane dancing in a turbulent wake.
Or trapped in the backseat of a car with her parents screaming.
Zayed’s hand was suddenly at her elbow. “Are you going to faint?” he asked.
“No.” She pulled forcefully from his grasp. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“You’re looking very pale.”
“I was born pale,” she answered fiercely, seeing from his expression that he didn’t appear convinced. “Now, can we focus on the business at hand? You need a wife, if I recall, and you’ve asked me to help find her for you.”
They turned their attention to the paperwork then, and his profile. For the next hour she asked questions and he answered. They were just starting their second hour of work when his phone rang. He’d ignored earlier calls but seeing the number he answered this one.
He said just a few words and then nothing else. Instead he listened. And Rou sat, notepad on her lap, and watched his face.
The color left his face. His expression changed, the life in his eyes fading. By the time he hung up, he looked dead.
“They’ve found the plane,” he said, slowly sliding the phone into his coat pocket. “Or they think it’s the plane. The fire made identifying the machine impossible but they have recovered the black box. We should know more soon.”
She held his gaze, unable to speak.
“I have to return to Sarq. I’m needed. You’ll go with me. We can finish this en route.”
She nodded when she should have protested. She was supposed to be limiting her contact with him, putting space between them instead of close proximity, but after news like this, there was no way she’d deny her help now.
Ninety minutes after the call they were airborne in Zayed’s personal jet.
It crossed Rou’s mind as the jet cut through the sky in a steep ascent that flying was not safe. Being alone with Zayed Fehr wasn’t safe. And accompanying him to his desert kingdom definitely could be the most dangerous thing of all.
But then life wasn’t safe.
And just like that, Sharif’s voice was in her head. Your thoughts become your future.
Yes. He was right, of course. Right as always. He’d been the first one to make her understand that emotions weren’t always right, or accurate. He’d explained to her that the most recent psychology findings revealed a clear connection between thoughts and feelings. Between thoughts and emotions.
If you thought happy thoughts, you felt happier.
If you thought the world was good, you’d see the world as good.
It was such a revelation for a girl who’d known too many years of unhappiness.
Her life, her happiness, didn’t hinge on others. She could choose to be happy even if the world was in the midst of misery.
She looked away from the window and discovered Zayed watching her, his amazing features still perfect and yet his eyes were dark. Tortured.
“Have you really never been in love?” she blurted, surprising herself with the question.
He took a long time to answer, which was unlike him as he always had a ready response. “No,” he finally said, “but I’m not without feeling. I have deep ties to my family, particularly my older brother.”
She could see his bio sheet in her mind, and the facts describing his family. Father—deceased. Mother—still living. Older brother—40, married, father of four. Younger brother—33, married, wife expecting. Younger sisters—deceased.
Much of his family was a mystery, but she did know about his sisters. It was why Sharif founded the scholarship at Cambridge. He’d started the scholarship in their memory. “Your sisters,” she said to Zayed now, “were you close to them?”
“Very.”
She waited for him to say more but he didn’t. “They died together, didn’t they?” she asked, hoping he’d elaborate.
“Car accident in Greece. They were young, early twenties.” His voice betrayed no emotion, but she saw the small muscle tighten in his jaw and his right hand curled into a fist, fingers clenching air.
“Their deaths were hard for the family?” she persisted.
He shot her a hard look. “How is this relevant?”
“It’s part of you, part of your family….”
“I’m not looking for a love match, Dr. Tornell. I’m looking for a wife. She doesn’t have to understand my every dark secret. She’ll never be my soul mate.”
Rou’s gaze lifted from his fist to his face. His handsome features were utterly expressionless and yet those tightly bunched fingers gave him away. “You don’t want a soul mate?”
“No. I just want a practical relationship. One that works.”
She looked at him levelly. “Not many women will find your idea of marriage palatable.”
“I’m sure there are practical women out there.”
She arched her eyebrows but said nothing more as she scribbled in the margins of his notes that yes, his sisters’ deaths had profoundly impacted him. He feared love because he feared loss.
