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Holding her breath now, she opened another box and she lifted a pleated coral silk dress with a thin gold chain at the waist.
Another box, a slim white skirt, the palest pink gladiator-style shoe, a pink crocodile clutch.
It was a sea of pink.
Dizzy, Rou sat down on an armchair facing the couches. She didn’t wear pink. Ever.
Where was the black, the navy, the charcoal-gray she wore? Where were her serious pieces, the wardrobe that made her feel smart, safe, invincible? These were such girlie, feminine items—skirts and heels, sexy ankle-wrap sandals and figure-hugging fabrics.
“Is everything pink?” she asked Manar, a hint of despair in her voice.
Manar lifted her head. “You don’t like your new clothes?”
“They’re just so … pink.”
Manar gently ran a hand over a hot-pink, silk trench coat lined with a paler shade of satin. “But they’re beautiful. Like candy or jewels.”
Rou, who rarely cried, felt close to tears for the second time in one day. Candy? Jewels? Did Zayed really buy her clothes that resembled candy and jewels? How could he think she’d like something so silly? So impractical? So unprofessional?
Wardrobe was important. It was image. Status. Power. And with a wardrobe of baby pink, coral, rose and fuchsia, he was turning her into an accessory. She wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t be his doll or arm candy. She was Dr. Rou Tornell, and he’d better not forget it.
To Manar’s horror, Rou insisted on wearing her black wool skirt and black knit top to lunch. “Why,” the maid exclaimed, “when you have the most beautiful clothes here?”
Rou opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of an appropriate explanation. Manar then reached among the piles of pastel-hued accessories and grabbed a jeweler’s box containing a long strand of fat, pink pearls. “At least wear these,” she begged. “That way you won’t appear to be rejecting all of His Highness’s gifts.”
Rou accepted Manar’s offer to take her to the garden where she’d be joining Zayed for lunch. Before she’d even stepped onto the patio she heard the tinkling notes of a fountain. A vine-covered arbor provided shade on the terrace and the sweet scent of antique roses perfumed the air.
Zayed was already there, waiting for her, and despite the terrace’s shadows, she could feel the weight of his gaze as she approached. He was studying her the same way she used to study specimens under the microscope, and she stiffened, not enjoying the intense scrutiny.
“You don’t like your new clothes?” he asked.
Rou had unpinned her chignon and left her hair loose, but other than that change to her hair, and the addition of her pearls, she looked the same as he’d seen her earlier in the day. “They’re all pink, Your Highness,” she said, taking the seat he offered her and then carefully spreading the pale lavender linen napkin across her lap.
He took the chair opposite her. “You don’t like pink?”
She shot him a level look. “Do I look like a woman that wears pink?”
His gaze held hers and then dropped to her mouth and then lower, down her neck to her breasts, where they seemed to linger indecently long. “You look like a woman that needs to remember she’s a woman.”
Rou bristled. “And dressing me in pink like a fancy doll will turn me into a proper woman?”
“No. Proper lovemaking should do that, but in the meantime, I see no reason why you shouldn’t wear colors and styles that flatter your coloring and complexion. You’re a beautiful woman—”
“Please, Sheikh Fehr.”
“—determined to hide behind the most hideous clothes and styles possible.” He stopped, smiled faintly and added, “Do you think we could start using each other’s first names now? It seems strange that we’re still using titles.”
“I like being Dr. Tornell.”
He grinned crookedly, gold eyes flashing. “Yes, I know you do. And if it makes you happy, I promise to call you Dr. Tornell in the bedroom.”
Rou blushed again, her skin burning from her chest to her brow as she pushed her water glass away from her. “That was so not necessary, Zayed,” she said, stressing his name.
He just smiled, which only made him even more gorgeous. “You’re perfect, Rou. Perfectly proper, perfectly prickly. A rare, delicious fruit covered in dangerous thorns.”
Face burning, she forced her attention to the table, where white lush roses spilled from the round centerpiece. “In case you think the thorns are protecting a sweet, delicate pulp, you’re mistaken. The inside of me is just as thorny and sour as the exterior.”
“I’m sure there’s a cure for that.”
“I don’t want a cure! I like who I am.”
“As do I.”
She was saved from having to answer by the appearance of kitchen staff as they paraded out with a stream of lunch dishes. Olives in marinade. Roasted red peppers with feta, capers and lemons. Stuffed grape leaves. Stuffed eggplants. Spicy, skewered grilled shrimp. Chilled lentil salad. Warm flat breads. Dish after dish kept arriving, despite the fact that Rou couldn’t even manage more than a couple mouthfuls.
Zayed, she noticed, didn’t have that problem. He ate generously of everything, enjoying his meal as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
He looked up, caught her gaze. “You can’t let conflict and tension control you,” he said, as if able to read her mind. “You have to learn to separate your emotions from conflict, as conflict will always exist—”
“It didn’t before you entered my life,” she interrupted tartly. “I was fine. I was happy. I was successful.”
