The Desert Kings: Duty, Desire and the Desert King / The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride / The Desert King. Jane Porter
hadn’t realized he’d arrived and the surprise quickened her pulse, making her suddenly shy. “I didn’t hear you.”
He entered the room with that stealthy grace of his and in the candlelit room his hair gleamed onyx and his skin a burnished gold. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No. Just a few minutes. I was admiring the screens.”
He glanced at one of the ornate screens. “I like them, too. They’re one of my favorite antiques here in the palace. They’re Moroccan, and date from the sixteenth century. They were used in the harem as room dividers.”
“No wonder they’re so gorgeous,” she said lightly to cover her nervousness. “Beautiful ladies had to be surrounded by beautiful things.”
Zayed took a seat on the plump cushions before the table and gestured for her to join him on a pillow close to his. “Show me what you have.”
She sat carefully but awkwardly on the turquoise silk pillow he’d gestured to and blushed as her skirt rode up on her thighs. The hem wasn’t short but she also wasn’t used to showing a lot of leg, and she tried to hide her legs by opening the portfolio.
“These are the first ten profiles the program has matched you with,” she said, striving to sound brisk and professional. “Altogether I have thirty possibilities for you, but I only brought twenty profiles and you have them batched in groups of ten.”
She handed him the stack of photos with brief bios attached and watched as he silently leafed through them, reading the name, looking at each picture and then skimming the bio. He said nothing until he’d come to the end.
“Nothing?” she asked, prepared to give him the next ten.
“No. I can see there are definitely possibilities.”
“Good.” She tried to sound hearty and happy, but she wasn’t happy. She didn’t like doing this. And it was completely unreasonable, but she didn’t want him to like any of the women.
She wanted him to like her.
Which was horrible. Ridiculous. Impossible.
Impossible, she fiercely reminded herself as he handed the stack of ten back to her.
“Give me your expert opinion,” he said. “Pick out your three favorites from this group. Which are the top three you’d pick for me?”
Her hand shook ever so slightly as she smoothed the pages into a neat stack. “You want me to pick?”
“Three women you think would be perfect for me.”
She looked up at him, her heart thumping, her stomach churning like mad. “I can’t do that.”
His dark gold eyes bored into hers. “Why not?”
“I’m not you.”
“So?”
“I don’t have the same values or tastes. What I like isn’t what you’d like.”
“You don’t know that.”
She flashed back to the wretched e-mail Zayed had written to Sharif, the one where he’d mocked her and said he found her so dull. “Oh, but I do,” she answered, remembering how she’d loved the night of Lady Pippa’s wedding and how she’d enjoyed Zayed’s company immensely, and yet he’d been bored to tears.
Zayed sighed his frustration. “I’m not looking for a love connection, just compatibility.”
“Fine.” Cheeks burning, she flipped through the profiles and selected Jeanette Gardnier, a beautiful brunette French-Canadian law professor; Sarah O’Leary, a stunning redhead journalist from Dublin; and Giselle Sanchez, a golden-brunette corporate banker from Buenos Aires. “There. Three brilliant, strong, successful, independent women. And they’re also all tens. Exceptionally beautiful every one.”
But he didn’t take the profiles. He just looked at her. “Why these women?”
Rou hated how her eyes burned and her throat ached. She hated how this trip had become endless emotion. “They’re what you asked for.”
His brows pulled. “You’re upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
“I don’t need to look at you.”
“You’re near tears,” he said with some surprise.
“Please.” She averted her head, bit her lip, feeling utterly betrayed by her own emotions and weaknesses. She was supposed to be a woman of science. She was supposed to be focused and dedicated to her craft.
Zayed reached out and brushed his fingertip beneath her eye, catching a small single tear. “You’re crying.”
“I’m not.” And yet her chest felt tight and pressure was building behind her eyes. She shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have ever agreed to this horrible, awful proposition. She was impervious to men, all men but Zayed Fehr apparently.
He turned the tip of his finger toward her so she could see the tear. “What is this then?”
“It’s a tear.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Her voice sharpened indignantly. “Because I’m sad, that’s why. I am a woman and I do have feelings. And maybe you think I’m a museum or a robot, but I’m not. I never have been.” She shook her head, undone. How could she function like this? How could she think like this? She could only be a cool, controlled, logical scientist if she were in a cool, controlled, logical environment, which this wasn’t. Ever since Zayed had appeared at her hotel in Vancouver she felt pushed and pressed, torn and stressed. It was madness, and it was reckless, and she had never felt so stupid.
“I’ve never said anything to imply that you’re a robot.”
“No, you just think I’m like a museum of science, dull, dull, dull!”
Her words were greeted by silence. Zayed’s eyes narrowed and after a moment he spoke. “You knew?”
She flushed, already regretting her outburst. “Sharif didn’t mean for me to find out. I wish I hadn’t found out.”
“That’s why you hate me so much.”
“You probably thought you were being funny, but it hurt—”
He cut off the rest by reaching for her and covering her mouth with his. Rou stiffened, shocked, and her hands moved to his chest to push him away. And yet his chest felt warm and the broad planes were hard beneath her hands. She could feel the thud of his heartbeat and smell the spice of his skin. The press of her palms turned to something else and she found herself clasping his robe instead.
Zayed’s lips had been gentle until that moment, but as if sensing surrender, his kiss hardened, deepened, moving over hers with a fierceness that left her breathless.
Rou had been kissed, but never like this, never with so much heat or hunger or blatant aggression and her head spun and her senses swam.
The pressure of his mouth parted hers and his tongue flicked slowly at her tingling lower lip before curling inside her warm, soft mouth, tasting, possessing, sending shock waves of hot, sharp, dizzying sensation throughout her body.
This had to stop, she thought woozily, she had to stop it, but her body refused to act. It was feeling too many strange and wonderful things, from her heavy useless limbs to the weakness of her muscles. Even her heart seemed to have slowed, thudding with a maddening tempo, a tempo echoed by the shivers licking her spine and the curling, coiling sensation in her belly.
The curling, coiling sensation in her belly was the most maddening. It made her ache deeply, inwardly, made her realize how empty she’d been, how empty she felt.
It