by Jane Porter
“It depends on the woman. Oh, and she needs to be strong.”
“Strong?”
“Mentally…emotionally. I don’t want a subservient woman. She must be able to hold her own with me, as well as my family. It can be an intimidating family and although Sarq is more modern than many of our neighbors, it is still a Middle Eastern kingdom and quite different from our Western friends and allies.”
Rou’s pen hovered in midair. He was describing a woman she would never have picked for him. She would have thought he’d want a gorgeous bimbo, or a sultry beauty who’d make him look good in public. But beauty was sixth on his wish list. Intelligence was number one. Interesting, but puzzling, which made her realize she knew far less about Zayed than she’d thought.
The flight attendant returned with a tray holding their cups and her pot of tea, along with a plate of light biscuits and fruit and cheese.
Rou found herself reaching for a dark red grape and then a small wedge of cheese and realized she hadn’t eaten since last night. She’d been so nervous this morning she’d only drunk coffee. A little food was good. A little food now would go a long way.
She glanced up and saw Zayed studying her again, his brow furrowed. She reached for the linen serviette and brushed at her mouth. “What’s wrong? Do I have something on my face?”
“No. It’s good to see you eat. You’re so very thin—”
“My mother was thin,” she interrupted, “Unfortunately I inherited her fast metabolism instead of her stunning cheekbones.” Rou smiled at her own joke but Zayed didn’t smile back.
“I suspect you don’t eat enough.”
“Sharif used to say the same thing. But I have this terribly sensitive stomach. When I’m nervous, or anxious, I can’t eat anything. My throat just closes up and tea is about all I can manage.”
His golden gaze had darkened at the mention of Sharif’s name. “You knew my brother well?”
Rou glanced down at her lap where she spread the linen cloth flat. “I think you know I earned the Fehr scholarship at Cambridge. It’s what helped me pay for all my graduate studies.”
“And that’s why you’re so devoted to Sharif?”
She felt herself blush. “No. But Sharif became a friend as well as a mentor during my years at Cambridge. It wasn’t until after I’d earned my advance degrees that I realized he helped me because of his sisters.”
“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 lo
w 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 fill
ed 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.
