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Rou grabbed the edge of the step with both hands and held on for dear life. Her stomach was doing crazy somersaults. In fact the room was spinning wildly. “We. Are. Not. Marrying.”
He just regarded her with lazy calm. “You know you’re the perfect solution. You’re exactly what I want. You know my situation. You know I need an arranged marriage and am not planning on a love match. You’re highly qualified as candidates go, you’re smart and interesting and our children would be very bright—”
“Good God! Children?”
“We could wait a year before trying to get you pregnant to see if Sharif is found, because if he returned, I’d of course free you from your obligations….”
“You’re serious.” Her voice fell to a whisper, and she once again was staggering to her feet, rushing for the privacy and sanctity of her bedroom and bath.
“There’s no reason to panic,” he called after her. “We’ll have the courtship. We’ll just begin after the ceremony.”
Rou turned in the doorway to her bedroom to look at him. He was still sitting where she’d left him, cool and calm and as confident as could be.
The worst thing was, she couldn’t even pretend he was insane. She knew the signs of insanity. He didn’t display those. But he was totally, completely out of touch.
She wasn’t the marrying kind. She’d never be the marrying kind. Thanks to her parents, she was committed to a life of celibacy. “If you won’t talk to Queen Fehr, I will,” she said fiercely. “Far better to clear the misunderstanding now than ruin all our lives.” She entered the bedroom and quietly but firmly shut the door.
CHAPTER SIX
ROU paced for a few minutes after Zayed left, trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation because Zayed’s solution to the problem—marriage—wasn’t a solution no matter how you looked at it.
Although, she supposed that wasn’t entirely true. From Zayed’s perspective, if she married him, his problem was solved. He had a wife, he had a throne. He had it made.
She, on the other hand, gained nothing by marrying Sheikh Fehr. She loved her life. It was a great life, especially as she had no intention of ever getting married, and marriage was fine for other people, people who wanted a domestic life dominated by children and family. But that wasn’t for her. She loved work, needed her work, and there was no way she’d give up her career—her calling—for a man, much less a man like Zayed Fehr.
What she had to do was talk to Queen Jesslyn. Once Jesslyn knew the truth, Zayed couldn’t coerce her into marriage.
Although Rou dreaded going to Jesslyn now, especially after their breakfast together. Jesslyn had been so raw, so grief-stricken that it seemed unfair to hit her with one more thing now.
Rou closed her eyes briefly, sick at adding to Jesslyn’s burden, but what else could she do? Let Zayed manipulate her into marriage?
Never.
Although … and she’d never admit this to anyone, a tiny part of her was curious. Curious wasn’t the right word. Flattered might be better. It wasn’t as if she had hordes of gorgeous, sexy men in their prime beating down her door.
As a matter of fact there were no men beating on her door, and she was attracted to Zayed, terribly attracted. She’d spent most of the night tossing and turning as she fantasized about making love with him. Now a marriage proposal.
Not that she’d ever consider it.
No, she’d just have to talk to Jesslyn, and the sooner the better.
Rou allowed Manar to fill the gigantic marble tub in the equally gigantic bathroom for her. Rou would have preferred a quick, brisk shower but it wasn’t an option, and once Manar left her to bathe in privacy, Rou slipped out of her pajamas and into the steaming tub fragrant with vanilla and spice.
Rou almost laughed as she settled deep into the water. This was all so Arabian Nights, and if she were a different woman, she might be tempted to savor such luxury. Might even be tempted by Zayed’s proposal.
But she was a different woman, and she’d been raised with money, and she’d grown up in a sprawling mansion in Beverly Hills with maids and cooks, personal assistants and chauffeurs. And money didn’t buy happiness. Money didn’t protect love. Money just made people arrogant and selfish, petty and nasty.
While she worked with people who were wealthy, she never craved their toys, their bank accounts or their lifestyles. As long as she could provide for herself, material things were not her goal. What she wanted, needed, was independence. Confidence. Self-respect. She craved a world of her own, one in which she could control the emotions around her, including her own. Something she couldn’t do if she remained here in Sarq.
Out of the bath, Rou rubbed herself briskly with the towel and considered her limited wardrobe options. She’d brought her suitcase from Vienna, a suitcase that had also carried her tour clothes in Portland, Seattle and Vancouver, clothes intended for cool days and cooler nights. Cashmeres and woolens. Turtlenecks and dark, heavy fabrics. Nothing appropriate for desert temperatures.
