Duty, Desire and the Desert King

Her father, who had once adored her mother, ended up despising her. Foolish, weak, ridiculous, he’d call her. And then years later after the divorce was finally settled and her mother turned to pills to cope, she’d sit and cry and cry, I’m foolish, and weak, and ridiculous.

Men despised ridiculous women. And women despised themselves when they became ridiculous.

Rou could not become ridiculous. She couldn’t bear for Zayed to ever despise her. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity, either.

Her chin lifted a notch. “I miss my work. I need to return to work.”

He leaned back in his chair. “That’s fine. We agreed that you would continue to work, and that you’d travel for your work.”

He didn’t care, she thought. She didn’t matter. And pain burst inside her, hot, livid, scorching. He would never care for her. He couldn’t, too damaged by guilt and loss. “But I won’t be returning,” she said quietly, fighting to stay in control. “I have an office, and a home, in San Francisco. It’s pointless being here. I’m not needed here and I am needed there. Besides, we agreed the marriage was just temporary, so why drag it out?”

He lifted his hands. “Why, indeed?”

Her heart was breaking and he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. “So that’s that,” she flashed, pain and fury getting the best of her. “That’s all I had to do? Pack my bags, book a ticket and go?”

“You’re not a prisoner. You were free to leave anytime you wanted.”

His lack of expression, his lack of emotion, his lack of everything pierced her, wounding her to the core. She’d given up so much for him and it meant nothing to him. “I see how it is then,” she said, voice trembling with rage. “You’ve met your responsibility. You’ve done exactly as you were required. Married. Become king. And now you have no more need of me.”

“I never said that.”

“No, but since marrying me you’ve scarcely spent a moment in my presence. We’ve had five nights together out of two weeks. The rest of the time you’re absent. You don’t even return calls. Do you dislike me so much, King Fehr? Is it that difficult, that uncomfortable to spend time with me?”

“I’m not avoiding you to punish you—”

“So you are avoiding me?”

He took a deep breath as if fighting for patience. “I have work to do. Staff and cabinet members and dignitaries to meet. The country was without a ruler for nearly a month, and there’s much that happened, much that needs to be attended to.”

“But not your new wife. She’s just a woman. An afterthought.”

“Now you’re being childish.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly, “but at least I’m honest. At least I can say I need more.” Her lips curved into a fragile smile. “At least I can admit I needed you.”

She waited for him to speak, waited for him to say something that would make sense of the past couple weeks, weeks where she’d tried so hard to be patient for him, and available for him, and do everything she’d want someone to do for her. But he never thought of her. He didn’t have the time or ability to think of her.

Seconds crept by without Zayed speaking. Instead he looked at her, his gaze shuttered, his beautiful hard face impassive, and she realized he was hollow and he wanted to remain so. He liked feeling nothing. He liked being dead. But she didn’t. Getting close to Zayed had made her aware that feelings and emotions could be good things. Feelings and emotions could add to your life, not detract.

But not if they weren’t returned.

And not if they weren’t shared.

“My passport?” she whispered, extending her hand.

He reached into his desk, unlocked an inner drawer and retrieved her passport. Although he held it in his hand he made no move to stand up and give it to her. He just held it.

Say something, she mentally willed. Say something that will help me forgive and forget. Something that will allow me to stay.

But he said nothing, and after a long minute she walked to the desk, reached out and took the passport from his hand.

“Goodbye, Zayed,” she said calmly, meeting his gaze, willing the terrible hurt inside her to be still. “Good luck.”

Zayed let her go.

From his chair behind his desk he watched her walk out the door, passport gripped tightly in her hand.

If he felt anything, he refused to acknowledge it, suppressing every emotion with ruthless intent. Better to let her walk away now, he told himself. She didn’t belong here. She’d never belonged with him. At least this way she’d be safe.

He’d rather hurt than have her hurt, although he knew she already hurt. He had hurt her, despite his promise to protect her. He’d tried to protect her, though. He’d tried to stay away, minimize his impact on her life, keep her from getting entangled in his world and his problems. But his world was complicated and consuming, and he didn’t know how to be the king Sarq needed and the man she needed, and his loyalties were clear. Sarq came first. His family second. And Rou…?

He shook his head, jaw clamped so tight it ached.

Rou was tough, and smart. A scientist with a huge career. She’d be fine. She’d always be fine.

Ten minutes later, he heard an engine motor and then from his window he glimpsed one of the palace Mercedes disappearing down the drive toward the gates surrounding the palace compound.

Regret, hot and bitter, rushed through him.

He would miss her. He had missed her these past ten days. God only knew how close he’d come to falling in love with her.

As it was, he didn’t sleep well at night. He’d wanted to pick up the phone every other hour in Isi to call her just to hear her voice. She’d been beautiful when she’d stormed his office earlier. The sun had kissed her cheeks, giving her a golden glow while her hair had new, lighter, brighter highlights. In her emerald-green tunic and white slacks she’d looked fierce and fiery and oh so proud.

And oh so hurt.

Regret squeezed his chest, wrapping his heart in a viselike grip.

His Rou. He hoped she’d be fine. She had to be fine. She wasn’t a fragile female. She was a modern woman with a demanding career. She’d forget him in no time. He on the other hand…

Zayed put a hand to his temple where it throbbed. It had pounded for days now. Nothing helped it. Nothing would.

If he weren’t Zayed Fehr…

If it weren’t for the curse…

She’ll be fine, he silently repeated. You’re the one that might not recover.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHARIF FEHR Found Alive.

Heart pounding, stomach churning, Rou read the Chicago Tribune newspaper headlines again.

Eighty Days After Disappearance, King Sharif Fehr Alive.

Her hands shook so badly, and the churning in her stomach became genuine nausea. Rou held her breath a moment, battling the queasy sensation, and tried to read the paper, but her hands were still trembling so much that the paper shook, making it impossible to read two words, much less the entire article.

Jerkily she set the paper on the small Chicago coffee shop table and smoothed it flat.

Sharif alive? Alive. Her hands felt clammy and her mind raced. Was it possible? Could it be possible? If so, it was a miracle. A miracle.

My God, Jesslyn. Jesslyn and the children. They must be ecstatic. Over the moon.

And Zayed. Zayed…

Tears filled Rou’s eyes and she fiercely wiped them away, trying to read the small print so she could get the whole story.

Following the devastating crash of the royal Fehr jet, Sharif Fehr, badly burned and injured, was rescued from the wreckage by an itinerant Berber tribe. The tribe of nomads didn’t recognize King Fehr, and the king, due to head injuries, didn’t know who he was, either. A month ago, Khalid Fehr, the king’s youngest brother, heard a rumor about a traveling Berber tribe seeking medicine for an injured man and acted on the lead. It had taken him nearly four weeks to locate the tribe in the Sahara but once he did, he recogni

zed his brother immediately. The family has been reunited in Isi, Sarq, where the king is currently undergoing medical care.

Rou stopped reading, put a hand to her stomach, praying the nausea would subside. She didn’t want to throw up, not here, not now.

Don’t think about it, she told herself, it’ll pass, it always does, and in the meantime, Sharif is alive, and rescued by his brother no less.

She reached out to the paper, ran her fingers across the headlines. So if Sharif was alive, what did that mean for Zayed?

But just thinking of Zayed made her chest burn and her throat ache, and she had to swallow very hard to make the lump in her throat go away.