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Duty, Desire and the Desert King
Jane Porter
Playboy sheikh, unwilling wife… As the black sheep of the Fehrs, a powerful desert family, middle son Zayed has sworn off love and marriage. This playboy prince is happiest when cruising the casinos of Monte Carlo. But then family tragedy leaves him as heir to his kingdom’s throne. Custom dictates that a wife must be seated beside him, and he’s got just the bride in mind…Rou Tournell is a feisty, independent woman – and if she won’t marry Zayed for duty, maybe desire will help persuade her…


“Running away, again, Dr. Tornell?
“And yet aren’t you the expert at teaching women to stand their ground and face their fears, look reality in the eye?”
“Yes. But I’m also the expert who says women should trust their gut, and my gut says you are dangerous—”
He laughed, and his laughter silenced her.
She lifted her chin. “I’m deadly serious, Sheikh Fehr.”
He smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Then act like a scientist, because that’s what I want. I’m most certainly not interested in the woman in you.”
“That’s good, because the woman in me despises the man in you.”
Jane Porter grew up on a diet of Mills&Boon
romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight, and spent many of her high school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her gorgeous two sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com
‘If you are a sheikh romance fan.Jane Porterpens a wonderful ‘romance’ overflowing withall the elements that sheikh romance fans adore…wealthand luxury and exotic locations.’—The Romance Readers Connection

DUTY, DESIRE AND THE DESERT KING
BY

JANE PORTER



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
Dear Reader
I’m a fan of sheikh stories—I love the fantasy, the exoticism and the gorgeous impossible heroes in their faraway desert kingdoms and in DUTY, DESIRE AND THE DESERT KING I was able to revisit one of my favourite desert kingdoms: the country Sarq, home to the royal Fehr family.
We’re first introduced to Sarq and the powerful Fehr brothers in THE SHEIKH’S CHOSEN QUEEN, which is Sharif and Jesslyn’s story. King Sharif Fehr is the eldest brother, a true leader and ruler of their desert country—a country bordered by sand and sea.
We continue the Fehr family story in KING OF THE DESERT, CAPTIVE BRIDE, when Sheikh Khalid Fehr, the youngest Fehr brother, rescues a young American girl from the hands of his enemies, forcing a marriage of convenience.
And now we finally conclude the Fehr saga with Zayed Fehr, the middle brother and the family black sheep. Thirty-five and fiercely single, Zayed has embraced life in Monte Carlo with all its decadent pleasures. Gorgeous and wealthy, Zayed has little to do with his family or his kingdom—until a family tragedy brings him home.
I have loved writing the Desert Kings trilogy, and getting to know these wonderful, seductive Fehr brothers. They are all powerful and extraordinary sheikhs, and hold a special place in my heart. I hope you’ll enjoy the final story in the trilogy as Zayed Fehr comes home.
Best
Jane Porter
For Ty and our new baby boy, Mac Bran Gurney. It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas!

PROLOGUE
Monte Carlo
SHEIKH ZAYED FEHR, the middle brother of the three powerful Fehrs, read the letter yet again. It had been typed on the heavy ivory parchment of the royal Fehr family but the correspondence came from Khalid, the youngest brother, instead of eldest brother, Sharif, the king.
The letter was short and uncomplicated. Khalid’s words were simple enough.
Zayed’s hand shook.
He blinked. He, Zayed Fehr, the heartless Fehr, could barely breathe. Pain hot and hard and sharp exploded in his chest once, twice and again. He exhaled against the shock of it.
Khalid had to be wrong. Khalid was mistaken. Surely if this were true Zayed would have heard something on the news, heard something before this formal letter.
It just couldn’t be.
Couldn’t.
And Zayed, the heartless, knew for the first time in fifteen years he wasn’t heartless because his was breaking now.
Sharif, his beloved big brother, was missing. His plane had crashed somewhere in the Sahara Desert and he was presumed dead.
Effective immediately, Zayed needed to marry and come home.
Because Sharif’s son was three and not of age to rule, Zayed would be king.

CHAPTER ONE
Vancouver, Canada
“SHEIKH ZAYED FEHR is here? In Vancouver?” Dr. Rou Tornell repeated, her hand shaking ever so slightly as she removed her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose.
She told herself it was fatigue making her hand tremble; exhaustion was only to be expected after a seven-week book tour.
She told herself it had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with Sheikh Zayed Fehr, the younger brother of King Sharif Fehr, and the only man who’d ever hurt or humiliated her the way he had.
Jamie, Rou’s assistant, moved forward toward the desk where Rou was working on her laptop, concern creasing her brow. “Yes. He’s…here.”
“What do you mean, here?” Rou demanded, her normally cool voice now wobbling with shock.
“I mean, here. In this hotel.”
“What?” Rou shoved the glasses back on her nose and stared at Jamie in consternation. She normally wore contact lenses for appearances but in the privacy of her hotel suite she preferred the comfort of glasses. “Why?”
“You told him you didn’t have time to see him in Portland. Or Seattle. So he’s flown to Vancouver and he’s here now.” Jamie smiled nervously, hands fidgeting. “And I don’t think he’s going to go away until you see him. Apparently it’s urgent. Life or death, or something of that nature.”
Life or death. Just the sort of thing her father would say. Zayed was cut from the same cloth. Gorgeous, wealthy, famous, shallow and self-absorbed. It was always about them, what they wanted, what they needed. She despised playboys and movie stars, loathed self-indulgence, and loathed Zayed Fehr most of all.
Zayed might be Sharif’s brother, but he was truly the black sheep of the family. A desert prince without a care, or sense of responsibility, or propriety, for that matter. Rou gestured unhappily. “I don’t have time to see him—”
“You do now, actually—”
“But I don’t want to see him.”
“Have you ever seen him?” twenty-three-year-old Jamie asked breathlessly.
