rarely blushed and yet again heat surged to her cheeks, her face burning from her chin to her brow. Her thoughts were just as chaotic. For some reason she couldn’t think when Zayed Fehr was near. All her logical thought disappeared in a puff of panic, a cloud of emotion. And Rou didn’t trust emotion. “Are you spying on me?”
“I don’t spy, but I do have bodyguards and personal assistants. Butlers, chauffeurs and valets—”
“I get the picture,” she said stiffly, “and for a man so powerful, I can’t help but wonder why you chose me to help with your search for a queen.”
“You’re successful. And your matches endure. I’ve yet to hear of one marriage ending in divorce.”
Rou felt a shiver race through her. The very word divorce made her cold. Divorce. Attorneys. Judges. Courtrooms. Nasty, hateful, deceitful allegations. Seven years it’d taken her parents to finalize everything. Seven years. And by the time they finally had an agreement in place, they’d destroyed everything and everyone, including their own daughter.
It had taken Rou all of her teens and well into her twenties to heal, and the only reason she did heal was her friendship with Sharif Fehr. He’d made sure she returned to school, made sure she had the funds to continue through graduate school. With his financial support, she’d been able to keep her vow that she’d work to make sure that no child, and no family, should ever suffer the way she had.
Chilled, Rou thought of her soft velvet cape in the cloakroom and then of her cozy hotel room at the exquisite Hotel Bristol. She was ready to return to her room, ready for the safety and warmth the four walls provided. “It’s late and I’m still very jet-lagged….”
“Running away again, Dr. Tornell? And yet aren’t you the expert at teaching women to stand their ground, and face their fears, and look reality in the eye?”
“Yes. But I’m also the expert who says women should trust their gut, and my gut says you are dangerous.”
He laughed, and his laughter silenced her.
He should have been appalled, angered, but no, he laughed.
She lifted her chin. “I’m deadly serious, Sheikh Fehr.”
“I’m sure you are, but you’re so wrong in this case, so completely off base, that I can’t help but wonder if you’re really a scientist or if those are someone else’s degrees from Cambridge tacked on after your name.”
“I assure you, I’ve earned every doctoral degree, thank you.”
He smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Then act like a scientist, because that’s what I want. I’m most certainly not interested in the woman in you.”
“That’s good, because the woman in me despises the man in you.”
She walked away then, legs shaking with every step. She felt ill. Exposed. Any other time she would have left the reception, but this night was Georgina’s night and she couldn’t leave, not yet, not until dinner was over and the dancing began.
Zayed let her walk, watching her slim, black-clad figure disappear through the ballroom doors toward the dinner tables.
She’s changed, he reflected, as she faded into the crowd.
Three years ago she was a chatterbox—nervous, tense and gawky. Now she had more polish—her success, maybe?—but she was far colder, and harder. Interesting how time and success changed one.
But her brittle hardness didn’t deter him. He needed her. Time was running short, and his intensely meddlesome mother was already starting her matchmaking, and God kew he didn’t want a traditional Sarq girl. He knew himself and feared he’d destroy such a woman in no time. Girls in Sarq were still raised to be meek and mild, compliant and acquiescing. A young Sarq woman wouldn’t know how to converse with him, or argue properly. She’d simply nod and say, Yes, my lord. Yes, my love, yes.
How he’d hate that. How he’d hate a partner that wasn’t strong, wasn’t an equal. But finding an equal in his world was next to impossible. He wasn’t ugly, far from it, and that was the problem. Women saw his face and they all found it tragically well put together. They heard his name. Learned of his title, his power, his staggering wealth and they all fell, tumbling to his feet, so eager. Too eager.
He couldn’t marry a woman like that, either.
He wouldn’t trust or respect a woman like that. And without trust or respect, he’d soon be irritated, which would make lovemaking a chore, dooming the relationship.
Zayed was many things, and he’d broken many rules and many laws, but even he believed marriage to be sacred. He’d never slept with a married woman. And he’d never cheat on his wife.
So he needed the right wife. The perfect wife.
And frigid, rigid Rou Tornell might lack charm and personality, but she was supremely skilled at matchmaking. And he was determined she’d find him a match.
He followed her.
She’d just taken her seat at the dinner table. It was assigned seating and he wasn’t at her table, but he pulled out a chair next to her and sat down anyway.
She turned her head and shot him a furious, frosty look. “Go away.”
He shrugged, smiled carelessly and leaned closer, his broad shoulders crowding her. “I can’t, Dr. Tornell. I need your help.”
She averted her head, apparently watching the guests in mute fascination.
They were a stellar bunch, he acknowledged, a dazzling mix of royalty, international aristocrats, celebrities and socialites—all dressed as if they had personal stylists, and most, he suspected, did.
Rou was perhaps the only one who looked as if she’d dressed herself. His gaze flickered over her sedate black gown. It seemed painfully familiar, and he wondered if it was the same black gown she’d worn to Lady Pippa’s wedding three years earlier.
“Isn’t this the same dress you wore three years ago?” he asked now.
She turned her head, cheeks suffused with color. “Yes. Why? You don’t like it?”
He’d scored a direct hit, he thought, observing the emotions flashing across her face. And in that moment, she looked almost pretty, her eyes dark, her cheeks deep pink, her lips trembling with outrage. “You could probably find a more flattering style and color,” he answered.
Her lips compressed and her gaze leveled on his. “Black is always in style.”
“No, not true, especially when black makes you appear sallow. You’d do better in pinks.”
“For your information, this is a designer gown of good fabric which I bought at Barney’s in New York—”
“Ten years ago, I imagine from the look of the sleeves.”
Her eyes widened, the blue irises almost black with fury. “Go away,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t
