The Desert Kings: Duty, Desire and the Desert King / The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride / The Desert King

Holding her breath now, she opened another box and she lifted a pleated coral silk dress with a thin gold chain at the waist.

Another box, a slim white skirt, the palest pink gladiator-style shoe, a pink crocodile clutch.

It was a sea of pink.

Dizzy, Rou sat down on an armchair facing the couches. She didn’t wear pink. Ever.

Where was the black, the navy, the charcoal-gray she wore? Where were her serious pieces, the wardrobe that made her feel smart, safe, invincible? These were such girlie, feminine items—skirts and heels, sexy ankle-wrap sandals and figure-hugging fabrics.

“Is everything pink?” she asked Manar, a hint of despair in her voice.

Manar lifted her head. “You don’t like your new clothes?”

“They’re just so … pink.”

Manar gently ran a hand over a hot-pink, silk trench coat lined with a paler shade of satin. “But they’re beautiful. Like candy or jewels.”

Rou, who rarely cried, felt close to tears for the second time in one day. Candy? Jewels? Did Zayed really buy her clothes that resembled candy and jewels? How could he think she’d like something so silly? So impractical? So unprofessional?

Wardrobe was important. It was image. Status. Power. And with a wardrobe of baby pink, coral, rose and fuchsia, he was turning her into an accessory. She wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t be his doll or arm candy. She was Dr. Rou Tornell, and he’d better not forget it.

To Manar’s horror, Rou insisted on wearing her black wool skirt and black knit top to lunch. “Why,” the maid exclaimed, “when you have the most beautiful clothes here?”

Rou opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of an appropriate explanation. Manar then reached among the piles of pastel-hued accessories and grabbed a jeweler’s box containing a long strand of fat, pink pearls. “At least wear these,” she begged. “That way you won’t appear to be rejecting all of His Highness’s gifts.”

Rou accepted Manar’s offer to take her to the garden where she’d be joining Zayed for lunch. Before she’d even stepped onto the patio she heard the tinkling notes of a fountain. A vine-covered arbor provided shade on the terrace and the sweet scent of antique roses perfumed the air.

Zayed was already there, waiting for her, and despite the terrace’s shadows, she could feel the weight of his gaze as she approached. He was studying her the same way she used to study specimens under the microscope, and she stiffened, not enjoying the intense scrutiny.

“You don’t like your new clothes?” he asked.

Rou had unpinned her chignon and left her hair loose, but other than that change to her hair, and the addition of her pearls, she looked the same as he’d seen her earlier in the day. “They’re all pink, Your Highness,” she said, taking the seat he offered her and then carefully spreading the pale lavender linen napkin across her lap.

He took the chair opposite her. “You don’t like pink?”

She shot him a level look. “Do I look like a woman that wears pink?”

His gaze held hers and then dropped to her mouth and then lower, down her neck to her breasts, where they seemed to linger indecently long. “You look like a woman that needs to remember she’s a woman.”

Rou bristled. “And dressing me in pink like a fancy doll will turn me into a proper woman?”

“No. Proper lovemaking should do that, but in the meantime, I see no reason why you shouldn’t wear colors and styles that flatter your coloring and complexion. You’re a beautiful woman—”

“Please, Sheikh Fehr.”

“—determined to hide behind the most hideous clothes and styles possible.” He stopped, smiled faintly and added, “Do you think we could start using each other’s first names now? It seems strange that we’re still using titles.”

“I like being Dr. Tornell.”

He grinned crookedly, gold eyes flashing. “Yes, I know you do. And if it makes you happy, I promise to call you Dr. Tornell in the bedroom.”

Rou blushed again, her skin burning from her chest to her brow as she pushed her water glass away from her. “That was so not necessary, Zayed,” she said, stressing his name.

He just smiled, which only made him even more gorgeous. “You’re perfect, Rou. Perfectly proper, perfectly prickly. A rare, delicious fruit covered in dangerous thorns.”

Face burning, she forced her attention to the table, where white lush roses spilled from the round centerpiece. “In case you think the thorns are protecting a sweet, delicate pulp, you’re mistaken. The inside of me is just as thorny and sour as the exterior.”

“I’m sure there’s a cure for that.”

“I don’t want a cure! I like who I am.”

“As do I.”

She was saved from having to answer by the appearance of kitchen staff as they paraded out with a stream of lunch dishes. Olives in marinade. Roasted red peppers with feta, capers and lemons. Stuffed grape leaves. Stuffed eggplants. Spicy, skewered grilled shrimp. Chilled lentil salad. Warm flat breads. Dish after dish kept arriving, despite the fact that Rou couldn’t even manage more than a couple mouthfuls.

Zayed, she noticed, didn’t have that problem. He ate generously of everything, enjoying his meal as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

He looked up, caught her gaze. “You can’t let conflict and tension control you,” he said, as if able to read her mind. “You have to learn to separate your emotions from conflict, as conflict will always exist—”

“It didn’t before you entered my life,” she interrupted tartly. “I was fine. I was happy. I was successful.”

“And you are still successful, and you will be happy. You’re not losing anything by marrying me. You’re gaining a husband, a family and a kingdom.”

She shook her head, incredulous. “But I don’t want a husband, a family or a kingdom. I like the simplicity of my life. It works for me. It allows me to accomplish the things I do.”

“You don’t think you can still be successful as a wife? You don’t think you can accomplish great things if you become a mother?”

“No. No, I don’t,” she answered firmly, a quaver in her voice. “And while I might consider a temporary marriage, I’m adamant that there will not be children. I won’t be a mother. If you’re counting on forever, if you’re wanting a baby-making machine, you’ve got the wrong woman.”

He leaned back in his chair, far more sympathetic to her situation than she knew. Like her, he’d never planned on marrying. He’d never wanted to father children. He’d long believed there were enough children in the world and he’d been determined never to add to the population boom.

“Children aren’t at the top of my priority list right now,” he answered calmly. “Sharif’s son, Tahir, will inherit the throne on his twenty-fifth birthday, and his children from him. I am merely guardian of the throne until Tahir is of age.”

“This is not a permanent arrangement, Zayed. This marriage is only temporary. You said so yourself earlier this morning.”

“I said it’d be temporary if Sharif returns. If he doesn’t …” His voice faded but not the meaning.

Rou shook her head fiercely, pink pearls swinging and clicking with her denial. “I won’t spend the next twenty years with you while you wait for Tahir to grow up.”

“It’d be twenty-three actually—”

“I’ll give you a year.”

“Ten.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Two.”

“Nine.”