“We’re acquainted,” Rou answered flatly, unwilling to admit to more than that. Jamie certainly didn’t need to know the details of their painful, embarrassing encounter three years earlier. Suffice it to say that Zayed Fehr would never be a man she respected, or trusted.
“He is really good-looking,” Jamie added, eyes bright and cheeks pink.
“He is,” Rou answered with an exasperated sigh. “He might even be physical perfection. He also has an ungodly amount of money, a shocking amount of power, but that doesn’t make him a good person.”
Jamie’s shoulders lifted and fell. “He seems nice enough. Actually, he seems very nice—”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Well, yes. He’s here. In the outer room.”
“In my hotel suite?”
Jamie’s blush deepened. “I told him he could wait there. I thought perhaps you had five minutes now. The media escort won’t be here for another half hour and they’re doing your makeup at the TV station.” She saw Rou’s expression and hurriedly added, “He really is desperate to see you.”
Rou shuffled the papers before her, trying to cover her panic. Zayed here, now? Zayed outside her door, waiting in her suite?
“Did I do something wrong?” Jamie asked nervously.
Yes, she wanted to shout. “No,” she answered instead, swallowing hard even as she became aware that her hands were damp and her heart racing.
She was also aware that Jamie was suddenly close to tears, and the last thing she wanted—needed—was Jamie crying. Jamie tried so hard, and was a lovely girl and usually an efficient assistant. Rou couldn’t blame her for falling under Zayed’s spell. Zayed wasn’t just gorgeous and rich, he was also charming and charismatic and women fell at his feet. Even she—cool, logical scientist—had fallen at his feet.
“I thought you’d have five minutes,” Jamie stammered.
Rou pressed her hands to the desk edge to stop their trembling. Of course she did. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was, she didn’t want to spare Zayed Fehr five minutes. She didn’t want to see him. Not even for five seconds. “How long has he been waiting?” she asked as silence stretched.
Jamie’s pink cheeks grew rosier. “A half hour.”
Rou blanched inwardly, although years of experience as a therapist allowed her to remain expressionless. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I…” Jamie’s shoulders lifted and fell. “I…”
“Never mind. It’s all right.” Rou squared her slim shoulders and tucked long, fine blond hair behind one ear. “Send him in. I’ll see him. But five minutes. That’s all he gets.” Her voice firmed and her chin lifted. “Make sure he understands.”
Zayed stood in the suite’s outer room waiting to be admitted to see Rou Tornell, bestselling author, international speaker and professional matchmaker.
It was the professional matchmaker part that made his upper lip curl ever so slightly.
Who would have ever thought that Sharif’s timid little protégée would end up an international speaker, never mind an exclusive, professional matchmaker?
Who would have thought that introverted, academic Rou Tornell would understand sexual attraction, much less romantic attachment?
Zayed was usually too chivalrous to make comparisons among women, but with Rou Tornell it was impossible not to. She was the coldest, stiffest, stuffiest woman he’d ever met, and while Sharif said she was merely focused, Zayed’s experience made him suspect she was seriously repressed, maybe even clinically depressed.
If it weren’t for Sharif, he wouldn’t be here today.
But then who would have ever imagined that Sharif, just four years older than him, would disappear? Who would have thought the Fehr royal jet would crash?
Zayed’s eyes closed briefly as ungodly pain ripped through his chest. The pain felt even hotter and more vivid now than it had been when he’d first received the news five days ago. Since then he’d flown home to Sarq to see his youngest brother, Khalid, who was trying to keep things together until Zayed could return and take over.
Zayed had also spent time with Sharif’s queen, Jesslyn, and the children. Four children all stunned and grieving, missing their adored father.
It was worse at the palace than he’d imagined. The grief, the fear, the heartbreak. No one knew what had happened. It was as if the plane had just fallen from the sky. No warning, no signal of distress, no radio call for help. The plane was just gone. Tomorrow it’d be a week since the disappearance.
On day fourteen, by law, Zayed would inherit the throne.
It was impossible. Zayed was not a ruler, or a leader. He did not belong in Sarq. The desert was no longer in his blood. He craved rain, not sun. Skyscrapers and penthouses were now home.
But Jesslyn’s face—her eyes so haunted—remained with him. As did Khalid’s silent, endless grief. And maybe it was this that pierced his heart.
I need you, Khalid had whispered as they hugged goodbye. We all need you. Come home.
Khalid had never asked Zayed for anything. None of them had ever asked Zayed for anything. Sharif was the one they had all turned to. Sharif was the eldest, the rock, the center of the family.
But now…now…Sharif was gone.
Just like that.
No wonder Jesslyn looked like a ghost. No wonder Khalid hadn’t slept in days. Their world was turned upside down. Nothing would ever be the same.
The door to the suite’s living room opened and Jamie, the young personal assistant, pretty and a little plump, stepped out and closed the door behind her.
“Dr. Tornell can meet with you now,” she said, round cheeks darkening with a rush of color. “But I’m afraid she’s on a tight schedule as she has several media appearances this afternoon before tonight’s book signing so it’ll be for just a few minutes.”
“Not a problem,” he answered easily, thinking it was already so very Rou Tornell. Busy, busy, busy. So very self-important. He checked his smile as he followed the assistant through the door into the living room.
He’d taken just a few steps into the room when he spotted Rou at a corner desk in the lovely sitting room, a laptop open before her. She was wearing glasses today, her long blond hair unceremoniously tucked behind her ears. Blond, thin, bookish and tense, Rou Tornell exuded the warmth of an ice cube. Her personality was about as interesting. But she was successful, and reputedly the best in her field, and that’s what he needed.
The assistant disappeared, discreetly closing the door behind her.
“Good afternoon, Sheikh Fehr,” Rou greeted him as the door shut. “I’m in a bit of a rush, but I understand from Jamie that you’re apparently desperate to see me.”
Her frosty tone didn’t escape him and his lips compressed. Forget ice cube, try iceberg, he thought cynically, realizing she hadn’t changed, and she never would. “I wouldn’t say desperate, Dr. Tornell. Determined is probably more accurate.”
