Читать книгу The Desert Kings - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 11

THEY’D agreed they’d meet in the morning, at nine in his hotel lobby.

They were to start afresh.

At least that’s what she’d told Zayed. But Rou spent a sleepless night in her hotel bed, tossing and turning with the weight of her thoughts and the enormity of her dread.

She adored Sharif. She feared Zayed.

She’d promised to help Zayed but only because of Sharif.

If she hadn’t been the recipient of the Fehr scholarship at Cambridge. If she hadn’t been mentored by Sharif for six of her eight years at university. If she hadn’t admired Sharif so terribly, maybe she could walk away from Zayed now, but she had been a Fehr scholar, and Sharif had been her mentor, and she did think of him as the older brother she never had.

Sharif was missing. And Sarq was in turmoil.

Of course she’d help Zayed. How could she not? But she’d limit the time she spent with him and would monitor his proximity. There was no reason she couldn’t work with him over the phone, or via e-mail and fax. She’d just sit down with him in the morning, get the paperwork started and then complete the rest from a safe and sane distance.

The key thing was getting Sharif found, and Zayed back to Sarq where he could assume leadership until his brother returned.

Because Sharif would be found. Sharif would return—alive. It had to be. There was no other possibility. Not for his wife, Jesslyn, or his four children, or his country. Sharif was too well loved.

Zayed, on the other hand, was not as well loved. Rou knew from the little Sharif had said that Zayed, the middle brother, was the family black sheep, and had been for much of Sharif’s life, a thorn in his side.

Just as he was fast becoming a thorn in hers.

The next morning, Zayed’s bodyguards preceded him out of the hotel elevator and then took up positions as Zayed crossed the expansive marble lobby floor in search of Rou.

After a moment he spotted her, seated at a low table across the lobby, dressed in a sober gray skirt and jacket.

This morning her hair was drawn tightly back from her face in a severe knot at her nape, her thin body angled away from the table as she hunched over her computer leaving just her legs exposed. And they were, he noted with some surprise, endless legs. Long, shapely legs. Truly remarkable legs.

Zayed slowed his pace, frankly admiring the long legs that curved to the side of the gold chair, low kitten heels, her skirt a demure hem length, her sheer stockings revealing pale skin beneath.

Then, as if on cue, she with the long legs and severe blond chignon turned her head and looked directly at him.

He exhaled.

And she was back to being plain, uptight Dr. Tornell. In all fairness, Rou Tornell wasn’t greyhound ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful. She couldn’t even be called pretty. This morning she wore glasses, dark tortoiseshell glasses that looked stark against her pale skin, perching too large on her small, straight nose. Her mouth was thin. Her chin strong.

Zayed, so rarely amused by anything, nearly smiled now. Little Miss Muffet. That’s what she was. And he was the spider.

The only thing he didn’t know as he sat down across from her was how such a prim and proper Miss Muffet ended up with legs of sin?

Rou noticed Zayed’s peculiar expression as he took a seat in the upholstered chair across from hers. “Everything all right?” she asked.

“I haven’t heard anything new,” he answered, “if that’s what you mean.”

She nodded once. It was what she’d meant and Zayed, satisfied, opened his briefcase and pulled out folders, notebooks, handouts.

He slid one of the stapled handouts toward her. “I’ve already filled out your client profile, including family background and medical history.”

She glanced at the packet in front of her. They were her own confidential client forms. “These are my forms,” she said, clearly surprised.

“I told you, I did my research.”

“But where did you get these?”

Zayed shook his head, reading her like a book. “It wasn’t your assistant. I just did some legwork.”

Rou’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t cover for Jamie—”

“It was Pippa, if you must know. I phoned her and she was happy to send me copies of her paperwork. My secretary made me clean copies.” But Zayed was already moving on. “This is the Myers-Briggs personality test you use. I’ve completed it, as well, although I could have told you what I am—I’ve been tested before—but I was certain you’d want the proof in front of you.”

“You’ve left me very little to do,” she protested, although her tone indicated she was only half joking.

“Not at all. Now comes the important part. You find her for me. That is what all these forms lead to, isn’t it? Mate selection?”

Mate selection, Rou echoed silently.

