The Desert Kings: Duty, Desire and the Desert King / The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride / The Desert King. Jane Porter
The
Desert Kings
Duty, Desire and
the Desert King
Jane
Porter
The Desert King’s Bejewelled Bride
Sabrina
Philips
The Desert King
Olivia
Gates
Duty, Desire and the Desert King
Jane Porter
About the Author
JANE PORTER grew up on a diet of Mills & Boon® romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight, and spent many of her school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her two gorgeous sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com
‘If you are a sheikh romance fan … Jane Porter pens a wonderful [romance] overflowing with all the elements that sheikh romance fans adore … wealth and luxury and exotic locations.’
—The Romance Readers Connection
For Ty and our new baby boy,
Mac Bran Gurney.
PROLOGUE
Monte Carlo
SHEIKH ZAYED FEHR, the middle brother of the three powerful Fehrs, read the letter yet again. It had been typed on the heavy ivory parchment of the royal Fehr family but the correspondence came from Khalid, the youngest brother, instead of eldest brother, Sharif, the king.
The letter was short and uncomplicated. Khalid’s words were simple enough.
Zayed’s hand shook.
He blinked. He, Zayed Fehr, the heartless Fehr, could barely breathe. Pain hot and hard and sharp exploded in his chest once, twice and again. He exhaled against the shock of it.
Khalid had to be wrong. Khalid was mistaken. Surely if this were true Zayed would have heard something on the news, heard something before this formal letter.
It just couldn’t be.
Couldn’t.
And Zayed, the heartless, knew for the first time in fifteen years he wasn’t heartless because his was breaking now.
Sharif, his beloved big brother, was missing. His plane had crashed somewhere in the Sahara Desert and he was presumed dead.
Effective immediately, Zayed needed to marry and come home.
Because Sharif’s son was three and not of age to rule, Zayed would be king.
CHAPTER ONE
Vancouver, Canada
“SHEIKH ZAYED FEHR is here? In Vancouver?” Dr. Rou Tornell repeated, her hand shaking ever so slightly as she removed her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose.
She told herself it was fatigue making her hand tremble; exhaustion was only to be expected after a seven-week book tour.
She told herself it had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with Sheikh Zayed Fehr, the younger brother of King Sharif Fehr, and the only man who’d ever hurt or humiliated her the way he had.
Jamie, Rou’s assistant, moved forward toward the desk where Rou was working on her laptop, concern creasing her brow. “Yes. He’s … here.”
“What do you mean, here?” Rou demanded, her normally cool voice now wobbling with shock.
“I mean, here. In this hotel.”
“What?” Rou shoved the glasses back on her nose and stared at Jamie in consternation. She normally wore contact lenses for appearances but in the privacy of her hotel suite she preferred the comfort of glasses. “Why?”
“You told him you didn’t have time to see him in Portland. Or Seattle. So he’s flown to Vancouver and he’s here now.” Jamie smiled nervously, hands fidgeting. “And I don’t think he’s going to go away until you see him. Apparently it’s urgent. Life or death, or something of that nature.”
Life or death. Just the sort of thing her father would say. Zayed was cut from the same cloth. Gorgeous, wealthy, famous, shallow and self-absorbed. It was always about them, what they wanted, what they needed. She despised playboys and movie stars, loathed self-indulgence, and loathed Zayed Fehr most of all.
Zayed might be Sharif’s brother, but he was truly the black sheep of the family. A desert prince without a care, or sense of responsibility, or propriety, for that matter. Rou gestured unhappily. “I don’t have time to see him—”
“You do now, actually—”
“But I don’t want to see him.”
“Have you ever seen him?” twenty-three-year-old Jamie asked breathlessly.
“We’re acquainted,” Rou answered flatly, unwilling to admit to more than that. Jamie certainly didn’t need to know the details of their painful, embarrassing encounter three years earlier. Suffice it to say that Zayed Fehr would never be a man she respected, or trusted.
“He is really good-looking,” Jamie added, eyes bright and cheeks pink.
“He is,” Rou answered with an exasperated sigh. “He might even be physical perfection. He also has an ungodly amount of money, a shocking amount of power, but that doesn’t make him a good person.”
Jamie’s shoulders lifted and fell. “He seems nice enough. Actually, he seems very nice—”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Well, yes. He’s here. In the outer room.”
“In my hotel suite?”
Jamie’s blush deepened. “I told him he could wait there. I thought perhaps you had five minutes now. The media escort won’t be here for another half hour and they’re doing your makeup at the TV station.” She saw Rou’s expression and hurriedly added, “He really is desperate to see you.”
Rou shuffled the papers before her, trying to cover her panic. Zayed here, now? Zayed outside her door, waiting in her suite?
“Did I do something wrong?” Jamie asked nervously.
Yes, she wanted to shout. “No,” she answered instead, swallowing hard even as she became aware that her hands were damp and her heart racing.
She was also aware that Jamie was suddenly close to tears, and the last thing she wanted—needed—was Jamie crying. Jamie tried so hard, and was a lovely girl and usually an efficient assistant. Rou couldn’t blame her for falling under Zayed’s spell. Zayed wasn’t just gorgeous and rich, he was also charming and charismatic and women fell at his feet. Even she—cool, logical scientist—had fallen at his feet.
“I thought you’d have five minutes,” Jamie stammered.
Rou pressed her hands to the desk edge to stop their trembling. Of course she did. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was, she didn’t want to spare Zayed Fehr five minutes. She didn’t want to see him. Not even for five seconds. “How long has he been waiting?”