She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands together, her gaze stony. “I can’t imagine how I might be of service to you,” she added coolly, hating how her pulse was already too quick.
She didn’t like him. She’d never like him. And the only reason she’d agreed to see him today was out of courtesy to Sharif.
“It’s been a while,” he said, approaching. “Two years?”
“Three.” Rou felt a jolt as Zayed neared. He was even more magnetic than she’d remembered; she’d forgotten how he owned a room, how he seemed to become the room. And then there was his height, and his build, and how his clothes had been tailored to lovingly drape him. Her father had owned a room the same way, but then her father had been one of the greatest film stars of his day.
But Zayed was no film star, nor pop star. He was a sheikh who acted more Western than the most Western man. A sheikh with billions of his own, never mind his family’s fortune, a man who did what he pleased, when he pleased, and how he pleased. Even if he hurt others in the process.
Her jaw tightened and she flexed her fingers ever so slightly.
It still vexed her that he had hurt her. She shouldn’t have let a man like him have that kind of power. But then, she hadn’t thought he did.
Yet there was a positive that came out of the painful and humiliating episode. It was the insight she gleaned into his character, insight which became her second bestselling book, He’s No Prince: Detecting the Bad Boys, Players&Con Artists So You Can Find True Love.
“That long?” he answered with an equally cool smile. “It seems like just yesterday when we first met.”
“Does it? Probably not to Pippa. She’s had two babies since.” Rou’s gaze met his and held, even as her stomach squeezed into knots. God, she hated him. Hated that he’d hurt her, hated that he’d mocked her, hated that he’d made her realize she would never trust men, and never find true love of her own.
“Two for Lady Pippa? She’s been busy, hasn’t she?”
And just like that, Rou flashed back to the weekend they’d first met at her client Lady Pippa Collins’s wedding in Winchester. Sharif was to have been there, but at the last moment he couldn’t attend, and apparently his younger brother the Prince Zayed Fehr of Sarq had taken his place.
Pippa had been the one to introduce them during the reception. “Sheikh Fehr,” Pippa had said, stopping Rou in front of the sheikh’s table, “I couldn’t let you leave without meeting my dear friend Rou Tornell.”
Zayed Fehr had risen to his feet, and it was the most regal, elegant rise Rou had ever seen.
Like Sharif, he was tall, very tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist and at full height he stood easily a full head and a half taller than Rou, and she wasn’t short. And while Sharif was handsome, Zayed was alarmingly, unnervingly good-looking. Dark gold eyes. Jet-black hair. Smooth jaw not quite square but distinctly male, and it balanced his strong nose and high cheekbones. They were, she thought rather dizzily, cheekbones that a model would kill for. He must photograph beautifully. But then, he was model beautiful in person. Part of her knew she could never really trust him, as beautiful men were the most savage and selfish of all, but another part of her wanted to like him because he was, after all, Sharif’s brother.
“It’s because of Rou that we are all here,” Pippa added, beaming and patting Rou’s arm. “My darling Rou introduced me to Henry a year ago.”
Sheikh Fehr’s eyes had narrowed, gleamed, creases fanning at the corners of those magnificent eyes. The first sign that he wasn’t a lad of twenty, but a man in his prime, probably somewhere around thirty-two or thirty-three.
“How fortuitous,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in the driest, most mocking voice Rou had ever heard. And she’d heard plenty. She was a psychologist after all.
Rou stiffened, but Pippa was oblivious, too giddy with happiness, and the bride smiled radiantly at the sheikh. “Rou—Dr. Tornell—has a true gift. I am—can you believe it?—her hundredth wedding. She’s introduced one hundred couples now, couples that all ended up in marriage.” Pippa turned to Rou. “I got it right, didn’t I?” And then ecstatic Pippa was off, as her new husband was gesturing for her to join him, which left Rou alone with the sheikh.
But then, to her surprise, Zayed had invited her to join him at his table, and somehow they’d spent the rest of the evening together. They’d talked for hours, and then danced, and then later they’d left the wedding reception and gone across the street to the little hotel bar and had a nightcap together.
She remembered everything about that night. The warmth of his body as they danced. The seductive red walls of the hotel bar. The balloon glass of orange liqueur that she’d cradled in her hands.
Zayed’s attention had been dazzling. He’d listened to her, laughed at her nervous jokes, talked about his work and a few of his recent investments, including a new resort on the coast in his country, Sarq.
Those hours together were delicious. It’d been ages since she’d been on a date, much less with a man like Zayed Fehr who made her feel beautiful and fascinating. She’d fallen for him, and she sensed he’d fallen for her, too. As he put her into a cab late that night, he’d brushed his lips across her cheek and she’d been sure, so sure, he’d call her for a real date, and soon.
But Zayed didn’t call. And she would have never known how he really felt about her if Sharif hadn’t accidentally sent her an e-mail that wasn’t meant for her. He’d meant to reply to Zayed. Instead he’d somehow sent it to her. Sharif caught his mistake before she did, phoning to apologize, phoning to beg her forgiveness, phoning to plead that she just delete the offending e-mail without reading it.
But Rou, ever curious, read the e-mail instead.
Spending the evening with her was like a night at a museum of science—dull, dull, dull, but you get through it by convincing yourself you’re doing a good deed. More unfortunately, I could tell she liked me but obviously the attraction wasn’t mutual. She has all the warmth and charm of a department store mannequin.
“You’re still matchmaking,” Zayed said now, dropping into a chair opposite her desk.
A department store mannequin, Rou silently repeated, her cheeks burning at the memory. Dull, dull, dull. Her hands trembled in her lap. “Yes,” she said flatly, hating that his appearance had brought all those feelings back, too. The only saving grace was that Zayed didn’t know she knew about his e-mail to Sharif. Sharif had promised her that. “So what can I do for you, Sheikh Fehr?”
“You would know why I’m here if you had listened to my calls,” he said pleasantly. “I believe I left half a dozen messages for you. Never mind the e-mails.”