“Did you ever want to be king?” she asked, wondering what it’d be like to lose three of your four siblings. She’d been an only child, couldn’t imagine having a brother or sister to love, although she’d wanted one desperately. It was what she’d asked Santa Claus to bring her for years until her mother finally told her that Santa wasn’t real. He was just a fat old man in a red cloth suit.
“No. It wasn’t part of my ambition or my life plan.” He hesitated. “But things change, and the situation is what it is now, and I cannot let my brother down. I must be there for him so that when he returns…” He didn’t finish the thought.
“Do you think he will be found alive?”
“Yes.”
Rou felt a wave of sympathy for him. He had to be aware that after ten days Sharif might not be found, or if he was, he might not be alive. “What if he’s not?”
“Sharif isn’t dead.”
She nodded once, realizing that she and Zayed had at least this in common: both refused to believe that Sharif was dead. They wouldn’t, not without firm proof, not without a body.
She shivered inwardly at the thought, and quickly changed the direction of her thoughts. “Would you like to work? Or do you need some time?”
“No, let’s work. I need to work.”
She nodded again and reached for her briefcase, which she’d slid beneath her leather seat. Work had always been her salvation. Work would help both of them now.
The flight attendant arrived and unhooked the table attached to the wall, setting it up between Zayed and Rou’s club chairs, and offered to serve them lunch.
Zayed looked at her. “We have a fully stocked kitchen with a chef on board.”
“Just tea,” she answered. “I don’t think I could eat a bite right now.”
“I feel the same way,” he answered. “One tea, one coffee,” he instructed the flight attendant and she disappeared to prepare their beverages.
Rou had found the paperwork she wanted, and with pen in hand she looked at Zayed. He was tall and powerfully built and blessed with almost godlike beauty, and yet there was pain in his eyes, in the press of his beautiful, sensual mouth, and she drew a deep breath.
She was not immune to him. But then, she’d never been immune to him, which was incredibly foolish as he was handsome and wealthy and oozed sensuality, while she was at best a smart little church mouse.
Rou knew her strengths and her weaknesses, and while she was brainy, she was far from beautiful. Perhaps if she’d been blessed with more curves she might have felt more sexually confident, but she’d inherited her mother’s extreme slimness, which meant she was rather narrow hipped and disappointingly small on top.
No, men like Zayed Fehr never noticed women like h
er. They wanted sirens—voluptuous beauties with thick glossy hair, full lips and come-hither eyes.
Rou wouldn’t know a come-hither expression if it smacked her in the face.
But on the positive side, it was good that Zayed was oblivious to her as a woman. She couldn’t have handled his attention otherwise. As it was, he wreaked havoc on her emotions and her control, making her jumpy and nervous. Making her heart skitter and race and her hands shake.
They were shaking now and she tried to hide her anxiety by shuffling the paperwork until she found the page she needed. “We’re to the part where I ask you to describe your ideal woman,” she said coolly, gratified by the firm tone of her voice. “Can you give me five adjectives that would describe her?”
He thought for a moment. “Intelligent. Accomplished. Successful.” He thought another moment. “Confident, loyal. And preferably beautiful.” He hesitated. “But that’s six, isn’t it?”
“It’s okay. Six is good, too.” Of course he’d ask for beauty. All men did. And Zayed Fehr was famous for squiring the world’s most beautiful women about town. “So a model, maybe?”
“No. Definitely not a model. Or an actress. Nothing like that.”
Rou lifted her head in surprise. “Really?”
He didn’t seem to register her surprise as he added to his description of his ideal woman. “Most important is intelligence. I admire women who are accomplished. And successful. But she must be kind. A woman that’s compassionate. Maybe a teacher or a nurse.”
Rou checked her frown. A teacher or a nurse? “Like Sharif’s wife? Jesslyn was a teacher, too.”
He nodded. “Khalid’s wife is very kind, too. They’re always thinking of others. I like that, respect that.”
“Right.” She scribbled a few more words onto the form, although she couldn’t help thinking that he was steering her in a very different direction than she might have gone on her own. But this was why they went through the process. “What about sense of humor? Sense of adventure? Introvert? Extrovert? Do you see yourself doing a lot of entertaining? Should she be comfortable as a hostess? Will she need to have public speaking skills? Are you expecting her to be a leader in fashion, or be artistic?”