Those were her words, from her own material, but it sounded so dry, so businesslike coming from him. She looked up at him, and as her gaze met his, her heart did a crazy lurch, a disturbing feeling that made her feel off-kilter.

Rou didn’t appreciate the way her pulse had begun to race.

It hadn’t raced this way in years, either. It’d been so long since she’d felt this desperate giddiness, this awful breathlessness. It’d been, well, since Lady Pippa’s wedding, when she’d allowed herself to be charmed by Zayed.

Only Zayed hadn’t been charmed. He’d found her dull and ridiculous, and he’d said so to Sharif.

You can’t let him do this to you again, she admonished herself severely. You’re not attracted to him, and it’s not emotion making you feel this way, either. It’s down to hormones and chemicals, silly involuntary chemicals like dopamine and adrenaline. You don’t even like him. You resent him. You despise him. And you only respond this way because he makes you nervous, he makes you afraid.

And it was true. Every time she was around him, her heart raced, and her stomach got this sick, nauseous feel. As if she were on a rocking boat. Or a plane dancing in a turbulent wake.

Or trapped in the backseat of a car with her parents screaming.

Zayed’s hand was suddenly at her elbow. “Are you going to faint?” he asked.

“No.” She pulled forcefully from his grasp. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re looking very pale.”

“I was born pale,” she answered fiercely, seeing from his expression that he didn’t appear convinced. “Now, can we focus on the business at hand? You need a wife, if I recall, and you’ve asked me to help find her for you.”

They turned their attention to the paperwork then, and his profile. For the next hour she asked questions and he answered. They were just starting their second hour of work when his phone rang. He’d ignored earlier calls but seeing the number he answered this one.

He said just a few words and then nothing else. Instead he listened. And Rou sat, notepad on her lap, and watched his face.

The color left his face. His expression changed, the life in his eyes fading. By the time he hung up, he looked dead.

“They’ve found the plane,” he said, slowly sliding the phone into his coat pocket. “Or they think it’s the plane. The fire made identifying the machine impossible but they have recovered the black box. We should know more soon.”

She held his gaze, unable to speak.

“I have to return to Sarq. I’m needed. You’ll go with me. We can finish this en route.”

She nodded when she should have protested. She was supposed to be limiting her contact with him, putting space between them instead of close proximity, but after news like this, there was no way she’d deny her help now.

Ninety minutes after the call they were airborne in Zayed’s personal jet.

It crossed Rou’s mind as the jet cut through the sky in a steep ascent that flying was not safe. Being alone with Zayed Fehr wasn’t safe. And accompanying him to his desert kingdom definitely could be the most dangerous thing of all.

But then life wasn’t safe.

And just like that, Sharif’s voice was in her head. Your thoughts become your future.

Yes. He was right, of course. Right as always. He’d been the first one to make her understand that emotions weren’t always right, or accurate. He’d explained to her that the most recent psychology findings revealed a clear connection between thoughts and feelings. Between thoughts and emotions.

If you thought happy thoughts, you felt happier.

If you thought the world was good, you’d see the world as good.

It was such a revelation for a girl who’d known too many years of unhappiness.

Her life, her happiness, didn’t hinge on others. She could choose to be happy even if the world was in the midst of misery.

She looked away from the window and discovered Zayed watching her, his amazing features still perfect and yet his eyes were dark. Tortured.

“Have you really never been in love?” she blurted, surprising herself with the question.

He took a long time to answer, which was unlike him as he always had a ready response. “No,” he finally said, “but I’m not without feeling. I have deep ties to my family, particularly my older brother.”

She could see his bio sheet in her mind, and the facts describing his family. Father—deceased. Mother—still living. Older brother—40, married, father of four. Younger brother—33, married, wife expecting. Younger sisters—deceased.

Much of his family was a mystery, but she did know about his sisters. It was why Sharif founded the scholarship at Cambridge. He’d started the scholarship in their memory. “Your sisters,” she said to Zayed now, “were you close to them?”

“Very.”

She waited for him to say more but he didn’t. “They died together, didn’t they?” she asked, hoping he’d elaborate.

“Car accident in Greece. They were young, early twenties.” His voice betrayed no emotion, but she saw the small muscle tighten in his jaw and his right hand curled into a fist, fingers clenching air.

“Their deaths were hard for the family?” she persisted.