She eyed him for a long moment. He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit and white shirt—no tie—and his dark hair was cut shorter than it had been three years ago, better showing off the ideal shape of his head; the strong jaw; the long, straight nose; elegant cheekbones; and the eyes, golden eyes. “I’ve been traveling,” she answered shortly.
“Perhaps you need better technology.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So why are you here?”
“I’m thirty-six. I’d like a wife.”
Rou stared at him waiting for the punch line. Because it was a joke. Zayed Fehr, celebrated bachelor, Monte Carlo’s richest, most famous, reckless playboy, wanted a wife? She couldn’t stifle her laugh.
He didn’t crack a smile. He simply stared back at her, his gaze steady, never once blinking.
“What can I really do for you, Sheikh Fehr?”
“You could pull out your paperwork, that pile of forms you use and begin to fill them out. The name is Fehr, F-e-h-r. Zayed is the first name. Do you need me to spell that, too?”
“No.” She gritted her teeth at his tone as well as his voice. His voice was just as she’d remembered. Deep and smooth, so husky as to be almost caressing.
No wonder women fell.
No wonder she’d fallen.
How stupid she’d been to fall.
Old shame sharpened her voice. “Why a wife, why now? You’ve made it clear for years you’re not a fan of marriage—”
“Things have changed.” His voice changed, deepened. “It’s not an option. Not anymore. Not if I’m to assume the throne in Sarq. It is Sarq law. No man shall inherit the throne before twenty-five, and when he does assume rule, he must be married. The king must have a wife.”
“You’re marrying so you can be king?”
“It is Sarq law.”
She studied him, puzzled. Sharif was king of Sarq. She knew that, everyone knew that. But perhaps there was another country, or a Sarq desert tribe in need of a feudal king. She knew she was missing key pieces of information, but as Zayed hadn’t volunteered the information she wasn’t going to probe. The less she knew of him the better. “I am sure you could find an agreeable wife if you wanted one badly enough—”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“I see.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. But she didn’t see. She didn’t understand anything other than he was awful and she wanted him gone. Who did he think he was? And why did he think he could show up here after three years and demand her assistance? How could any man be more shallow or selfish?
“So you’ll do it?” Zayed pressed.
“No. Absolutely not.” And she didn’t feel bad in the least. In fact, she rather enjoyed her position of power. “Marriage can’t be rushed. Finding a suitable life partner takes time and careful study. And secondly, you’re not suitable—”
“I’m not what?”
She ignored his interruption. “—as a candidate for my practice. That’s not to say you couldn’t find a willing candidate if you did some legwork of your own.”
He smiled at her, all white straight teeth and gleaming eyes, but it wasn’t a friendly expression. “But I don’t want a willing candidate, Dr. Tornell, or an agreeable wife. If that were the case, I’d allow my mother to pick my bride. I don’t want just any bride, I want the right wife. That is why I am here. You are the relationship expert. You can find the right woman for me.”
“But I can’t,” she answered ruthlessly. “Sorry.” But not in the least sorry. She’d never find him a wife. She’d never help him. She’d never doom a woman to a life sentence with him.
And suddenly she thought of her own mother, the famous British model, a woman the world admired and envied, and yet a woman who couldn’t make her father happy.
A tap sounded on the door and Jamie stepped inside to gesture to her watch. Rou glanced at her own watch. Fifteen minutes had already passed. The media escort would be here in fifteen to escort her to the TV station and Rou still needed to change and freshen her hair. She rose, fingers pressed to the surface of the desk. “If you’ll excuse me, Sheikh Fehr, I must get ready for my next appointment—”
“Is this because of Angela Moss?”
Rou froze. “I don’t know—”
“She was your client. A year ago. Surely you remember her? Slim, striking redhead. Twenty-six years old. Former model turned purse designer. Ring a bell?”
Of course Rou remembered Angela.
The sheikh had wooed her, won her and then cast her aside within months, and because of Rou’s personal feelings about Zayed, she’d refused to take Angela on as a client, but then Angela had tried to take her life, and Rou realized she had to help the poor girl. Angela was beyond desperate, and even with Rou’s help, it took months of patience and skill to walk her new client through the heartbreak.
When still in the chemical rush of love, having one’s heart broken is a form of death. For others, it’s like detox. The brain, suddenly starved of the opiates that had previously fed it, craves the beloved, needing contact, needing that flood of chemicals and hormones that comes with togetherness.
After twelve years of research she understood that love, falling in love, was the most potent drug man would ever know. Love was maddening, delicious, addictive. And when it went wrong, destructive.
“I know she came to you,” Zayed added tonelessly. “I was the one who gave her your name. I thought you could help her.”
Rou sank back down into her chair. “You sent her to me?” She gave her head a slow disbelieving shake. “Why?”
His brow furrowed and he lifted his hands as if the answer was self-explanatory. “I was worried about her.”
“So you do have a conscience.”
“I didn’t love her, but I didn’t want her hurt.”
She eyed him with disdain. “Then maybe you should stop seeing women with hearts and brains.”
One black eyebrow lifted. “What are you suggesting?”
“Puppets. Robots. Rag dolls. Blow-up dolls.” She smiled thinly. “They won’t be hurt when you cast them aside.”
There was a flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe—and then it was gone. “You’re angry.”
Rou realized Jamie was still hovering in the doorway and she gestured for her to give them five more minutes. Once Jamie was gone, Rou looked at him. “I’m not angry. I just don’t have any need for you.”
“Need?” he drawled.
“Let me be clearer.” She leaned forward, her gaze intent on his. “I don’t particularly like you, Sheikh Fehr, and because my practice is very successful and very busy I can afford to be selective. Therefore, I’d never work with you.”
“Why not?”
“Why not, what?”
“Why won’t you work with me?”
“I already said—”
“No, you’re giving personal opinions. I want a professional opinion. You are a scientist, are you not?”
