Duty, Desire and the Desert King

by Jane Porter

  “I wish we could wait for your father,” Rou said huskily. “It won’t be a very nice wedding without him.”

  “Maybe we should wait,” Takia whispered.

  “Uncle Zayed and Aunt Rou want that, too,” Jesslyn answered, looking over Tahir’s head at the girls, “but the country is in turmoil without Daddy, and no one can make any decisions without a king, and Uncle Zayed is being very good and brave, and he’s doing what Daddy would want.”

  “And that’s to marry Aunt Rou?” Saba guessed.

  Jesslyn smiled through her tears. “And become king.”

  Rou couldn’t stay. She threw a desperate, panicked smile at them and ran out, aware that she was going to lose her composure any second. She’d barely made it out the door before the tears began to fall. It was all too much, too intense, too horrible.

  Their grief made Sharif’s death real and it hit Rou hard, so very hard. Sharif was gone. Dead. He wasn’t coming back.

  Sharif, the man she’d adored for a decade or more, was gone.

  And now, wiping away tears, she struggled to find her way back to her wing of the palace. She made a couple of turns, and then another and before she knew it, she realized she was lost. She didn’t even know how to get back to her wing.

  She was close to flagging down a palace servant when she stumbled into Zayed.

  “I’ve just been to your room,” he said, catching her by the arm and steadying her.

  “I went to see the queen,” she answered, wiping tears.

  “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  “Your brother’s dead. The queen and her children are heartbroken. The country’s in turmoil, and you’re being brave and good and helping out by becoming king.” She glared up at him even as the tears continued to fall. “What am I to do? Tell them I’m not marrying you? Tell them there won’t be a wedding, and their country won’t have a king? Queen Jesslyn introduced me to the children as Aunt Rou, for heaven’s sake! I’m their aunt now. And the little one, Takia, didn’t understand why we weren’t waiting for her daddy before we married!”

  Her stream of tortured words ended and she looked at him for help.

  “How could I have ever thought you unemotional?” he said.

  “Well, I don’t like being this way—”

  “I like you this way. You’re real. And you’re exactly what’s needed.”

  She bit her lip to keep it from quivering like Takia’s.

  “But if I could, I’d undo all this,” he added quietly. “I would give anything to see Sharif walk through those doors. I would give up everything I own, everything I am, to have him home safe. But until that day, I must do what he needs me to do. And that includes marrying and assuming the throne. But I need you to fulfill my duty. I can’t do it without you.”

  “Not me, a wife.”

  “But you are that wife. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”

  She pictured Jesslyn and the children in the nursery and tears welled up all over again. Love, loss, marriage, children…the palace was full of everything that she feared most.

  Family.

  Pain.

  And yet she couldn’t walk away from a family in such pain. She’d spent years going to school, years building her private practice, years counseling and listening, years writing, speaking, years dedicated to helping others. How could she just run away when there was so much need right here?

  She averted her head. “I need some time,” she whispered, shaken.

  He started to argue and then, after a deep breath, nodded. “We’ll meet for a late lunch. That should give you a couple hours.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “It has to be. I—we—Sarq, we’re running out of time. This country hasn’t had a king in nearly two weeks. Decisions can’t be made, not even about my brother’s funeral.”

  “All right.” She knew her voice was sharp but she was tired and overwhelmed. Nothing was as it was supposed to be. And if she wasn’t careful, nothing would ever be again.

  “I’ll take you back to your rooms.”

  “No, just point me in the right direction.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m smart.”

  Their eyes met, gazes locking, both frustrated and furious.

  After a long moment of tense silence, Zayed lifted his hands. “Fine. You win. Continue down this corridor to the second hall, take a left, and then at the first right, turn. Continue to the second hall, and then a left and then another left, one more right, and then you’ll be back in your wing. Got that?”

  She smiled. “Piece a cake.” Not at all, but he didn’t need to know it.

  In the end, Rou had to stop two different palace staff members to get clarification on the directions, but she did eventually arrive at her suite, and once there, she went to the bedroom and stretched out, pulling a soft pillow beneath her cheek.