She ended up in her black suit only because she could pair the severe skirt with a black knit top that was short-sleeved. Dressed in low heels, long hair in its traditional knot at the back of her head, she set off to find the queen.
Jesslyn and the children hadn’t made it to the pool yet. Instead they were all in the children’s nursery, where Sharif’s girls from his first marriage were playing Monopoly, and two-year-old terror Prince Tahir was trying to knock all the pieces off the board. The girls would admonish him but it just made him giggle. For her part, Queen Jesslyn sat nearby, watching, and yet clearly not present.
Mehta, Jesslyn’s maid, had walked Rou to the nursery door, but now that Rou was there, she wished she hadn’t insisted on coming. This family was fighting like mad for normalcy. Their world had been turned upside down these past few weeks, and suddenly Rou despised herself for being at the nursery door, an outsider. An intruder.
“Mama,” Tahir said, spotting Rou first. “Mama, lady, look.”
Jesslyn jerked, turned to see where her toddler was pointing and discovered Rou in the doorway. “Oh, Rou. Hello. Come in. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” She smiled at Rou as Tahir clambered onto her lap.
Rou saw the queen’s hand tremble as she reached up to stroke her son’s dark curls.
Rou’s heart seized. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have come.
“Girls,” Jesslyn said, injecting a note of cheer into her voice, “I’d like you to meet someone very special. This is Uncle Zayed’s fiancée, Dr. Rou Tornell. They’re to be married tomorrow. Isn’t that exciting?”
The girls, ranging in age from nine to eleven, stood and bowed respectfully, and yet their dark eyes were full of curiosity.
Jesslyn introduced the children, and afterward, Jinan, the eldest, asked if Rou was going to be married Western style, or in a traditional Sarq ceremony.
Rou’s brain froze. This is what she’d come to straighten out, and yet she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, all words trapped in her throat as she felt the weight of five pairs of eyes rest on her.
Say something, she told herself. Explain the situation. Just say, there’s been a misunderstanding. Just say, I’m not marrying your uncle, I’d never marry your uncle.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t find her voice, not when the room ached with sadness.
It was Takia, the nine-year-old, who finally broke the silence. “You’re not waiting for Daddy to come home? You’re getting married without him?”
For a moment the room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and then the stillness gave way to grief. The queen cried silently, but Saba and Jinan sobbed, and Tahir, confused, threw his arms around his mother and howled.
Only Takia stayed silent as she stared at Rou, her eyes enormous, her small mouth compressed.
Rou, who hated feelings, hated emotion, hated grief, felt as though her heart was being ripped into pieces. Children shouldn’t know pain. Children shouldn’t have to grow up quickly. And yet these children had been thrust into reality at a very young age, their loss all the more tragic in that the girls had already lost their mother several years before.
“I wish we could wait for your father,” Rou said huskily. “It won’t be a very nice wedding without him.”
“Maybe we should wait,” Takia whispered.
“Uncle Zayed and Aunt Rou want that, too,” Jesslyn answered, looking over Tahir’s head at the girls, “but the country is in turmoil without Daddy, and no one can make any decisions without a king, and Uncle Zayed is being very good and brave, and he’s doing what Daddy would want.”
“And that’s to marry Aunt Rou?” Saba guessed.
Jesslyn smiled through her tears. “And become king.”
Rou couldn’t stay. She threw a desperate, panicked smile at them and ran out, aware that she was going to lose her composure any second. She’d barely made it out the door before the tears began to fall. It was all too much, too intense, too horrible.
Their grief made Sharif’s death real and it hit Rou hard, so very hard. Sharif was gone. Dead. He wasn’t coming back.
Sharif, the man she’d adored for a decade or more, was gone.
And now, wiping away tears, she struggled to find her way back to her wing of the palace. She made a couple of turns, and then another and before she knew it, she realized she was lost. She didn’t even know how to get back to her wing.
She was close to flagging down a palace servant when she stumbled into Zayed.
“I’ve just been to your room,” he said, catching her by the arm and steadying her.
“I went to see the queen,” she answered, wiping tears.
“What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“Your brother’s dead. The queen and her children are heartbroken. The country’s in turmoil, and you’re being brave and good and helping out by becoming king.” She glared up at him even as the tears continued to fall. “What am I to do? Tell them I’m not marrying you? Tell them there won’t be a wedding, and their country won’t have a king? Queen Jesslyn introduced me to the children as Aunt Rou, for heaven’s sake! I’m their aunt now. And the little one, Takia, didn’t understand why we weren’t waiting for her daddy before we married!”
Her stream of tortured words ended and she looked at him for help.
