Читать книгу The Desert Kings - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 12

ROU watched the closed door of the plane cabin with her heart in her mouth. She didn’t exactly know what she said that had upset Zayed—something about protecting his wife—but clearly she’d offended him. She wanted to apologize, or at least try to set things right. They had so much to do. Tension wouldn’t help.

The flight attendant appeared after fifteen minutes to refresh her tea, and then another fifteen minutes later she returned to remove the dishes and take down the table.

“We’ll be landing in about fifty minutes,” she said, smiling at Rou. “Is there anything else I could get you?”

Rou shook her head and thanked her.

Just when Rou thought Zayed would never return, and the pilot had announced they would soon begin their final descent, Zayed arrived, and took his seat across from her, his expression blank, revealing nothing.

“I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly.

“You did nothing wrong,” he answered emotionlessly.

She didn’t feel any better, though, and her eyebrows tugged together. “I tend to be very blunt.”

“I prefer honesty.”

“And I ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s your job.”

Right. Rou exhaled slowly, heavily, definitely not feeling any better.

Zayed gazed fixedly outside the window and Rou, biting the inside of her lip, did the same, and they didn’t speak again until they were on the ground.

Their jet ended up landing at the Sarq air force airport, and it was only once the plane’s wheels touched down that Zayed explained this wasn’t where the Fehr family usually landed, as they had their own royal airport. But with Sharif’s accident, Zayed’s plane had been given a military escort to ensure his safe arrival. The country couldn’t lose two kings, not in a fortnight.

Heavy security awaited them as they deplaned. Armed soldiers, as well as undercover security in dark suits, lined the tarmac.

Rou sucked in a breath as she stepped from the plane into the late-afternoon sun. Heat rose from the black tarmac in scorching waves. It might be late October but the temperature hovered in the nineties and her gray wool suit felt suffocating now.

“It’s hot,” she murmured when Zayed turned to look at her where she still stood on the stairs.

“It’s actually cooler than it was just weeks ago.” He reached out a hand to her.

Rou glanced at his hand and then up into his face. He was still distant, still reserved. She told herself she should be pleased by the distance—she couldn’t encourage intimacy of any sort—but she worried about him now, and she didn’t want to do that, either.

Reluctantly she put her hand in his, and nearly jumped at the hot, tingly sensation of his skin against hers. It took all her concentration to make it down the steep stairs without falling.

Distance was good, she told herself, gripping her briefcase in the other hand. Distance was necessary.

On the tarmac Zayed gestured to her briefcase. “Leave that. Someone will bring it.”

“But it’s my computer and files. I need it.”

“Security must check all bags and luggage before anything is permitted to enter the palace grounds.”

“Oh. Okay.” She handed him the briefcase. “But I will get it back as soon as possible?”

“As soon as possible,” he promised before handing the briefcase to one of the security detail waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

The drive to the palace in the armored car with the bulletproof glass was quiet, but it wasn’t a comfortable silence. They were sitting side by side on the soft leather seat and the seat had too much give and Rou felt as though she was sitting far too close to Zayed, but there was really nowhere else to go. He was big, and his shoulders broad, and his legs—long and muscular—crowded her own.

She could feel him even though he wasn’t touching her, and the more aware of him she was, the warmer she became, and the warmer she became, the faster her heart beat.

Why did she have to do this around him? Why couldn’t she treat him like any other man? Why did she care that she felt so dowdy and gawky and dull?

Because a little part of you likes him, a small voice answered inside her.

A little part of you wants him to like you back.

Ridiculous! she silently flashed, cutting off the little voice. He’s shallow and unkind, selfish and untrustworthy. Why would I like him?

But when Zayed’s head suddenly turned and he fixed his gold gaze on her, her stomach flipped and her chest grew tight and she drew a quick, panicked breath, terribly dizzy.

This was such a bad idea coming here with him….

“This is Isi,” he said, nodding to the buildings and landscape beyond the window, “Sarq’s capital city.”

Grateful for the distraction, she turned her head to have a better look at the city that gleamed beneath the hard glaze of sunlight. So many of the buildings appeared new, and fountains and palm trees lined the wide, elegant boulevards. Whereas there were robed women on the streets, there were also a surprising number in fashionable Western dress.

Their caravan of armored Mercedes limousines turned down a long drive bordered by towering stuccoed walls covered in lush purple-and-pink bougainvillea, while soaring palm trees dotted the drive with puddles of sunshine and shadows.

