dated so many women that after a while, he’d run the risk of calling them by the wrong names, and where had it gotten him?
“Nowhere,” he said aloud, his tone grim.
He wasn’t any closer to finding the proper candidate for marriage than he’d been two months ago.
As they’d been when he’d confined his search to his homeland, the women were too everything—including too eager to please. No downcast eyes here in the States but the intent was the same.
Yes, your highness. Of course, your highness. Oh, I agree completely, your highness.
Damn it, did he have a sign hanging around his neck declaring himself in the market for a wife?
Not that he didn’t want an obedient wife. He did. Certainly, he did. After all, he would someday be the leader of his people. It would not serve his purposes to marry a woman who was not respectful.
Tariq narrowed his eyes.
Then why, once a prospective candidate seemed attractive enough—though none, to his surprise, was quite the precise physical specimen a wife of his ought to be—still, once a candidate’s appearance was acceptable, why did he resort to what even he suspected were stupid tests?
He’d tell a joke that had no punch line. Make a foolish comment about world affairs. Then he’d wait, though not for long. Every time, the woman he was secretly vetting for matrimony would laugh merrily or nod her overcoiffed head like a bobble doll, and he’d look at his watch and say, “My, look at the time, I didn’t realize it was so late …”
On top of that—not that he was a prude—most of them were far too sexual. Well, not exactly sexual. Obvious. That was the word. A man wanted a wife who enjoyed sex but he also wanted her to have a certain amount of reserve.
And, yes, he knew that was sexist and chauvinistic but—
But, by Ishtar, he’d dug himself into one hell of a deep hole.
Maybe that was why, a couple of weeks ago, over drinks and dinner with his two oldest friends, he’d ended up telling them about his quest.
Khalil and Salim had listened, their faces expressionless. Then they’d looked at each other.
“He’s trying to find a wife,” Salim had said solemnly.
“But he can’t,” Khalil had said, just as solemnly.
Salim’s mouth had twitched. Khalil’s, too. Then they’d snorted and burst into laughter.
“The Sahara Stud,” Khalil had choked out. “Remember when that girl called him that at Harvard?”
“And he can’t find a wife,” Salim said, and they’d dissolved into laughter again.
Tariq had jumped to his feet. “You think this is amusing?” he’d said in fury. “You just wait until you have to get married!”
Shudders had replaced laughter.
“Not for years and years,” Khalil had answered, “but when the time comes, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way. I’ll let my father make the arrangements. A prince’s marriage has nothing to do with romance. It’s all about duty.”
Tariq sighed and stared vacantly out the window. True. Absolutely true. Then, what was taking him so long?
His brother was gone. His father was no longer a young man. What if something happened? To his father? To him? Anything was possible. Without an heir to the throne, Dubaac could be plunged into turmoil. And that must not happen. He could not let it happen… .
A knock sounded at the door. Tariq swung around as his P.A. popped her head into the room.
“The Five O’Clock Financial News is on CNN, sir. You wanted to watch …?”
He gave her a blank look.
“To see if MicroTech would announce their new acquisition …?”
No wife. No functional brain, either, Tariq thought bleakly, and nodded his thanks.
“Right. Thank you, Eleanor. Have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The door swung shut. Tariq sat down at his desk, picked up the remote control and pointed it at the flat screen TV on the wall. A couple of clicks and he was looking at some set director’s idea of an office. Pale walls, dark floor, windows, a long table at which a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit sat facing three other middle-aged men in dark blue suits …
And a woman.
She wore a dark blue suit, too, but that was where the resemblance ended.
Tariq’s eyes narrowed.
It was difficult to tell her age, thanks to bulky, tortoise-framed glasses with darkly smoked lenses. The glasses lent her a look of severity. So did the way she wore her pale gold hair, drawn back from her oval face in a low chignon.
She sat straight in her chair, hands neatly folded in her lap, legs demurely crossed.
They were excellent legs. Long. Lean. Nicely toned.
His belly knotted with hunger.
He could see himself lifting the woman from her chair. Letting her hair down. Taking off her glasses so he could see if she was merely attractive or heart-breakingly beautiful …
Damn it.
He was not given to fantasies about women, especially ones he had never met. Was this what his search for a wife had reduced him to? Lust for a woman on television? A woman whose name he didn’t even know?
Tariq scowled.
This was what came of celibacy.
He had not been with a woman in two months. He’d thought it wise not to let a woman’s talent in bed influence him in his choice of a wife.
It had seemed a clever idea.
It still was.
He just had to stop fantasizing like a schoolboy.
Tariq tore his eyes from the woman. The program’s moderator, the Suit seated across from her, was speaking.
“. true, then, that MicroTech has acquired controlling interest in FutureBorn?”
The paunchiest of the Suits nodded.
“That’s correct. We believe FutureBorn represents the future. No pun intended,” he added with a thin smile. The two men seated with him laughed in hearty appreciation; the woman showed no reaction at all. “You see, Jay, as men and women delay childbirth, FutureBorn’s new techniques will become even more important.”
“But FutureBorn is in an already crowded field, isn’t it?”
Another thin smile. “So it would seem. Artificial insemination has been around for a long time, but FutureBorn’s new techniques
