The Desert Kings: Duty, Desire and the Desert King / The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride / The Desert King. Jane Porter
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.”