“And you are still successful, and you will be happy. You’re not losing anything by marrying me. You’re gaining a husband, a family and a kingdom.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “But I don’t want a husband, a family or a kingdom. I like the simplicity of my life. It works for me. It allows me to accomplish the things I do.”
“You don’t think you can still be successful as a wife? You don’t think you can accomplish great things if you become a mother?”
“No. No, I don’t,” she answered firmly, a quaver in her voice. “And while I might consider a temporary marriage, I’m adamant that there will not be children. I won’t be a mother. If you’re counting on forever, if you’re wanting a baby-making machine, you’ve got the wrong woman.”
He leaned back in his chair, far more sympathetic to her situation than she knew. Like her, he’d never planned on marrying. He’d never wanted to father children. He’d long believed there were enough children in the world and he’d been determined never to add to the population boom.
“Children aren’t at the top of my priority list right now,” he answered calmly. “Sharif’s son, Tahir, will inherit the throne on his twenty-fifth birthday, and his children from him. I am merely guardian of the throne until Tahir is of age.”
“This is not a permanent arrangement, Zayed. This marriage is only temporary. You said so yourself earlier this morning.”
“I said it’d be temporary if Sharif returns. If he doesn’t …” His voice faded but not the meaning.
Rou shook her head fiercely, pink pearls swinging and clicking with her denial. “I won’t spend the next twenty years with you while you wait for Tahir to grow up.”
“It’d be twenty-three actually—”
“I’ll give you a year.”
“Ten.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Two.”
“Nine.”
“Nine years? Together? Are you mad?”
“No. I think I’m rather brilliant. You’re perfect for me, and perfect as my queen. You can be an instrument of change here in Sarq. You could help reform our system, introduce laws to create more equality among the genders and make sure women are fully protected.”
“You could do all that without me.”
He suppressed a smile. “It wouldn’t be as much fun.”
“Fun? How can you even say that? You should be horrified at the idea of marrying me. I have your list somewhere, and I don’t even meet half your desired attributes.” Rou reached for her small bag, the pale pink croc clutch that Manar insisted she take with her, and pulled out a folded paper and smoothed it on the table. “Let’s go over a few, shall we?”
He listened as she quoted back to him the traits he wanted, watching her face, the dark pink staining her cheeks, the bright fierce light in her eyes, the faintest quiver to her lower lip. When she finished, he lifted his hands. “But you are my list. You’re exactly what I want. Smart, strong, confident, accomplished, compassionate.”
But she shook her head, long pale hair tumbling over her shoulder. “No, you’re wrong. I’m not the woman you want. I’m not a beautiful woman. I’m not noble. I’m not compassionate. If I accept, if I become your wife, it’s because you can give me what I want.”
She held her breath as though she’d said something very shocking, but he was intrigued, not troubled.
For Rou it was shocking because she was doing this, agreeing to this, because she benefited, not just Zayed and his country. She would have the chance to be in Zayed’s life, in Zayed’s bed. She would have the chance to live out her fantasies, and then she’d be free to leave, to return to her career and her world of logic and reason. But at least she would have had this adventure, this chance to be someone else and experience what she had never felt.
Beauty. Hunger. Passion.
Aware that Zayed was watching her closely, she relaxed her clenched fist, smoothed the paper in front of her. “This isn’t going to be a free ride for you, Zayed Fehr. You need a wife, any wife, and I’ll be that wife, but there are conditions.”
“I expected as much.”
“Did you?” she shot back.
“Yes. Tell me.”
“I want the research center. And the money,” she said fiercely, lifting her chin and looking him in the eye.
“That will be expensive.”
Dark rose stormed her cheeks, darkening her eyes so they looked like burning sapphires. “I will also continue working, and I will keep my name, keep my practice and keep my home in San Francisco.”
He knew then, he’d kiss her again soon, very soon, if only to taste her soft, ripe mouth once more and feel that fierce spirit of hers. He’d never met a woman like her, and perhaps theirs wouldn’t be a love match, but it would be passionate. He could guarantee that already.
“And what do I get again?” he asked softly.
“You get a wife.” Her blue eyes shone. Her breasts rose and fell with every furious breath. “It’s what you wanted.” Her hard gaze met his and held, challenging him. “Wasn’t it?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROU faced four pink evening gowns—a pale pink tulle; a mauve taffeta sparkly affair; a frothy, fuchsia ball gown; and a slinky, salmon silk—her choices for tonight’s black-tie party, trying to decide on the lesser of the evils.
What a choice, and yet she had to make a choice. In just an hour she was to appear in the formal palace dining room for a prewedding dinner in her honor in one of these gowns. Having been briefed by Zayed, she knew that during the dinner she’d receive her engagement ring. She would also be introduced to all the family and friends that had been invited.
The wedding itself would take place late tomorrow morning, and then later in the evening in a much smaller ceremony Zayed would be crowned king.
But first, there was tonight’s formal dinner to get through, a lavish party that could last late into the night with close to one hundred guests attending.
