Fireside Books tonight at seven. I’ll pick you up from there at nine. Good luck with your interview.” And he was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
BUT she wasn’t at Fireside Books when he arrived, a half hour before the signing was to have ended. She’d cut the event short, citing illness, and she’d left.
Zayed rocked back on his heels as he stood outside the bookstore digesting the information. It was a crisp night and the late-October wind sent red and gold leaves swirling past his feet.
The ice maiden had run rather than meet with him.
That was a first, and certainly a change from how attentive she’d been at Lady Pippa’s wedding three years ago. That night Rou Tornell had clung to him like Velcro, hanging on his every word. But then, women were forever throwing themselves at him, eager, so eager, to be his next lover.
Fortunately, he’d always treated his women well—Angela included. Even after the relationship had ended, Zayed made sure the women were okay. Financially. Emotionally. He might be hard, but he wasn’t a complete ass. He had had sisters, after all.
Zayed pulled his phone from his pocket, knowing already that Rou Tornell would no longer be found at the Fairmont. If she’d left the store early, he suspected she’d left town early, and not for San Francisco, which was her home, but to Austria where she’d be attending another one of her high-profile weddings in just two days. Which was perfect, actually. He’d been invited to Ralf and Princess Georgina’s wedding, too.
I now pronounce you man and wife.
The guests erupted into applause as the groom lifted Georgina’s veil and dipped his head and bent her back over his arm to kiss her, her silk gown sparkling with the five thousand crystals hand stitched across the delicate fabric.
The kiss ended, and the couple turned to face the congregation, and Rou’s breath caught in her throat at the expression on Georgina’s face. She was so happy, so deeply in love and it struck Rou that while St. Stephan’s Cathedral glowed with candlelight and the glittering guests, none shone more brightly than Georgina herself.
The light in Georgina’s eyes alone made Rou’s heart ache.
Rou’s heart turned over as music swelled, filling the grand Gothic cathedral as the beaming bride and groom walked down the aisle. Georgina’s found her match. She’s found her mate.
Weddings always moved her, but this one, this was exceptional. Georgina had been hurt so badly three years ago when her fiancé left her at the altar and she’d sworn off men, sworn off love, sworn off being a wife and mother.
Rou, Georgina’s childhood friend, refused to accept that one of her oldest, dearest friends would never have a happy ending, and she’d worked quietly behind the scenes looking for the right man. And then she’d found him. Baron Ralf van Kliesen, an Austrian count by title, born and raised in the Australian Outback by his Australian mother. Ralf was perfect for Georgina—strong, independent, handsome, brilliant, but kind, very kind, and that was what Georgina needed most. A strong yet tender man to love her. Forever.
Forever.
The lump in Rou’s throat grew and spread, pressing hot and heavy on her chest, and up behind her eyes so they stung with brilliant unshed tears.
To be loved forever. To love forever. To be so blessed.
As a young girl, Rou had once felt safe and loved, but when her parents’ marriage changed, it changed so dramatically, so violently, their lives were never the same again. Worse, because her parents were so famous, their divorce and destructiveness played out in the media, their battles gossip fodder, their phone calls taped and played for the press. They both fought hard for custody. They both claimed they wanted Rou, needed her, must have her. But neither truly wanted her. They just didn’t want the other one to win.
Love wasn’t about winning, and love wasn’t abuse. Love was generous and kind. Respectful. Supportive. And this was why Rou did what she did—matched couples by values, beliefs, needs. Not by externals like appearances, although appearances counted. People fell in love with an image, but there had to be something behind the image. There had to be a real connection, a genuine understanding.
Rou was still more emotional than she liked when she exited the cathedral, descending the stone steps to the street. The moon was already yellow in the sky and even in the city the autumn night smelled of crackling leaves and a brisk hungry wind.
Climbing into her waiting limousine, she pressed the collar of her soft velvet cloak to her throat. The rich crush of the material warmed her. It was such an extravagant thing, lined with black silk, the silver clasp studded with genuine diamonds. It had been her mother’s cape, bought to accompany her father to a premiere of one of his movies. Rou remembered the framed photo of her mother and father on the red carpet, her mother smiling her dazzling smile, the cape snug about her shoulders.
The photo was long gone—burned, just as her mother had destroyed all the clothes she’d worn while married, cutting some, burning others. But the cape escaped. It’d been left in England after one of her mother’s trips back home, and it’d hung in Grandmother’s closet forgotten until Rou found it at sixteen, two years after her mother’s death.
The limousine had arrived at the palace, and inside she checked her cherished cloak, and turning toward the ballroom, hesitated for just a moment before the doors, aware she was alone, aware she’d turn no heads, but also grateful for her anonymity. Her parents’ beauty bewitched the world. Rou dazzled no one. But it was also better this way. She could live quietly. And she could remain in control. Control being very important to her well-being.
With a quick hand over her hip, she smoothed the jersey fabric of her conservative black gown and entered the gold-and-white ballroom illuminated by a thousand gleaming candles.
And the first person she spotted across the ballroom was Zayed Fehr.
She froze.
Couldn’t be, she told herself, stepping back as if she could escape into the shadows. Instead she bumped into a waiter and spilled one of the glasses of champagne he carried.
She apologized profusely in German, and glanced over at Zayed Fehr again.
It was him. Had to be him. No one else looked like that, or moved like that. And God help her, it appeared he was coming toward her.
Panicked, Rou disappeared into the crowd and then fled the ballroom for the hall where she retreated to the elegant ivory-and-gold ladies’ room.
Rou paced the lounge area of the ladies’ room, so agitated she chewed on a knuckle, something she never ever did.
What was he doing here? Why would he be here? Oh, but she knew the answer to that. He’d wanted her help. She’d refused. So he’d hunted her down here. Damn him.
For twenty minutes, she hid in the ladies’ room until she heard the trumpets herald the arrival of Ralf and Georgina. Surely Zayed would be gone by now.
But she was wrong. She’d taken only four steps into the highceilinged hall before he appeared before her, blocking her access to the ballroom.
“How did your Vancouver event go?” he asked conversationally, as if they were old friends, good friends.
Rou’s
