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
