The Desert Kings: Duty, Desire and the Desert King / The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride / The Desert King. Jane Porter
inputting her information. It had taken her far longer than usual to complete the profile, but at last it was done and now the computer program she’d designed would match him with suitable candidates.
She waited while the computer sorted and then put together a list of possibilities. The program gave her thirty. Not bad.
Rou was still reading through the profiles when Manar returned. “His Highness would like to see you. Are you able to receive guests now?”
“Yes, of course,” Rou answered, rising, even as she reached up to touch her hair, thinking only now that perhaps she should have run a comb through it, or freshened herself a little.
But Zayed arrived immediately, and she remained on her feet as he entered the suite.
“I have your first candidates,” she said nervously. “I can print off the profiles and you can study them when you have time, or we could go through them now—”
“It is his plane.” Zayed’s voice was low, rough. “It doesn’t appear there were any survivors.”
Rou slowly sat back down in her chair. “No.”
“The bodies were charred, nearly unrecognizable….” He came to a stop, arms at his sides, and for the first time there was real despair on his face, in his voice. “They have to run tests. They’ve asked for dental records.”
Rou stared at him in mute horror. So it’d come to this. The jet. The remains of the bodies. Sharif’s body. Her mind shuddered in grief, in horror. “His wife,” she whispered.
“Beside herself.”
She bit down into her lower lip, biting hard to keep tears from welling in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he added roughly.
He was sorry? He was apologizing to her? Rou’s eyes filled with tears. Her chest burned with livid emotion, emotion she hadn’t felt in years. “I’m sorry,” she choked, “I’m so sorry for all of you—”
“I have to make this right.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will make it right.” He walked toward her, crossing the sunken floor, and it wasn’t until he stepped into the light that she realized he was wearing a white robe. She’d never seen him in traditional Sarq dress. “But there isn’t a lot of time. The coronation is in forty-eight hours.”
She looked from the white robe up to his bronze profile. He was recently shaven and his cheekbones jutted high and hard against his skin. “So soon?”
“Can you find me a queen in forty-eight hours?”
Her gaze held his. This wasn’t a moment of celebration, it was a tragedy, a travesty. The whole country would be mourning. Sharif’s family would be mourning. “Perhaps we can find you prospects—”
“No, not prospects. A bride. I told you, I have to be married. There must be an actual ceremony.”
“But how does anyone expect you to marry and become king within two days of learning that your brother is dead?”
He stopped in the middle of the sunken living room, stared down at the bowl of lush, lavish roses. “Kings are not like other men. They sacrifice for the good of their country.”
He leaned down to snap a blossom from the stem and carried it to his nose. “These roses were planted after my sisters died. Sharif created the memorial garden for my parents and when the twelve rosebushes arrived, he dug each of the twelve holes, planting the roses personally.” Zayed lifted his head, looked at Rou. “I must honor my brother. I must serve my country. I must make the transition of power as smooth, as easy as possible. It is the least I can do.”
With the rose still cupped in his palm, Zayed turned to leave, but he paused on the steps. “I will have a printer brought to you and if you could please print off the profiles and bring them with you, we will discuss them later.”
“You don’t wish to look at them now?”
“I have to speak with Khalid. I’ve an emergency cabinet meeting. The press—” He broke off, jaw grinding hard, eyes glittering with unspeakable sorrow. “But I want to see them. I will meet you later.”
“Of course. Anytime.”
He nodded, staring blindly across the room. Silence stretched. Finally he spoke, his voice low and hoarse. “I thought he’d survive. I was sure he’d survive. I was sure …”
She swallowed around the knot filling her throat. “Maybe he did.”
Zayed shot her a sharp look. “You’re just as bad as I am.”
“Until they give you proof …?”
He shook his head, a short savage shake. “I clung to hope before. I won’t do it now. The disappointment is too severe.” He drew a breath, his chest rising, and then exhaled hard. “I’ll meet you for a late dinner. We’ll talk then. Bring the profiles.”
“Okay.”
And then he was gone.
For a moment she sat frozen in place, her mind reeling, her emotions chaotic. Sharif … Zayed … Sarq …
Her eyes burned and her throat felt raw and she didn’t know how long she sat there, but finally, the sound of footsteps in the hall roused her, and she turned as Manar appeared. “Your printer has arrived,” she said in her soft voice.
Rou had forgotten all about the printer, and wasn’t sure Zayed would even remember such a small unimportant detail when he had so much on his mind. But he had.
The printer wasn’t the only equipment that arrived. Zayed had also sent along a copier, another desk and reams of paper. Rou stood aside as the efficient staff assembled an office for her right before her eyes, creating an L-shaped work area for her, and then taping down extension cords onto the stone floor before disappearing.
She could still hear their retreating footsteps when she numbly sat down to print off the first ten profiles, and then she printed the next ten, just in case.
She worked without thinking, without feeling, worked just to stay busy. As she compiled the profiles as they emerged from the printer, her thoughts drifted to a former client, a difficult client. He was an American high-tech billionaire, and he believed first impressions were everything. He hated the first sixty head shots of the first sixty profiles she’d presented—no, no, no—but fell in love with sixty-one. He ended up marrying her and today they had three small children.
With her prep work complete, Rou still had several hours to fill. She took a nap, and then a long bath and after washing her hair she dressed again in the same gray suit she’d worn earlier. She didn’t have many choices, having brought only her small Vienna suitcase with her, but it was a good suit, she told herself, and Zayed wouldn’t care. Zayed wouldn’t even notice what she wore, anyway. To Zayed she was just a thing, an object, like the printer or copier now sitting on the desk.
After blow-drying her hair, Rou twisted it into another simple knot, and then slipped back on the same heels she’d worn in the morning. She applied no makeup; she never wore makeup, and rarely wore jewelry. She’d always prided herself on being sensible and practical, although a little part of her would have loved once—just once—to have been thought beautiful. To have maybe dazzled.
Manar arrived promptly at nine, bowed and asked Rou to come with her. Rou gathered her leather portfolio with the stack of profiles and followed Manar from her suite to a distant wing in the palace.
She was led to a small dining room softly lit by candles on the low table and in the oversize gold chandelier hanging above the table. Large, plump cushions in shades of blue were scattered on the floor around the table and the walls were covered in dark, carved screens. Above the chandelier the ceiling was domed and a dark midnight blue inlaid with bars of gold.
Manar bowed and left