He shot her a hard look. “How is this relevant?”

“It’s part of you, part of your family….”

“I’m not looking for a love match, Dr. Tornell. I’m looking for a wife. She doesn’t have to understand my every dark secret. She’ll never be my soul mate.”

Rou’s gaze lifted from his fist to his face. His handsome features were utterly expressionless and yet those tightly bunched fingers gave him away. “You don’t want a soul mate?”

“No. I just want a practical relationship. One that works.”

She looked at him levelly. “Not many women will find your idea of marriage palatable.”

“I’m sure there are practical women out there.”

She arched her eyebrows but said nothing more as she scribbled in the margins of his notes that yes, his sisters’ deaths had profoundly impacted him. He feared love because he feared loss.

“Did you ever want to be king?” she asked, wondering what it’d be like to lose three of your four siblings. She’d been an only child, couldn’t imagine having a brother or sister to love, although she’d wanted one desperately. It was what she’d asked Santa Claus to bring her for years until her mother finally told her that Santa wasn’t real. He was just a fat old man in a red cloth suit.

“No. It wasn’t part of my ambition or my life plan.” He hesitated. “But things change, and the situation is what it is now, and I cannot let my brother down. I must be there for him so that when he returns …” He didn’t finish the thought.

“Do you think he will be found alive?”

“Yes.”

Rou felt a wave of sympathy for him. He had to be aware that after ten days Sharif might not be found, or if he was, he might not be alive. “What if he’s not?”

“Sharif isn’t dead.”

She nodded once, realizing that she and Zayed had at least this in common: both refused to believe that Sharif was dead. They wouldn’t, not without firm proof, not without a body.

She shivered inwardly at the thought, and quickly changed the direction of her thoughts. “Would you like to work? Or do you need some time?”

“No, let’s work. I need to work.”

She nodded again and reached for her briefcase, which she’d slid beneath her leather seat. Work had always been her salvation. Work would help both of them now.

The flight attendant arrived and unhooked the table attached to the wall, setting it up between Zayed and Rou’s club chairs, and offered to serve them lunch.

Zayed looked at her. “We have a fully stocked kitchen with a chef on board.”

“Just tea,” she answered. “I don’t think I could eat a bite right now.”

“I feel the same way,” he answered. “One tea, one coffee,” he instructed the flight attendant and she disappeared to prepare their beverages.

Rou had found the paperwork she wanted, and with pen in hand she looked at Zayed. He was tall and powerfully built and blessed with almost godlike beauty, and yet there was pain in his eyes, in the press of his beautiful, sensual mouth, and she drew a deep breath.

She was not immune to him. But then, she’d never been immune to him, which was incredibly foolish as he was handsome and wealthy and oozed sensuality, while she was at best a smart little church mouse.

Rou knew her strengths and her weaknesses, and while she was brainy, she was far from beautiful. Perhaps if she’d been blessed with more curves she might have felt more sexually confident, but she’d inherited her mother’s extreme slimness, which meant she was rather narrow hipped and disappointingly small on top.

No, men like Zayed Fehr never noticed women like her. They wanted sirens—voluptuous beauties with thick glossy hair, full lips and come-hither eyes.

Rou wouldn’t know a come-hither expression if it smacked her in the face.

But on the positive side, it was good that Zayed was oblivious to her as a woman. She couldn’t have handled his attention otherwise. As it was, he wreaked havoc on her emotions and her control, making her jumpy and nervous. Making her heart skitter and race and her hands shake.

They were shaking now and she tried to hide her anxiety by shuffling the paperwork until she found the page she needed. “We’re to the part where I ask you to describe your ideal woman,” she said coolly, gratified by the firm tone of her voice. “Can you give me five adjectives that would describe her?”

He thought for a moment. “Intelligent. Accomplished. Successful.” He thought another moment. “Confident, loyal. And preferably beautiful.” He hesitated. “But that’s six, isn’t it?”

“It’s okay. Six is good, too.” Of course he’d ask for beauty. All men did. And Zayed Fehr was famous for squiring the world’s most beautiful women about town. “So a model, maybe?”

“No. Definitely not a model. Or an actress. Nothing like that.”

Rou lifted her head in surprise. “Really?”

