Duty, Desire and the Desert King

“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.”