The Desert Kings. Оливия Гейтс
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something happened?”
“Your brother’s dead. The queen and her children are heartbroken. The country’s in turmoil, and you’re being brave and good and helping out by becoming king.” She glared up at him even as the tears continued to fall. “What am I to do? Tell them I’m not marrying you? Tell them there won’t be a wedding, and their country won’t have a king? Queen Jesslyn introduced me to the children as Aunt Rou, for heaven’s sake! I’m their aunt now. And the little one, Takia, didn’t understand why we weren’t waiting for her daddy before we married!”
Her stream of tortured words ended and she looked at him for help.
“How could I have ever thought you unemotional?” he said.
“Well, I don’t like being this way—”
“I like you this way. You’re real. And you’re exactly what’s needed.”
She bit her lip to keep it from quivering like Takia’s.
“But if I could, I’d undo all this,” he added quietly. “I would give anything to see Sharif walk through those doors. I would give up everything I own, everything I am, to have him home safe. But until that day, I must do what he needs me to do. And that includes marrying and assuming the throne. But I need you to fulfill my duty. I can’t do it without you.”
“Not me, a wife.”
“But you are that wife. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”
She pictured Jesslyn and the children in the nursery and tears welled up all over again. Love, loss, marriage, children … the palace was full of everything that she feared most.
Family.
Pain.
And yet she couldn’t walk away from a family in such pain. She’d spent years going to school, years building her private practice, years counseling and listening, years writing, speaking, years dedicated to helping others. How could she just run away when there was so much need right here?
She averted her head. “I need some time,” she whispered, shaken.
He started to argue and then, after a deep breath, nodded. “We’ll meet for a late lunch. That should give you a couple hours.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It has to be. I—we—Sarq, we’re running out of time. This country hasn’t had a king in nearly two weeks. Decisions can’t be made, not even about my brother’s funeral.”
“All right.” She knew her voice was sharp but she was tired and overwhelmed. Nothing was as it was supposed to be. And if she wasn’t careful, nothing would ever be again.
“I’ll take you back to your rooms.”
“No, just point me in the right direction.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m smart.”
Their eyes met, gazes locking, both frustrated and furious.
After a long moment of tense silence, Zayed lifted his hands. “Fine. You win. Continue down this corridor to the second hall, take a left, and then at the first right, turn. Continue to the second hall, and then a left and then another left, one more right, and then you’ll be back in your wing. Got that?”
She smiled. “Piece a cake.” Not at all, but he didn’t need to know it.
In the end, Rou had to stop two different palace staff members to get clarification on the directions, but she did eventually arrive at her suite, and once there, she went to the bedroom and stretched out, pulling a soft pillow beneath her cheek.
The bed was so comfortable and pretty, with silk and satin curtains in every shade of rose surrounding the antique frame, that she could almost imagine Zayed’s sisters here. It was a room fit for princesses, and that’s what his sisters had been. But they were gone, and now Sharif was, too.
It was all too much being here, all too intense, too emotional and just too sad.
No wonder Zayed’s mother had collapsed and been rushed to the hospital. How could any mother bear to lose so many of her children?
Although Rou wanted nothing more than to hop on the next plane and jet back to San Francisco, she reluctantly accepted that it wasn’t an option. Zayed was right. He did need her. But she wasn’t going to give up who she was, or what she wanted, not forever, not even for Zayed, although she now knew she wanted to help.
But marriage?
Perhaps if it was just a temporary marriage … something to get them through the next couple of weeks …
She must have eventually fallen asleep because Manar was there, waking her up, reminding her lunch was in just a half hour, and wouldn’t she like to dress before she met His Highness on the terrace?
Rou sat up, groggy, and rubbed her eyes. “It’s already one?”
“Yes, Dr. Tornell. You have half an hour till your luncheon.”
“Then I have time,” Rou said, lying back down and nestling into her pillow. “There’s nothing I need to do to get ready.”
But Manar didn’t move. “Don’t you want to pick something else to wear to lunch? The terrace is shaded but it’s quite warm still.”
“I would if I could,” Rou answered with a yawn, “but this is all I have.”
“But, Dr. Tornell, come see. You have dozens and dozens of boxes and bags. They’ve all been flown in from Dubai.”
Rou sat back up. “What?”
“They’re for your trousseau, but His Highness wants you to start wearing them today. He said you needed something better suited for palace life.” The maid gestured, barely able to contain her excitement. “They’re all in the living room. Come look.”
Rou slid off the bed and padded barefoot into the living room, which was no longer a serene sitting area but a riot of colorful shopping bags. Dozens and dozens of boxes and bags covered the two sofas, with another dozen shoe boxes stacked on the low coffee table. As she descended the steps, she recognized a few of the names—Michael Kors, Chanel, Prada, Valentino, Dior—and then there were names she didn’t recognize, but the boxes and tissue were equally formal and impressive.
Uncertainly she lifted the lid on the garment box closest to her and discovered a frothy pink cocktail dress.
Pale pink peeked through the crisp tissue paper in the next box, this time in the softest cardigan imaginable, with diamond buttons.
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?