He didn’t seem to register her surprise as he added to his description of his ideal woman. “Most important is intelligence. I admire women who are accomplished. And successful. But she must be kind. A woman that’s compassionate. Maybe a teacher or a nurse.”

Rou checked her frown. A teacher or a nurse? “Like Sharif’s wife? Jesslyn was a teacher, too.”

He nodded. “Khalid’s wife is very kind, too. They’re always thinking of others. I like that, respect that.”

“Right.” She scribbled a few more words onto the form, although she couldn’t help thinking that he was steering her in a very different direction than she might have gone on her own. But this was why they went through the process. “What about sense of humor? Sense of adventure? Introvert? Extrovert? Do you see yourself doing a lot of entertaining? Should she be comfortable as a hostess? Will she need to have public speaking skills? Are you expecting her to be a leader in fashion, or be artistic?”

“It depends on the woman. Oh, and she needs to be strong.”

“Strong?”

“Mentally … emotionally. I don’t want a subservient woman. She must be able to hold her own with me, as well as my family. It can be an intimidating family and although Sarq is more modern than many of our neighbors, it is still a Middle Eastern kingdom and quite different from our Western friends and allies.”

Rou’s pen hovered in midair. He was describing a woman she would never have picked for him. She would have thought he’d want a gorgeous bimbo, or a sultry beauty who’d make him look good in public. But beauty was sixth on his wish list. Intelligence was number one. Interesting, but puzzling, which made her realize she knew far less about Zayed than she’d thought.

The flight attendant returned with a tray holding their cups and her pot of tea, along with a plate of light biscuits and fruit and cheese.

Rou found herself reaching for a dark red grape and then a small wedge of cheese and realized she hadn’t eaten since last night. She’d been so nervous this morning she’d only drunk coffee. A little food was good. A little food now would go a long way.

She glanced up and saw Zayed studying her again, his brow furrowed. She reached for the linen serviette and brushed at her mouth. “What’s wrong? Do I have something on my face?”

“No. It’s good to see you eat. You’re so very thin—”

“My mother was thin,” she interrupted, “Unfortunately I inherited her fast metabolism instead of her stunning cheekbones.” Rou smiled at her own joke but Zayed didn’t smile back.

“I suspect you don’t eat enough.”

“Sharif used to say the same thing. But I have this terribly sensitive stomach. When I’m nervous, or anxious, I can’t eat anything. My throat just closes up and tea is about all I can manage.”

His golden gaze had darkened at the mention of Sharif’s name. “You knew my brother well?”

Rou glanced down at her lap where she spread the linen cloth flat. “I think you know I earned the Fehr scholarship at Cambridge. It’s what helped me pay for all my graduate studies.”

“And that’s why you’re so devoted to Sharif?”

She felt herself blush. “No. But Sharif became a friend as well as a mentor during my years at Cambridge. It wasn’t until after I’d earned my advance degrees that I realized he helped me because of his sisters.”

“How did he help?” Zayed persisted.

“He offered advice and wisdom. He listened to my goals. He made introductions when he could.” She looked at Zayed, saw the skepticism in his expression and shrugged. “I know it sounds strange. Your brother is a powerful man, a very wealthy man, but he’s also a compassionate man, and I think in his own way, he needed me as much as I needed him.”

“Sharif needs no one. He’s the rock of the family. Invincible.”

Rou wrinkled her brow. “You think so?”

“From birth he’s been groomed to lead. From the start he’s known what is expected of him and he’s done it, without complaint.”

“But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t felt loss, or pain. Or worry, or doubt.”

“You’re not describing my brother—”

“And you just don’t want to see your brother as a man, and vulnerable.”

“Sharif isn’t vulnerable. He’s never been vulnerable, and he’s going to be found. He’ll be back in Sarq, running the country again in no time.”

Rou studied him curiously. “If you really believe that, then why go to all the trouble of finding a proper wife and getting married? Why not just wait for his return?”

“I can’t.” His tone was curt, his frustration evident. “Sarq law requires a present king, therefore I must assume the throne, but I can’t without a bride.”

She was silent a moment, digesting this, as well as wondering how to best word what she wanted to say next. “Sheikh Fehr, I have to be honest. If you want a woman to marry you so you can assume the throne, then that’s one thing. But if you want a woman who is your life partner, that’s entirely different.”