The cars stopped as massive wood-and-iron gates, gates that had to be easily ten feet tall or more, swung slowly open and then they were passing through the gates and around more walls until Rou got a glimpse of a sprawling pink building marked by fanciful domes and arches.

“The palace,” Zayed said gruffly.

She glanced at him, saw the mixture of pride and pain in his face and turned back to the view of the elaborate compound.

The entrance, marked by exquisite carved columns and a gold-painted dome, was suddenly filled with white-robed staff. They lined the entrance, bowing, welcoming Zayed home.

A prince’s welcome.

Security opened the car door and stepped back so that Zayed could exit. She’d expected him to move on toward his staff, but once again he turned to her first, helping her from the car and waiting for her to adjust her suit skirt and jacket before they moved forward.

Once she was ready, they walked inside, between the silent, bowing staff, and through the carved columns into the cool, serene interior.

Whereas the exterior of the palace was pale pink like a delicate flower, the interior walls were painted white and the ceiling a mosaic of gold and blue. Columned hallways led in every direction and priceless sculpture filled the airy halls. It was spectacular, and Rou, who had visited her share of palaces, had never seen anything so wonderful, or so exotic. This was like something from Arabian Nights, or a Hollywood film set.

“It’s amazing,” she breathed, as Zayed turned to her after greeting key staff. “This is where you grew up?”

His lips curved ruefully, the first smile since the phone call earlier that morning in Vienna, and something in his smile made her heart turn over. His smile hinted at the boy he’d once been, a boy she suspected he rarely acknowledged. “This is home,” he admitted.

She felt another quick stab of feeling, a strange protective emotion she didn’t understand. “You are a prince, aren’t you?”

His smile slowly faded. “You wouldn’t know it from the way I behaved. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No! Not at all.” She put an impulsive hand on his sleeve, shocked that he so misread her, but when Zayed glanced down at her hand, she realized she’d committed a faux pas. Commoners probably weren’t allowed to touch the royal family.

Embarrassed and uncomfortable she pulled her hand away, clenched it into a fist and hid it behind her back. “I should get to work. Just show me to a desk and I’ll wait for my computer.”

Zayed turned to one of his staff, spoke in a language she didn’t understand and then turned back to her. “Arrangements have been made for you to use one of our family suites.”

He saw her expression and added, “Don’t worry. It’s no longer in use and it has good light, plenty of space where you can work and access to a small private garden should you need some fresh air.”

The servant in the white robe stepped forward. “If you will come with me, my lady,” he said formally, bowing to her.

The room Rou was given wasn’t merely a room, but an entire suite of rooms, one of those elegant compounds down a columned, arched corridor. Late, lingering sunlight poured through the arched glass doors, flooding the sunken living room with light, turning the silk pillows on the couch into glowing gems. A massive arrangement of fragrant coral-hued roses dominated the low table in the middle of the room and scented the room with spicy perfume.

A young robed woman appeared under one of the arches. “Welcome,” she said shyly with a bow. “I am Manar, and I am to make you comfortable. I will be here with you as long as you are here.”

“Thank you, Manar. That is very kind of you, but I don’t really need anything. Just my computer so I can start working.”

“It is here,” Manar answered with a gesture toward a small antique desk in the corner of the room. The desk had been angled to provide a view of the garden wall, and her briefcase sat on top of the desk.

“Wonderful.” She pushed up her suit’s wool sleeves and approached the desk. “I think I’m set then.”

Manar looked at her doubtfully as Rou took a seat at the desk. “You do not wish to bathe or change?”

Rou was already pulling out her computer and preparing to set it up. “Hmm?” she asked, realizing Manar was waiting for a response.

“You do not wish to change into something more comfortable for work?”

Rou shook her head briskly, determined to do what she needed to do so she could leave as soon as possible. “No. I’m fine. But thank you.” And then she was turning her computer on and all thoughts were on the work before her.

Alone in the living room, she adjusted the reading light on the desk, and stacked her notebooks next to her computer, and prepared to enter the information she’d learned this morning and during the flight. But her fingers wouldn’t obey. She balked at completing the online spreadsheets.

It just seemed wrong to do this.

It seemed wrong to be helping Zayed find a wife this way. Her gut said that Zayed needed a love marriage, not an arranged marriage. Her gut said he was a man with deeper feelings than he let on. But he wasn’t asking for her intuition, he wanted her skills to pair him with a suitable woman. At least, if there was sufficient time.