God, he was arrogant. “I know too much about you. I couldn’t approach your situation without prejudice—”
“Because I didn’t love Angela?”
“Because you don’t love. You can’t love,” she blurted, before grinding her teeth together in remorse. She wasn’t supposed to say that last bit. It was something Angela had told her. Angela had said that Zayed had used his inability to love as the reason to end their relationship. Apparently he didn’t love, couldn’t love—seemed he’d never been in love—and because he couldn’t love, he thought it best to end their relationship as Angela’s feelings had grown too strong.
Classic narcissist.
Her father had never loved anyone but himself, either. Narcissists couldn’t love anyone else. Couldn’t see anyone else as separate or having individual needs.
“I’m sorry,” she added. “That was inappropriate of me. Doctor-patient confidentiality. But you can see why I can’t work with you. After counseling Angela, after knowing certain things about you, I believe it’d be too much of a conflict of interest.”
He looked at her levelly. “Of whose interest?”
“Yours.”
“And this is all based on my six dates with Angela?”
No, she answered silently, it’s also based on my personal experience with you. But she didn’t say that, as she’d never let him know she was aware of what he really thought of her. “It’s not complicated, Sheikh Fehr.You’re being deliberately obtuse.” Her voice hardened. “You told Angela you’d never marry. You said you’d never fallen in love, and that you were unable to love, and therefore, you didn’t believe you could be loyal to any woman—”
“I’ve changed.” His lashes lifted and the light golden gaze met hers.
“That’s not possible.”
“Isn’t it?” His gaze skewered her. “You are a psychologist, aren’t you?”
Jamie’s head appeared around the corner of the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt again, but your escort’s arrived, Dr. Tornell. She’s waiting in the lobby.”
Rou nodded at Jamie and yet she never took her eyes off Zayed. She waited for the door to close. “I have to go.”
“Time is of the essence, so let’s meet for dinner. We’ll start tonight. The profile, the background information, everything—”
“No.” She rose to her feet, wound more tightly than she could ever remember. “Never.”
“Never?”
“It wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t represent you fairly, and—” she took a deep breath “—I’m not sure I’d want to.”
“I’m not asking you to find a cure for cancer, Dr. Tornell. I’m asking you to find me a wife.”
She moved from the desk. “You might as well ask me to find a cure. It’d be easier.”
If she’d hoped to quell him, she’d failed, as he laughed a deep bitter laugh. “I thought you were a professional.”
“I am.”
“Then do your job. It’s what you’re good at, and apparently the only thing you’re good at.”
Her breath caught as though she’d been sucker punched. “That’s low, and mean-spirited.”
“And you haven’t been? You judged and sentenced me before even meeting with me today. Fine. I don’t need your approval, but I need your time and your skill.”
“If you did your research you’d know that I don’t just accept everyone as a client. I take less than five percent of the applicants that come to me. My success is based on the fact that I’m exclusive. I only work with people I believe I can help.”
“And you could help me. I have an entire country waiting for me to return. Do this and I promise you that you will be compensated handsomely.”
“This isn’t about money. It’s about values and ethics, and working with you goes against my ethics, and frankly, no amount of money could induce me to compromise—”
“Not even five million pounds?”
For a moment she didn’t speak, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “Five million pounds?” she finally repeated, even as she mentally translated it to eight million American dollars. Eight million American dollars. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never charged anything close to that, and I’d never accept a figure like that. The very offer smacks of desperation.”
“Determination,” he corrected. “And it’s sufficient compensation for you to overcome your objections, don’t you think?”
“No! I don’t care about money,” she spat, her patience shot. “I don’t do what I do for money. It’s never been about money. I do it for…I do it because…” But her voice failed her. The words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t say it, couldn’t tell him why she did what she did. It was far too personal for a man like Zayed, a man who didn’t care about anyone or anything but himself.
“Then don’t think of it as money. Think of it as funding for your research center, the one you’ve been wanting to open in Oakland for the past several years. Find me a wife I can take to Sarq as my queen, and you have your facility. I can’t think of a fairer bargain. I get what I want, and you get what you want, and everyone is better off.”
“But I don’t know that anyone would be better off—”
“Isn’t that the problem? You don’t know,” he said, almost gently, as he got to his feet. “You don’t know me. You think you do. But you don’t.” His golden gaze held hers, challenging her. “Perhaps you could do a little research before you jump to any conclusions. Just as I did my research before I came to you.”
He was moving to the door, about to walk out when Rou stopped him. “So what did your research turn up, Sheikh Fehr?”
He paused in the doorway, looked at her. “I know why you’re so rigid and repressed. I know why you’re more machine than woman. It has nothing to do with money, and everything to do with your parents’ divorce. It broke your heart, didn’t it?”
She was speechless. He knew. No one knew. She’d never told anyone. How could he know?
He tipped his head. “You have an appearance at Fireside Books tonight at seven. I’ll pick you up from there at nine. Good luck with your interview.” And he was gone.

CHAPTER TWO
BUT she wasn’t at Fireside Books when he arrived, a half hour before the signing was to have ended. She’d cut the event short, citing illness, and she’d left.
Zayed rocked back on his heels as he stood outside the bookstore digesting the information. It was a crisp night and the late-October wind sent red and gold leaves swirling past his feet.
The ice maiden had run rather than meet with him.
That was a first, and certainly a change from how attentive she’d been at Lady Pippa’s wedding three years ago. That night Rou Tornell had clung to him like Velcro, hanging on his every word. But then, women were forever throwing themselves at him, eager, so eager, to be his next lover.
Fortunately, he’d always treated his women well—Angela included. Even after the relationship had ended, Zayed made sure the women were okay. Financially. Emotionally. He might be hard, but he wasn’t a complete ass. He had had sisters, after all.
Zayed pulled his phone from his pocket, knowing already that Rou Tornell would no longer be found at the Fairmont. If she’d left the store early, he suspected she’d left town early, and not for San Francisco, which was her home, but to Austria where she’d be attending another one of her high-profile weddings in just two days. Which was perfect, actually. He’d been invited to Ralf and Princess Georgina’s wedding, too.