“The woman needs to be one and the same. I need a bride, and I want a successful marriage. Surely you have someone in your system who would be open to a short courtship? Someone not opposed to, say, an arranged marriage? Someone who would benefit from my position, and wealth? Someone who could contribute to our lives here …?”

She knew the answer. It was no. None of the women she’d met and represented would want to be whisked here, married within days, and then left here for the next twenty-some years. For most modern women it’d be a horrific prospect. “Forgive me, but Sarq is in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yes.”

“You’re isolated.”

“And …?”

“Do you intend to remain here permanently, then? Or will you live part-time in Monte Carlo? I know you have a home there.”

“As king I have to live where my people live.”

“And your new bride?”

He gave her a look that indicated she might have lost her mind. “She’d live with me, of course.”

She ran a hand over her eyes, already exhausted. This was impossible. He had to realize that, didn’t he? Wonderful, successful, intelligent, confident, strong women didn’t just run to the Middle East and marry a sheikh and stay there, buried in the desert. It was one thing if a woman was desperate, or had no choice, but the woman he described as his ideal wife would have a choice, and she wouldn’t find his life as a desert king appealing. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re describing an arranged marriage, and if you want an arranged marriage, you’re better off with a woman from your own culture—”

“No.”

“—who could embrace the concept of arranged marriage,” she continued as though he’d never spoken. “Western women won’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know the answer to this. You’ve only dated Western women for years. Women in the West don’t want to get married because they have to, or because he has to. They want to marry because they’re desired and loved and cherished.”

His strong, black brows flattened, emphasizing the lines of his high, hard cheekbones and straight nose. “But I would respect and cherish my wife.”

She noted he said respect and cherish, not love and cherish but she didn’t comment on that. “It takes time for a woman to know that, as well as examples. Proof. That’s why men court women. They’re showing women how they’d be treated … what they can expect. It’s a wooing, and you’re not leaving time for that.”

“I’ll do it after the ceremony. Just let her know it will happen.”

“After the ceremony?” She gave him her sternest look. “And now one last question. It’s sensitive since I know we’re coming from two different cultures, but I need to know about the political and social rights of women. Are women considered equals in Sarq? Are there laws to protect them? What rights do women have?”

“Women do not have all the rights of men—yet. But that is something Sharif has been working to change, and I will make this a priority, as well.”

“So what if a woman—your woman—breaks the law? What would happen to her?”

“I’d protect her.”

“But could you?” Rou leaned forward, urgency in her voice. “Could you truly?”

“Do you doubt my word?”

“No, I don’t doubt your word. I just want what’s best for your future wife—”

“And you think I don’t?” he interrupted almost violently, his features dark, his expression fierce.

She stared up at him in stunned silence. She’d never seen him like this, never heard this anger in his voice before, either. “No,” she stuttered.

“Good. Consider the subject closed.” He rose from the table and walked away, disappearing into a cabin at the back of the plane.

The back cabin of the jet had been designed as a small, snug and yet exceptionally comfortable bedroom. Zayed sat heavily on the edge of the low bed and covered his face with his hands.

He rarely lost his temper. He hated that he’d lost it now. But her questions … those questions …

She didn’t understand. She’d never understand. No one had ever understood.

He wasn’t like the rest of his family. He was different. Cursed. And yet once, he and his brothers had all been the same, all raised the same. Arab princes, beloved sons of the desert, children of fortune.

And although Zayed was the middle of the three princes, and the second-eldest of five, he’d been his father’s favorite and he knew it. He’d never wondered why he was the favorite, either, he’d just accepted it, just as he accepted his good fortune. Just as he’d accepted that he was destined for greatness, and great things. In the beginning it was so clear that fate had favored him, so obvious he would live a blessed life.

But he’d been wrong.

It wasn’t a blessed life. It was cursed. He was cursed.

And so he took himself away from the desert and his family, away from the people who might be hurt by his curse and turned to the pleasures of the world, only there was no pleasure when one was cursed.

Would he protect his wife?

He would try with all his heart and soul and might. But would it be enough?

If he didn’t love her, and she didn’t love him, would the marriage somehow escape the curse?

He didn’t know, but he could only hope.