and scented the room with spicy perfume.
A young robed woman appeared under one of the arches. “Welcome,” she said shyly with a bow. “I am Manar, and I am to make you comfortable. I will be here with you as long as you are here.”
“Thank you, Manar. That is very kind of you, but I don’t really need anything. Just my computer so I can start working.”
“It is here,” Manar answered with a gesture toward a small antique desk in the corner of the room. The desk had been angled to provide a view of the garden wall, and her briefcase sat on top of the desk.
“Wonderful.” She pushed up her suit’s wool sleeves and approached the desk. “I think I’m set then.”
Manar looked at her doubtfully as Rou took a seat at the desk. “You do not wish to bathe or change?”
Rou was already pulling out her computer and preparing to set it up. “Hmm?” she asked, realizing Manar was waiting for a response.
“You do not wish to change into something more comfortable for work?”
Rou shook her head briskly, determined to do what she needed to do so she could leave as soon as possible. “No. I’m fine. But thank you.” And then she was turning her computer on and all thoughts were on the work before her.
Alone in the living room, she adjusted the reading light on the desk, and stacked her notebooks next to her computer, and prepared to enter the information she’d learned this morning and during the flight. But her fingers wouldn’t obey. She balked at completing the online spreadsheets.
It just seemed wrong to do this.
It seemed wrong to be helping Zayed find a wife this way. Her gut said that Zayed needed a love marriage, not an arranged marriage. Her gut said he was a man with deeper feelings than he let on. But he wasn’t asking for her intuition, he wanted her skills to pair him with a suitable woman. At least, if there was sufficient time.
Just input the rest of the profile, she told herself. Do what he’s hired you to do.
But still she couldn’t type. Her fingers wouldn’t respond. Her mind wouldn’t respond.
When she closed her eyes in frustration all she saw was Zayed, and not just his beautiful profile but his tortured expression, and she could hear his anger and she knew there was something else bothering him, something else eating at him. Only what?
Yet her obsession with Zayed was beginning to annoy her. She was here to work. This was business, pure and simple. So why then was she so conflicted?
Why was she acting so out of character? Rou never let herself dwell on emotions. She didn’t cater to them or acknowledge them and certainly didn’t give in to them. Emotions were the enemy of the scientist. Thoughts, logic, reason—those were the basis for all scientific theory.
She just needed to focus on science now. Needed to clear her head and remember what was important, what mattered.
Theory. Study. Proof.
And yet, and yet … there were feelings inside her that wouldn’t be stifled. Feelings that were disturbingly intense, and distractingly real, and they ached in her now, and it was a physical ache, a heartache. And it was all because of him. Zayed Fehr.
Rou exhaled and, resting her elbows on the desk, she covered her face with her hands.
She still had feelings for him. That’s why she still responded to him. That’s why she wanted him to like her, admire her. Foolish, foolish Rou, she thought. So book smart and so people stupid.
She sat for a long moment, face hidden, heart thudding, stomach knotted with misery.
And then the survival instinct kicked in. She knew what she had to do. She had to get him matched and married and she had to get out of here. Soon. Because Zayed Fehr was dangerous. If she wasn’t careful, he’d take that too-warm, too-tender spot in her heart and rip it wide-open.
Lavender shadows dappled the courtyard outside her window by the time Rou finished inputting her information. It had taken her far longer than usual to complete the profile, but at last it was done and now the computer program she’d designed would match him with suitable candidates.
She waited while the computer sorted and then put together a list of possibilities. The program gave her thirty. Not bad.
Rou was still reading through the profiles when Manar returned. “His Highness would like to see you. Are you able to receive guests now?”
“Yes, of course,” Rou answered, rising, even as she reached up to touch her hair, thinking only now that perhaps she should have run a comb through it, or freshened herself a little.
But Zayed arrived immediately, and she remained on her feet as he entered the suite.
“I have your first candidates,” she said nervously. “I can print off the profiles and you can study them when you have time, or we could go through them now—”
“It is his plane.” Zayed’s voice was low, rough. “It doesn’t appear there were any survivors.”
Rou slowly sat back down in her chair. “No.”
“The bodies were charred, nearly unrecognizable….” He came to a stop, arms at his sides, and for the first time there was real despair on his face, in his voice. “They have to run tests. They’ve asked for dental records.”
Rou stared at him in mute horror. So it’d come to this. The jet. The remains of the bodies. Sharif’s body. Her mind shuddered in grief, in horror. “His wife,” she whispered.
“Beside herself.”
She bit down into her lower lip, biting hard to keep tears from welling in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he added roughly.
He was sorry? He was apologizing to her? Rou’s eyes filled with tears. Her chest burned with livid emotion, emotion she hadn’t felt in years. “I’m sorry,” she choked, “I’m so sorry for all of you—”
“I have to make this right.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will make it right.” He walked toward her, crossing the sunken floor, and it wasn’t until he stepped into the light that she realized he was wearing a white robe. She’d never seen him in traditional Sarq dress. “But there isn’t a lot of time. The coronation is in forty-eight hours.”
She looked from the white robe up to his bronze profile. He was recently shaven and his cheekbones jutted high and hard against his skin. “So soon?”
“Can you find me a queen in forty-eight hours?”
Her gaze held his. This wasn’t a moment of celebration, it was a tragedy, a travesty. The whole country would be mourning. Sharif’s family would be mourning. “Perhaps we can find you prospects—”
“No, not prospects. A bride. I told you, I have to be married. There must be an actual ceremony.”
“But