I now pronounce you man and wife.
The guests erupted into applause as the groom lifted Georgina’s veil and dipped his head and bent her back over his arm to kiss her, her silk gown sparkling with the five thousand crystals hand stitched across the delicate fabric.
The kiss ended, and the couple turned to face the congregation, and Rou’s breath caught in her throat at the expression on Georgina’s face. She was so happy, so deeply in love and it struck Rou that while St. Stephan’s Cathedral glowed with candlelight and the glittering guests, none shone more brightly than Georgina herself.
The light in Georgina’s eyes alone made Rou’s heart ache.
Rou’s heart turned over as music swelled, filling the grand Gothic cathedral as the beaming bride and groom walked down the aisle. Georgina’s found her match. She’s found her mate.
Weddings always moved her, but this one, this was exceptional. Georgina had been hurt so badly three years ago when her fiancé left her at the altar and she’d sworn off men, sworn off love, sworn off being a wife and mother.
Rou, Georgina’s childhood friend, refused to accept that one of her oldest, dearest friends would never have a happy ending, and she’d worked quietly behind the scenes looking for the right man. And then she’d found him. Baron Ralf van Kliesen, an Austrian count by title, born and raised in the Australian Outback by his Australian mother. Ralf was perfect for Georgina—strong, independent, handsome, brilliant, but kind, very kind, and that was what Georgina needed most. A strong yet tender man to love her. Forever.
Forever.
The lump in Rou’s throat grew and spread, pressing hot and heavy on her chest, and up behind her eyes so they stung with brilliant unshed tears.
To be loved forever. To love forever. To be so blessed.
As a young girl, Rou had once felt safe and loved, but when her parents’ marriage changed, it changed so dramatically, so violently, their lives were never the same again. Worse, because her parents were so famous, their divorce and destructiveness played out in the media, their battles gossip fodder, their phone calls taped and played for the press. They both fought hard for custody. They both claimed they wanted Rou, needed her, must have her. But neither truly wanted her. They just didn’t want the other one to win.
Love wasn’t about winning, and love wasn’t abuse. Love was generous and kind. Respectful. Supportive. And this was why Rou did what she did—matched couples by values, beliefs, needs. Not by externals like appearances, although appearances counted. People fell in love with an image, but there had to be something behind the image. There had to be a real connection, a genuine understanding.
Rou was still more emotional than she liked when she exited the cathedral, descending the stone steps to the street. The moon was already yellow in the sky and even in the city the autumn night smelled of crackling leaves and a brisk hungry wind.
Climbing into her waiting limousine, she pressed the collar of her soft velvet cloak to her throat. The rich crush of the material warmed her. It was such an extravagant thing, lined with black silk, the silver clasp studded with genuine diamonds. It had been her mother’s cape, bought to accompany her father to a premiere of one of his movies. Rou remembered the framed photo of her mother and father on the red carpet, her mother smiling her dazzling smile, the cape snug about her shoulders.
The photo was long gone—burned, just as her mother had destroyed all the clothes she’d worn while married, cutting some, burning others. But the cape escaped. It’d been left in England after one of her mother’s trips back home, and it’d hung in Grandmother’s closet forgotten until Rou found it at sixteen, two years after her mother’s death.
The limousine had arrived at the palace, and inside she checked her cherished cloak, and turning toward the ballroom, hesitated for just a moment before the doors, aware she was alone, aware she’d turn no heads, but also grateful for her anonymity. Her parents’ beauty bewitched the world. Rou dazzled no one. But it was also better this way. She could live quietly. And she could remain in control. Control being very important to her well-being.
With a quick hand over her hip, she smoothed the jersey fabric of her conservative black gown and entered the gold-and-white ballroom illuminated by a thousand gleaming candles.
And the first person she spotted across the ballroom was Zayed Fehr.
She froze.
Couldn’t be, she told herself, stepping back as if she could escape into the shadows. Instead she bumped into a waiter and spilled one of the glasses of champagne he carried.
She apologized profusely in German, and glanced over at Zayed Fehr again.
It was him. Had to be him. No one else looked like that, or moved like that. And God help her, it appeared he was coming toward her.
Panicked, Rou disappeared into the crowd and then fled the ballroom for the hall where she retreated to the elegant ivory-and-gold ladies’ room.
Rou paced the lounge area of the ladies’ room, so agitated she chewed on a knuckle, something she never ever did.
What was he doing here? Why would he be here? Oh, but she knew the answer to that. He’d wanted her help. She’d refused. So he’d hunted her down here. Damn him.
For twenty minutes, she hid in the ladies’ room until she heard the trumpets herald the arrival of Ralf and Georgina. Surely Zayed would be gone by now.
But she was wrong. She’d taken only four steps into the highceilinged hall before he appeared before her, blocking her access to the ballroom.
“How did your Vancouver event go?” he asked conversationally, as if they were old friends, good friends.
Rou’s mouth dried even as her pulse jumped. She couldn’t have answered him if she tried. Instead she longed for her cloak, to bury herself inside the comfort of velvet and hide.
“I heard from the store owner that it was a smaller turnout than expected,” he added. “Were you disappointed?”
Her eyes snapped at him. “No.”
“So the lackluster turnout wasn’t why you hightailed it out of town?”
Rou hated that she blushed, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know if she was blushing because he’d discovered that her event had been less than stellar, or if it was because he’d actually turned up at the store as he’d said he would, and by the time he showed, she’d already taken off, rushing for Vancouver Airport to catch her flight to Munich and then on to Vienna. “I can’t believe you chased me all the way from Vancouver to Vienna.”
“I was invited to the wedding, and I wouldn’t use the word chase—”
“No, you would say you were being persistent,” she flashed bitterly.