“How could I have ever thought you unemotional?” he said.
“Well, I don’t like being this way—”
“I like you this way. You’re real. And you’re exactly what’s needed.”
She bit her lip to keep it from quivering like Takia’s.
“But if I could, I’d undo all this,” he added quietly. “I would give anything to see Sharif walk through those doors. I would give up everything I own, everything I am, to have him home safe. But until that day, I must do what he needs me to do. And that includes marrying and assuming the throne. But I need you to fulfill my duty. I can’t do it without you.”
“Not me, a wife.”
“But you are that wife. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”
She pictured Jesslyn and the children in the nursery and tears welled up all over again. Love, loss, marriage, children … the palace was full of everything that she feared most.
Family.
Pain.
And yet she couldn’t walk away from a family in such pain. She’d spent years going to school, years building her private practice, years counseling and listening, years writing, speaking, years dedicated to helping others. How could she just run away when there was so much need right here?
She averted her head. “I need some time,” she whispered, shaken.
He started to argue and then, after a deep breath, nodded. “We’ll meet for a late lunch. That should give you a couple hours.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It has to be. I—we—Sarq, we’re running out of time. This country hasn’t had a king in nearly two weeks. Decisions can’t be made, not even about my brother’s funeral.”
“All right.” She knew her voice was sharp but she was tired and overwhelmed. Nothing was as it was supposed to be. And if she wasn’t careful, nothing would ever be again.
“I’ll take you back to your rooms.”
“No, just point me in the right direction.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m smart.”
Their eyes met, gazes locking, both frustrated and furious.
After a long moment of tense silence, Zayed lifted his hands. “Fine. You win. Continue down this corridor to the second hall, take a left, and then at the first right, turn. Continue to the second hall, and then a left and then another left, one more right, and then you’ll be back in your wing. Got that?”
She smiled. “Piece a cake.” Not at all, but he didn’t need to know it.
In the end, Rou had to stop two different palace staff members to get clarification on the directions, but she did eventually arrive at her suite, and once there, she went to the bedroom and stretched out, pulling a soft pillow beneath her cheek.
The bed was so comfortable and pretty, with silk and satin curtains in every shade of rose surrounding the antique frame, that she could almost imagine Zayed’s sisters here. It was a room fit for princesses, and that’s what his sisters had been. But they were gone, and now Sharif was, too.
It was all too much being here, all too intense, too emotional and just too sad.
No wonder Zayed’s mother had collapsed and been rushed to the hospital. How could any mother bear to lose so many of her children?
Although Rou wanted nothing more than to hop on the next plane and jet back to San Francisco, she reluctantly accepted that it wasn’t an option. Zayed was right. He did need her. But she wasn’t going to give up who she was, or what she wanted, not forever, not even for Zayed, although she now knew she wanted to help.
But marriage?
Perhaps if it was just a temporary marriage … something to get them through the next couple of weeks …
She must have eventually fallen asleep because Manar was there, waking her up, reminding her lunch was in just a half hour, and wouldn’t she like to dress before she met His Highness on the terrace?
Rou sat up, groggy, and rubbed her eyes. “It’s already one?”
“Yes, Dr. Tornell. You have half an hour till your luncheon.”
“Then I have time,” Rou said, lying back down and nestling into her pillow. “There’s nothing I need to do to get ready.”
But Manar didn’t move. “Don’t you want to pick something else to wear to lunch? The terrace is shaded but it’s quite warm still.”
“I would if I could,” Rou answered with a yawn, “but this is all I have.”
“But, Dr. Tornell, come see. You have dozens and dozens of boxes and bags. They’ve all been flown in from Dubai.”
Rou sat back up. “What?”
“They’re for your trousseau, but His Highness wants you to start wearing them today. He said you needed something better suited for palace life.” The maid gestured, barely able to contain her excitement. “They’re all in the living room. Come look.”
Rou slid off the bed and padded barefoot into the living room, which was no longer a serene sitting area but a riot of colorful shopping bags. Dozens and dozens of boxes and bags covered the two sofas, with another dozen shoe boxes stacked on the low coffee table. As she descended the steps, she recognized a few of the names—Michael Kors, Chanel, Prada, Valentino, Dior—and then there were names she didn’t recognize, but the boxes and tissue were equally formal and impressive.
Uncertainly she lifted the lid on the garment box closest to her and discovered a frothy pink cocktail dress.
Pale pink peeked through the crisp tissue paper in the next box, this time in the softest cardigan imaginable, with diamond buttons.