  The bed was so comfortable and pretty, with silk and satin curtains in every shade of rose surrounding the antique frame, that she could almost imagine Zayed’s sisters here. It was a room fit for princesses, and that’s what his sisters had been. But they were gone, and now Sharif was, too.

  It was all too much being here, all too intense, too emotional and just too sad.

  No wonder Zayed’s mother had collapsed and been rushed to the hospital. How could any mother bear to lose so many of her children?

  Although Rou wanted nothing more than to hop on the next plane and jet back to San Francisco, she reluctantly accepted that it wasn’t an option. Zayed was right. He did need her. But she wasn’t going to give up who she was, or what she wanted, not forever, not even for Zayed, although she now knew she wanted to help.

  But marriage?

  Perhaps if it was just a temporary marriage…something to get them through the next couple of weeks…

  She must have eventually fallen asleep because Manar was there, waking her up, reminding her lunch was in just a half hour, and wouldn’t she like to dress before she met His Highness on the terrace?

  Rou sat up, groggy, and rubbed her eyes. “It’s already one?”

  “Yes, Dr. Tornell. You have half an hour till your luncheon.”

  “Then I have time,” Rou said, lying back down and nestling into her pillow. “There’s nothing I need to do to get ready.”

  But Manar didn’t move. “Don’t you want to pick something else to wear to lunch? The terrace is shaded but it’s quite warm still.”

  “I would if I could,” Rou answered with a yawn, “but this is all I have.”

  “But, Dr. Tornell, come see. You have dozens and dozens of boxes and bags. They’ve all been flown in from Dubai.”

  Rou sat back up. “What?”

  “They’re for your trousseau, but His Highness wants you to start wearing them today. He said you needed something better suited for palace life.” The maid gestured, barely able to contain her excitement. “They’re all in the living room. Come look.”

  Rou slid off the bed and padded barefoot into the living room, which was no longer a serene sitting area but a riot of colorful shopping bags. Dozens and dozens of boxes and bags covered the two sofas, with another dozen shoe boxes stacked on the low coffee table. As she descended the steps, she recognized a few of the names—Michael Kors, Chanel, Prada, Valentino, Dior—and then there were names she didn’t recognize, but the boxes and tissue were equally formal and impressive.

  Uncertainly she lifted the lid on the garment box closest to her and discovered a frothy pink cocktail dress.

  Pale pink peeked through the crisp tissue paper in the next box, this time in the softest cardigan imaginable, with diamond buttons.

  Holding her breath now, she opened another box and she lifted a pleated coral silk dress with a thin gold chain at the waist.

  Another box, a slim white skirt, the palest pink gladiator-style shoe, a pink crocodile clutch.

  It was a sea of pink.

  Dizzy, Rou sat down on an armchair facing the
couches. She didn’t wear pink. Ever.

  Where was the black, the navy, the charcoal-gray she wore? Where were her serious pieces, the wardrobe that made her feel smart, safe, invincible? These were such girlie, feminine items—skirts and heels, sexy ankle-wrap sandals and figure-hugging fabrics.

  “Is everything pink?” she asked Manar, a hint of despair in her voice.

  Manar lifted her head. “You don’t like your new clothes?”

  “They’re just so…pink.”

  Manar gently ran a hand over a hot-pink, silk trench coat lined with a paler shade of satin. “But they’re beautiful. Like candy or jewels.”

  Rou, who rarely cried, felt close to tears for the second time in one day. Candy? Jewels? Did Zayed really buy her clothes that resembled candy and jewels? How could he think she’d like something so silly? So impractical? So unprofessional?

  Wardrobe was important. It was image. Status. Power. And with a wardrobe of baby pink, coral, rose and fuchsia, he was turning her into an accessory. She wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t be his doll or arm candy. She was Dr. Rou Tornell, and he’d better not forget it.