Zayed nearly smiled. “Or determined,” he agreed. “But I am determined, and once I’ve set my mind on something I always succeed. You must know that you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”
He was wearing a tuxedo with tails, and the jacket hugged his broad chest, tapering at the waist. He looked sinful, darkly handsome, his golden eyes intense in that striking face.
She averted her own eyes, pretending to watch those still arriving. “The only difficulty is your inability to accept rejection.”
“That’s not quite correct, Dr. Tornell. In Vancouver you led me to believe there was a possibility of us working together. You did agree to meet me after your event, and I was there. I waited for you. And when you didn’t emerge from the store, I went in looking for you. The owner was there. The cashier. Your media escort. A couple of readers still lingering in the afterglow. But you, you were long gone.”
She studied one couple disappearing into an alcove, arms entwined, eager to touch, to be alone. Early love was like that. A craving for contact, a craving for skin. She couldn’t imagine such an intense physical need. She’d never felt a physical need.
With an effort she turned her attention back to Zayed. “I have already made commitments to others, clients currently under contract. I don’t think it would be fair to them to take on someone new right now.”
“And yet you just met with a prospective client this morning, and I believe she walked away under the assumption that you would take her on?”
Rou rarely blushed and yet again heat surged to her cheeks, her face burning from her chin to her brow. Her thoughts were just as chaotic. For some reason she couldn’t think when Zayed Fehr was near. All her logical thought disappeared in a puff of panic, a cloud of emotion. And Rou didn’t trust emotion. “Are you spying on me?”
“I don’t spy, but I do have bodyguards and personal assistants. Butlers, chauffeurs and valets—”
“I get the picture,” she said stiffly, “and for a man so powerful, I can’t help but wonder why you chose me to help with your search for a queen.”
“You’re successful. And your matches endure. I’ve yet to hear of one marriage ending in divorce.”
Rou felt a shiver race through her. The very word divorce made her cold. Divorce. Attorneys. Judges. Courtrooms. Nasty, hateful, deceitful allegations. Seven years it’d taken her parents to finalize everything. Seven years. And by the time they finally had an agreement in place, they’d destroyed everything and everyone, including their own daughter.
It had taken Rou all of her teens and well into her twenties to heal, and the only reason she did heal was her friendship with Sharif Fehr. He’d made sure she returned to school, made sure she had the funds to continue through graduate school. With his financial support, she’d been able to keep her vow that she’d work to make sure that no child, and no family, should ever suffer the way she had.
Chilled, Rou thought of her soft velvet cape in the cloakroom and then of her cozy hotel room at the exquisite Hotel Bristol. She was ready to return to her room, ready for the safety and warmth the four walls provided. “It’s late and I’m still very jet-lagged….”
“Running away again, Dr. Tornell? And yet aren’t you the expert at teaching women to stand their ground, and face their fears, and look reality in the eye?”
“Yes. But I’m also the expert who says women should trust their gut, and my gut says you are dangerous.”
He laughed, and his laughter silenced her.
He should have been appalled, angered, but no, he laughed.
She lifted her chin. “I’m deadly serious, Sheikh Fehr.”
“I’m sure you are, but you’re so wrong in this case, so completely off base, that I can’t help but wonder if you’re really a scientist or if those are someone else’s degrees from Cambridge tacked on after your name.”
“I assure you, I’ve earned every doctoral degree, thank you.”
He smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Then act like a scientist, because that’s what I want. I’m most certainly not interested in the woman in you.”
“That’s good, because the woman in me despises the man in you.”
She walked away then, legs shaking with every step. She felt ill. Exposed. Any other time she would have left the reception, but this night was Georgina’s night and she couldn’t leave, not yet, not until dinner was over and the dancing began.
Zayed let her walk, watching her slim, black-clad figure disappear through the ballroom doors toward the dinner tables.
She’s changed, he reflected, as she faded into the crowd.
Three years ago she was a chatterbox—nervous, tense and gawky. Now she had more polish—her success, maybe?—but she was far colder, and harder. Interesting how time and success changed one.
But her brittle hardness didn’t deter him. He needed her. Time was running short, and his intensely meddlesome mother was already starting her matchmaking, and God kew he didn’t want a traditional Sarq girl. He knew himself and feared he’d destroy such a woman in no time. Girls in Sarq were still raised to be meek and mild, compliant and acquiescing. A young Sarq woman wouldn’t know how to converse with him, or argue properly. She’d simply nod and say, Yes, my lord. Yes, my love, yes.
How he’d hate that. How he’d hate a partner that wasn’t strong, wasn’t an equal. But finding an equal in his world was next to impossible. He wasn’t ugly, far from it, and that was the problem. Women saw his face and they all found it tragically well put together. They heard his name. Learned of his title, his power, his staggering wealth and they all fell, tumbling to his feet, so eager. Too eager.
He couldn’t marry a woman like that, either.
He wouldn’t trust or respect a woman like that. And without trust or respect, he’d soon be irritated, which would make lovemaking a chore, dooming the relationship.
Zayed was many things, and he’d broken many rules and many laws, but even he believed marriage to be sacred. He’d never slept with a married woman. And he’d never cheat on his wife.
So he needed the right wife. The perfect wife.
And frigid, rigid Rou Tornell might lack charm and personality, but she was supremely skilled at matchmaking. And he was determined she’d find him a match.
He followed her.
She’d just taken her seat at the dinner table. It was assigned seating and he wasn’t at her table, but he pulled out a chair next to her and sat down anyway.
She turned her head and shot him a furious, frosty look. “Go away.”
He shrugged, smiled carelessly and leaned closer, his broad shoulders crowding her. “I can’t, Dr. Tornell. I need your help.”
She averted her head, apparently watching the guests in mute fascination.
They were a stellar bunch, he acknowledged, a dazzling mix of royalty, international aristocrats, celebrities and socialites—all dressed as if they had personal stylists, and most, he suspected, did.
Rou was perhaps the only one who looked as if she’d dressed herself. His gaze flickered over her sedate black gown. It seemed painfully familiar, and he wondered if it was the same black gown she’d worn to Lady Pippa’s wedding three years earlier.