Queen Jesslyn and the children would be among the family members attending, and Zayed’s younger brother, Sheikh Khalid Fehr, who’d been in the desert for the past several days as part of Sharif’s rescue efforts. However, Khalid’s young wife, Olivia, couldn’t join them, although she’d sent word that she desperately wanted to be there, but being late in her pregnancy she couldn’t fly. Zayed’s mother wouldn’t be there tonight, either, as she was still in the hospital, although she hoped to attend the wedding in the morning.
So many people. So many people there to look at her. Rou’s stomach rose and fell in a sickly surge of panic. She didn’t like being the center of attention, not like this. It was different when she was working, different when she was speaking, because she had a purpose then—she had a clear message to deliver—but tonight there was no message. Tonight her duty was to be attractive, groomed and agreeable.
Just like when she was a girl and dragged to court by her mother or father’s attorney to testify against the other parent.
The attorneys always wanted her dressed up then, too. They all had an idea of how she should look, and she’d be forced to sleep in rollers to turn her straight hair into blond ringlets. They insisted on “pretty clothes”—frilly, pastel party dresses; white, lace-edged ankle socks; and shiny, black patent shoes. And dressed up like a living doll, she’d be marched into court and stared at and interrogated, photographed and pitied. Pity was the worst of all.
Eyes closing, Rou forced the hateful images away. It was long ago. She wasn’t a child anymore. She wasn’t helpless or powerless. She was a woman, and she’d agreed to help Zayed in order to help Sharif and his family.
She could do this. She just needed a dress. Just something less frilly to wear tonight.
A light knock sounded on the bedroom door and when Rou answered the door she found Zayed. “I brought you an alternative,” he said, handing her a long, cream garment bag. “I didn’t realize how much you hated pink.”
She hesitated a moment before taking the garment bag. He was so big he seemed to fill the entire doorway. “And what is this? A peace offering in baby blue?” she answered mockingly, even as her fingers tingled and burned from where they’d brushed his.
“Close.” His gaze held hers, the golden depths warm, and revealing amusement as he then gave her a shopping bag. “And these are the accessories. Shoes, jewelry, undergarments.”
Her eyebrows arched as she struggled to ignore the coil of tension in her belly and how just that light brush of fingers made her back tingle and nipples harden. She was becoming far too sensitive around him, and far too responsive to the very real heat he generated whenever he looked at her. “Undergarments?”
“I thought you might want something special to wear under this gown.”
“Did you buy them yourself or have one of your assistants do the shopping?”
“I did. The shop was near the hospital. It just made sense.” His smile turned crooked. “So if the sizes are off, you have no one but me to blame.”
No one but him.
But wasn’t that the problem? Her cool, logical, scientific mind had made the most hopeless of choices in falling for him.
Zayed wasn’t safe. She wasn’t going to leave Sarq without a broken heart, was she?
“I’m sure everything will fit fine,” she said in a rush before thanking him and sending him out the door. But as she shut the door behind him, a hot flicker of pain shot through her, and she pressed a fist to her chest. It already hurt. Loving him would hurt.
Blinking back tears, Rou unzipped the cream garment bag to expose a featherlight gown the color of the sea, and felt her eyes sting. The dress was neither aqua nor cobalt, not turquoise or sapphire. It was a color so deep and intense and yet filled with light that she felt as though it’d been made just for her. Hand shaking, she drew the gown from the bag and the skirt tumbled to her feet in a long, narrow column of ocean blue with the softest, sheerest layer of chiffon over crushed silk.
Rou turned to the mirror, held the delicate gown against her chest and even in the soft light of her bedroom the fabric shimmered like water, like waves, and Rou, who’d never liked color before, loved this.
Rou, who’d never been beautiful, thought maybe, just maybe, tonight she would be beautiful. The very thought thrilled her, and she was ashamed at herself for being so shallow, but why couldn’t she play the beautiful fairy princess just once? Why couldn’t she pretend that she was one of those girls in the fairy tales who fell in love with a handsome prince and lived happily ever after?
Quickly she bathed so she could dress, and, still damp in her towel, she opened the shopping bag and took out the shoes and jewelry and undergarments which were just a small, silky pair of black panties. That was it.
Rou blushed and shook her head as she slid them on. The black panties were the softest silk, just wisps of fabric that covered next to nothing. But they were delicate and elegant and very sexy and the first sexy thing she’d ever owned.
Biting her lip, she looked at herself in the mirror in nothing but black panties against pale skin.
Definitely naughty. And pretty. And not pink.
The gown fit even better. It fit as though it was made for her, and she struggled with the zipper hidden in the side, but finally got it up so that she could turn to the mirror again. She loved what she saw. This was who she was. This is what she was. No frills, no bows, no puffy shoulders, nothing overtly girlie. The gown had one shoulder and it was an angular swathe of vivid chiffon. The bodice was narrow, pleated, and the skirt fell straight from beneath her ribs to her feet.