Just input the rest of the profile, she told herself. Do what he’s hired you to do.

But still she couldn’t type. Her fingers wouldn’t respond. Her mind wouldn’t respond.

When she closed her eyes in frustration all she saw was Zayed, and not just his beautiful profile but his tortured expression, and she could hear his anger and she knew there was something else bothering him, something else eating at him. Only what?

Yet her obsession with Zayed was beginning to annoy her. She was here to work. This was business, pure and simple. So why then was she so conflicted?

Why was she acting so out of character? Rou never let herself dwell on emotions. She didn’t cater to them or acknowledge them and certainly didn’t give in to them. Emotions were the enemy of the scientist. Thoughts, logic, reason—those were the basis for all scientific theory.

She just needed to focus on science now. Needed to clear her head and remember what was important, what mattered.

Theory. Study. Proof.

And yet, and yet … there were feelings inside her that wouldn’t be stifled. Feelings that were disturbingly intense, and distractingly real, and they ached in her now, and it was a physical ache, a heartache. And it was all because of him. Zayed Fehr.

Rou exhaled and, resting her elbows on the desk, she covered her face with her hands.

She still had feelings for him. That’s why she still responded to him. That’s why she wanted him to like her, admire her. Foolish, foolish Rou, she thought. So book smart and so people stupid.

She sat for a long moment, face hidden, heart thudding, stomach knotted with misery.

And then the survival instinct kicked in. She knew what she had to do. She had to get him matched and married and she had to get out of here. Soon. Because Zayed Fehr was dangerous. If she wasn’t careful, he’d take that too-warm, too-tender spot in her heart and rip it wide-open.

Lavender shadows dappled the courtyard outside her window by the time Rou finished 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 her, and Rou wandered around the room, studying the screen’s carvings of birds and flowers.

She’d nearly examined all the screens, and was just moving to the last when she turned her head and discovered Zayed in the doorway watching her.

She 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 was the arrival of the palace butler that ended the kiss. Rou hadn’t even heard the man arrive, but Zayed did, and he ended the kiss and untangled himself from Rou with impressive speed.

While the butler spoke quietly to Zayed, Rou swayed on the pillow, definitely not in control. She heard Zayed ask a question but she had no idea what he or the butler were saying. It wasn’t until the butler retreated that Zayed turned back to her. “I have to go,” he said bluntly.

Rou forced herself to focus on Zayed’s chin and then his mouth and then finally his eyes. “Okay.”

Zayed reached out, touched her cheek, before frowning and drawing his hand away. “My mother’s collapsed. She’s been taken to the hospital.”

Rou blinked, and little by little everything was slipping back into place, everything except her blood, which still raced hot and sweet in her veins. “Will she be all right?”

“I’m sure she will be. It’s just shock. She took the news badly about Sharif’s plane.”

“Of course she would.” Rou expected Zayed to leave, but he hadn’t moved yet.

Instead he sat where he was, his expression brooding as he studied her flushed face. He seemed to be choosing his next words with care. “That e-mail … those things I wrote … they were not meant for you.”

She knew that. But that didn’t make them any less hurtful. “I know.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She felt an ache inside her chest. She didn’t want his apology, not now. She just wished things were different. That she was different. That she was more beautiful, more vivacious, more appealing. “The e-mail wasn’t meant for me. I know.”

“But it must have hurt.”

Her lips parted but she couldn’t make a sound. The e-mail had hurt, terribly. She’d liked him, had imagined he’d liked her, had imagined ridiculous romantic things, but that was three years ago. A long time ago. It didn’t matter anymore. “It’s in the past. I’ve moved on.”

“I think we should talk about it, but now isn’t the time—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, and you need to go. Your mother needs you, and I have much to do.” Rou struggled to her feet, aware that she couldn’t do anything gracefully if she tried. “I’ll go back to my room and contact the three women I’ve selected, and will work on arranging for them to meet you.”

He, too, rose but his movements were fluid, elegant, powerful. “I’ll come see you when I return from the hospital.”

“Not necessary. You’ve much to do, and I have my work. I’m not here on vacation, I do have a job to do.”

He didn’t look happy. “I’ll have dinner sent to your suite.”

“I’m the last one you need to worry about. Just go.”

He gave her a long look and then walked out, white robes flowing, broad shoulders very straight. Rou watched him a moment and then, trying not to think of the kiss, or the strange tenderness of her lips, or of the way her blood still felt thick and hot in her veins, gathered her notebooks and profiles and headed back to her room.