“Isn’t this the same dress you wore three years ago?” he asked now.
She turned her head, cheeks suffused with color. “Yes. Why? You don’t like it?”
He’d scored a direct hit, he thought, observing the emotions flashing across her face. And in that moment, she looked almost pretty, her eyes dark, her cheeks deep pink, her lips trembling with outrage. “You could probably find a more flattering style and color,” he answered.
Her lips compressed and her gaze leveled on his. “Black is always in style.”
“No, not true, especially when black makes you appear sallow. You’d do better in pinks.”
“For your information, this is a designer gown of good fabric which I bought at Barney’s in New York—”
“Ten years ago, I imagine from the look of the sleeves.”
Her eyes widened, the blue irises almost black with fury. “Go away,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
The air caught in Rou’s throat as he turned more fully toward her, his shoulder grazing hers. “Both.”
He was so close to her she could see shots of bronze against the gold of his eyes and faint creases at the edges of his eyes. His body was big, sinewy, and his thigh brushed hers until she dragged her own legs farther away.
“I’ve already told you, I’d never help you,” she answered, aware that her pulse had quickened and her body felt warm and dangerously sensitive.
“That’s because you’re making my request personal, but it’s not personal. It’s so much bigger than that. This is about my country. My brother. My people. You hold an entire country hostage right now.”
He leaned closer, so that his head was just inches from hers and his arm stretched along the back of her chair, his fingers dangerously close to her skin. “All I want is the same opportunity you’ve given your other clients. Do the preliminary assessment properly. Do the paperwork, the background research. I will make my life available to you. I am at your disposal for the next however many weeks it takes to complete the process.”
She’d stiffened in protest when he moved even closer, breathing deeply to calm herself, but breathing deeply meant she inhaled his fragrance—the scent soft, spicy, seductive—and she wasn’t sure if it was his scent, or his warmth, but her nerves clamored to life and her senses swam.
She felt as though she were drowning at sea. And he was doing it to her. He was overwhelming her, threatening her very safety. She couldn’t allow it. She couldn’t. He made her feel as if her own survival was at stake, too.
And survival was not to be taken lightly.
She’d known he was dangerous from their first meeting at Pippa’s wedding, and yet she’d danced with him anyway and even gone and sat in the hotel bar for hours. She’d felt overwhelmed then, too, but it’d been almost wonderful to feel so aware of someone. Now she knew it wasn’t wonderful, and Zayed Fehr wasn’t wonderful. He’d use whatever he had to get what he wanted. It was his way. And she despised him for it.
“Go away,” Rou choked, stumbling to her feet. “Please. Please, Sheikh Fehr. Just go away and leave me alone.” She was trembling from head to foot, knew she’d lost all reason, knew she’d lost all control.
This was what she’d wanted to avoid. This was why she’d left Vancouver. Zayed Fehr threatened her. He shattered her control. He made her feel like a panicked girl instead of the scientist she was, and she couldn’t allow it. She wasn’t that strong. Smart, yes; successful, yes; strong? No. No. Only on paper. Only on the surface.
Her gaze darted around the ballroom as she planned her escape. If she skirted the dance floor, cut through the tables in the corner, moved behind the ice sculpture, she’d reach the doors on the side that led to the entry hall with the cloakroom.
Zayed placed a restraining hand over hers, preventing her from leaving. “Calm yourself, Dr. Tornell….”
“I can’t! You won’t let me. You won’t leave me alone.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Dr. Tornell. I need you. I need…”
Rou didn’t hear the rest. She was suddenly enveloped in a giant hug. “Rou, you naughty thing, where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you!” Georgina’s breathless voice penetrated Rou’s panic-fogged brain.
Gratefully she hugged Georgina back. Georgina. The wedding. Vienna. Everything was fine. Everything would be fine.
“You look beautiful,” Rou whispered unsteadily, giving Georgina a hard squeeze. “I’ve never seen a happier bride.”
“All thanks to you,” Georgina whispered. “You said there were no princes, but you found one for me!”
Georgina stepped back, and Ralf leaned down and dropped a kiss on Rou’s cheek. “I will always be in your debt, Dr. Tornell.”
And then Ralf and Georgina were turning their attention to Zayed, heartily welcoming him, and thanking him for coming.
“It is my pleasure,” Zayed answered smoothly, “and I offer you my family’s warmest congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you,” Ralf replied. “But tell us, have you news of Sharif? We’ve only just heard. It was on the television earlier.”
“Was it?” Zayed answered. “I didn’t think they were going to go public for another few days.”
Ralf and Georgina exchanged swift glances. “Is it true that there’s no sign of the plane? That it just totally disappeared from the radar?” Ralf persisted.
Zayed nodded.
“And Jesslyn?” Georgina asked. “Is she…Was she…?”
“She wasn’t with him, no. Nor the children, thank God.” Zayed’s expression shifted, hardened. “Although they were all supposed to be together.”
“I can’t believe it,” Ralf said, more to himself than the others. “Sharif is so…so…Sharif.”
Zayed inclined his head, and Ralf quickly recovered and reached out to clasp Zayed’s shoulder. “We are praying for him, and all of you. We must not lose hope. And if there is anything we can do, any way we can aid the search, or help the queen, you only need to say the word.”
The wedding couple moved on.
Rou was silent for a moment after Georgina and Ralf walked away, but then she turned to Zayed, her expression fierce. “What’s happened to Sharif?”
“I’ve told you—”
“You haven’t.”
“He’s missing. His plane disappeared ten days ago. But I told you—”
“No, you didn’t tell me.” Her voice cracked. “You definitely didn’t tell me. You said throne, Sarq, kingdom. You didn’t say Sharif. You didn’t say he was missing. You didn’t. And you should have.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “He’s my hero. I adore him, and I’d do anything, absolutely anything, for him.”

CHAPTER THREE
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

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