  To Manar’s horror, Rou insisted on wearing her black wool skirt and black knit top to lunch. “Why,” the maid exclaimed, “when you have the most beautiful clothes here?”

  Rou opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of an appropriate explanation. Manar then reached among the piles of pastel-hued accessories and grabbed a jeweler’s box containing a long strand of fat, pink pearls. “At least wear these,” she begged. “That way you won’t appear to be rejecting all of His Highness’s gifts.”

  Rou accepted Manar’s offer to take her to the garden where she’d be joining Zayed for lunch. Before she’d even stepped onto the patio she heard the tinkling notes of a fountain. A vine-covered arbor provided shade on the terrace and the sweet scent of antique roses perfumed the air.

  Zayed was already there, waiting for her, and despite the terrace’s shadows, she could feel the weight of his gaze as she approached. He was studying her the same way she used to study specimens under the microscope, and she stiffened, not enjoying the intense scrutiny.

  “You don’t like your new clothes?” he asked.

  Rou had unpinned her chignon and left her hair loose, but other than that change to her hair, and the addition of her pearls, she looked the same as he’d seen her earlier in the day. “They’re all pink, Your Highness,” she said, taking the seat he offered her and then carefully spreading the pale lavender linen napkin across her lap.

  He took the chair opposite her. “You don’t like pink?”

  She shot him a level look. “Do I look like a woman that wears pink?”

  His gaze held hers and then dropped to her mouth and then lower, down her neck to her breasts, where they seemed to linger indecently long. “You look like a woman that needs to remember she’s a woman.”

  Rou bristled. “And dressing me in pink like a fancy doll will turn me into a proper woman?”

  “No. Proper lovemaking should do that, but in the meantime, I see no reason why you shouldn’t wear colors and styles that flatter your coloring and complexion. You’re a beautiful woman—”

  “Please, Sheikh Fehr.”

  “—determined to hide behind the most hideous clothes and styles possible.” He stopped, smiled faintly and added, “Do you think we could start using each other’s first names now? It seems strange that we’re still using titles.”

  “I like being Dr. Tornell.”

  He grinned crookedly, gold eyes flashing. “Yes, I know you do. And if it makes you happy, I promise to call you Dr. Tornell in the bedroom.”

  Rou blushed again, her skin burning from her chest to her brow as she pushed her water glass away from her. “That was so not necessary, Zayed,” she said, stressing his name.

  He just smiled, which only made him even more gorgeous. “You’re perfect, Rou. Perfectly proper, perfectly prickly. A rare, delicious fruit covered in dangerous thorns.”

  Face burning, she forced her attention to the table, where white lush roses spilled from the round centerpiece. “In case you think the thorns are protecting a sweet, delicate pulp, you’re mistaken. The inside of me is just as thorny and sour as the exterior.”

  “I’m sure there’s a cure for that.”

  “I don’t want a cure! I like who I am.”

  “As do I.”

  She was saved from having to answer by the appearance of kitchen staff as they paraded out with a stream of lunch dishes. Olives in marinade. Roasted red peppers with feta, capers and lemons. Stuffed grape leaves. Stuffed eggplants. Spicy, skewered grilled shrimp. Chilled lentil salad. Warm flat breads. Dish after dish kept arriving, despite the fact that Rou couldn’t even manage more than a couple mouthfuls.

  Zayed, she noticed, didn’t have that problem. He ate generously of everything, enjoying his meal as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  He looked up, caught her gaze. “You can’t let conflict and tension control you,” he said, as if able to read her mind. “You have to learn to separate your emotions from conflict, as conflict will always exist—”

  “It didn’t before you entered my life,” she interrupted tartly. “I was fine. I was happy. I was successful.”

  “And you are still successful, and you will be happy. You’re not losing anything by marrying me. You’re gaining a husband, a family and a kingdom.”

  She shook her head, incredulous. “But I don’t want a husband, a family or a kingdom. I like the simplicity of my life. It works for me. It allows me to accomplish the things I do.”

  “You don’t think you can still be successful as a wife? You don’t think you can accomplish great things if you become a mother?”

