his side. “I told Manar I could find my way, but of course I turned the wrong way and then the wrong way again. The only other time I get this lost is in Manhattan, and I don’t know why I lose my sense of direction in Manhattan.”
She was mortified, he realized, discovering yet another little chink in her cool, logical armor, and it touched him, making him feel even more protective of her. “It’s fine. You are the bride-to-be. You can keep us waiting as long as you like.”
“No. Absolutely not. Punctuality is everything.” She nodded for emphasis and her pale hair, strands both silver and gold, danced.
He’d never seen her with her hair in this style. It was pulled back from her brow, teased ever so slightly to form a blond crown above her forehead and then smoothed past her ears into a delicate knot at the back, where loose curls tumbled free.
It was a princess hairstyle, he thought, and in her shimmering, sea-blue gown, she looked like a sea princess, with her crown of silver-gold hair, and her pale, luminous skin gleaming against the gown’s vivid silk.
“You look lovely,” he said, and it was true. It was as if until now she’d kept herself shrouded in shadows and darkness, but suddenly the blinds were off and the lights flicked on and she shone from the inside out, beautiful, bold and brilliant.
“Thank you.” Her smile was shy, and she lifted her wrists to show him the wide silver-and-diamond bracelets. “And dare I ask, are these real?”
“Yes.”
“Real diamonds?” she persisted, jingling one ever so slightly. “Because I counted the diamonds. There are over fifty in each.”
She was looking up at him, and her eyes matched her gown, rich, deep sea-blue, and he felt a rush of desire and possession. He wanted her, and the intensity of his desire caught him by surprise. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in years. Perhaps more than anyone since Princess Nur. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her in so long that just her name, Nur, sent a shudder through him. Twenty-four-year-old Nur’s violent death had been the beginning of the curse. He should have known better. He was seventeen, almost eighteen. He should have realized the consequences. Should have understood that the risks far outweighed the pleasure, but he’d been young, and so hopelessly in love.
“You must introduce me,” a deep male voice spoke, and Zayed turned abruptly, gratefully, toward Khalid, his younger brother, hoping that interruption would put an end to memories of a past that had haunted him for nearly twenty years.
Khalid, like Zayed, was dressed in the formal ivory-and-gold robes of their country, although neither wore a head covering. In the palace, they never did. But as Zayed made the introductions, the past wouldn’t fade; it was too alive tonight, bringing the loss and tragedy back with stunning force.
But then the past was never completely out of his mind. It stayed with him, the guilt weighing on him, eating away at any potential joy.
Yet he didn’t want to forget, either. He owed Nur that much, and despite the party about to take place, and the beauty of his soon-to-be bride, he was living all over again the day he discovered she was dead.
He’d raged, how he’d raged, tearing through the palace, breaking things, shouting, screaming for justice, screaming her innocence, screaming his grief. It took all of his father’s and brothers’ and palace attendants’ strength to keep young Zayed from going after Nur’s husband. Zayed wanted revenge, needed revenge, but his family had locked him in the palace for months, until he was calmer and controlled, but getting there meant that he’d died, too. Nur’s death had killed the boy and left the man—hard, strong, beautiful, and oh so empty. He was a man who had everything and yet nothing, and his curse stretched over the palace and the Fehr family.
First it claimed his sisters.
Then his father.
Now Sharif.
When would the tragedies end? When would something good begin?
Strains of music finally penetrated his brain, and Zayed came back to the present and the glow of candles and the loud hum of voices in the dining room. Next to him Khalid was talking to Rou, discussing one of her television appearances. Apparently he’d seen her once on Oprah, the American TV talk show, and Khalid was wondering if all American women needed so much relationship advice.
Of course Khalid and Rou would find it easy to converse. They were both scientists, although his area of study was archaeology and history, not psychology and anthropology.
Khalid and Rou were still talking when Zayed was given the signal that everyone was seated and ready for him to make his formal appearance in the dining room with Rou. Khalid then excused himself, going to sit with Jesslyn and the children, and the lights dimmed ever so slightly as musicians announced them.
“Ready?” Zayed asked her, looking down into her face, seeing a woman who deserved a far different life than the one she’d have now, a woman who deserved a far better man. But the only way he could do right by his family was by doing wrong to her.
Another tragedy.
Rou, who had been feeling unnaturally calm until this moment, looked up into the beautiful planes of Zayed’s face and saw something so tortured and hollow in his gold eyes that her breath caught in her throat. He was sad, so very, very sad, and she knew suddenly that he wasn’t anything close to the man she’d imagined him to be.
Realizing he was even more of a stranger than she’d thought, she felt a flurry of wild nerves, her pulse leaping maddeningly. Could she do this? Could she fulfill her promise to him?
Zayed, so handsome, so royal in his robes that her chest squeezed tight with the rush of emotion. She loved him.
She loved him?
Maybe she’d always loved him.
Rou took a quick breath, and then another, as she suddenly realized how much was at stake.
Her heart. Their happiness.
And now she had to walk into a room of one hundred people in a delicate gown that revealed more skin than she was accustomed to showing. Her soft, feminine hairstyle offered no protection, either. She had no crutch to use, no severe suit, no heavy glasses, nothing to protect her from others.
As if able to read her mind, Zayed took her arm, his voice deep. “I am with you. I will not leave your side. Not even if Sharif should walk through these doors.”
He’d tried to be light, comforting, but the mention of Sharif brought a lump to her throat. “I wish he would walk through these doors.”
She saw sorrow shade his eyes. “I do, too.”
And then with her arm on his, they were moving through the grand dining room’s enormous arched doors and into a large room with a soaring ceiling painted gold. The room itself gleamed with stunning precious metals, and Rou’s heart pounded as they walked between long tables draped in heavy silk embroidered with glittering gold and silver thread. Extravagant, white floral arrangements covered the tables, as did hundreds, if not thousands, of glowing white candles.
The heady, sweet scent of the white lilies was overpowering, and in the soft gleam of candles, she felt dizzy, even dazed, as though she were a bride already.
Her