  “No. No, I don’t,” she answered firmly, a quaver in her voice. “And while I might consider a temporary marriage, I’m adamant that there will not be children. I won’t be a mother. If you’re counting on forever, if you’re wanting a baby-making machine, you’ve got the wrong woman.”

  He leaned back in his chair, far more sympathetic to her situation than she knew. Like her, he’d never planned on marrying. He’d never wanted to father children. He’d long believed there were enough children in the world and he’d been determined never to add to the population boom.

  “Children aren’t at the top of my priority list right now,” he answered calmly. “Sharif’s son, Tahir, will inherit the throne on his twenty-fifth birthday, and his children from him. I am merely guardian of the throne until Tahir is of age.”

  “This is not a permanent arrangement, Zayed. This marriage is only temporary. You said so yourself earlier this morning.”

  “I said it’d be temporary if Sharif returns. If he doesn’t…” His voice faded but not the meaning.

  Rou shook her head fiercely, pink pearls swinging and clicking with her denial. “I won’t spend the next twenty years with you while you wait for Tahir to grow up.”

  “It’d be twenty-three actually—”

  “I’ll give you a year.”

  “Ten.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Two.”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine years? Together? Are you mad?”

  “No. I think I’m rather brilliant. You’re perfect for me, and perfect as my queen. You can be an instrument of change here in Sarq. You could help reform our system, introduce laws to create more equality among the genders and make sure women are fully protected.”

  “You could do all that without me.”

  He suppressed a smile. “It wouldn’t be as much fun.”

  “Fun? How can you even say that? You should be horrified at the idea of marrying me. I have your list somewhere, and I don’t even meet half your desired attributes.” Rou reached for her small bag, the pale pink croc clutch that Manar insisted she take with her, and pulled out a folded paper and smoothed it on the table. “Let’s go over a few, shall we?”

  He listened as she quoted back to him the traits he wanted, watching
her face, the dark pink staining her cheeks, the bright fierce light in her eyes, the faintest quiver to her lower lip. When she finished, he lifted his hands. “But you are my list. You’re exactly what I want. Smart, strong, confident, accomplished, compassionate.”

  But she shook her head, long pale hair tumbling over her shoulder. “No, you’re wrong. I’m not the woman you want. I’m not a beautiful woman. I’m not noble. I’m not compassionate. If I accept, if I become your wife, it’s because you can give me what I want.”

  She held her breath as though she’d said something very shocking, but he was intrigued, not troubled.

  For Rou it was shocking because she was doing this, agreeing to this, because she benefited, not just Zayed and his country. She would have the chance to be in Zayed’s life, in Zayed’s bed. She would have the chance to live out her fantasies, and then she’d be free to leave, to return to her career and her world of logic and reason. But at least she would have had this adventure, this chance to be someone else and experience what she had never felt.

  Beauty. Hunger. Passion.

  Aware that Zayed was watching her closely, she relaxed her clenched fist, smoothed the paper in front of her. “This isn’t going to be a free ride for you, Zayed Fehr. You need a wife, any wife, and I’ll be that wife, but there are conditions.”

  “I expected as much.”

  “Did you?” she shot back.

  “Yes. Tell me.”

  “I want the research center. And the money,” she said fiercely, lifting her chin and looking him in the eye.

  “That will be expensive.”

  Dark rose stormed her cheeks, darkening her eyes so they looked like burning sapphires. “I will also continue working, and I will keep my name, keep my practice and keep my home in San Francisco.”

  He knew then, he’d kiss her again soon, very soon, if only to taste her soft, ripe mouth once more and feel that fierce spirit of hers. He’d never met a woman like her, and perhaps theirs wouldn’t be a love match, but it would be passionate. He could guarantee that already.

  “And what do I get again?” he asked softly.

  “You get a wife.” Her blue eyes shone. Her breasts rose and fell with every furious breath. “It’s what you wanted.” Her hard gaze met his and held, challenging him. “Wasn’t it?”