The Desert Kings. Оливия Гейтс
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she was doing this, agreeing to this, because she benefited, not just Zayed and his country. She would have the chance to be in Zayed’s life, in Zayed’s bed. She would have the chance to live out her fantasies, and then she’d be free to leave, to return to her career and her world of logic and reason. But at least she would have had this adventure, this chance to be someone else and experience what she had never felt.
Beauty. Hunger. Passion.
Aware that Zayed was watching her closely, she relaxed her clenched fist, smoothed the paper in front of her. “This isn’t going to be a free ride for you, Zayed Fehr. You need a wife, any wife, and I’ll be that wife, but there are conditions.”
“I expected as much.”
“Did you?” she shot back.
“Yes. Tell me.”
“I want the research center. And the money,” she said fiercely, lifting her chin and looking him in the eye.
“That will be expensive.”
Dark rose stormed her cheeks, darkening her eyes so they looked like burning sapphires. “I will also continue working, and I will keep my name, keep my practice and keep my home in San Francisco.”
He knew then, he’d kiss her again soon, very soon, if only to taste her soft, ripe mouth once more and feel that fierce spirit of hers. He’d never met a woman like her, and perhaps theirs wouldn’t be a love match, but it would be passionate. He could guarantee that already.
“And what do I get again?” he asked softly.
“You get a wife.” Her blue eyes shone. Her breasts rose and fell with every furious breath. “It’s what you wanted.” Her hard gaze met his and held, challenging him. “Wasn’t it?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROU faced four pink evening gowns—a pale pink tulle; a mauve taffeta sparkly affair; a frothy, fuchsia ball gown; and a slinky, salmon silk—her choices for tonight’s black-tie party, trying to decide on the lesser of the evils.
What a choice, and yet she had to make a choice. In just an hour she was to appear in the formal palace dining room for a prewedding dinner in her honor in one of these gowns. Having been briefed by Zayed, she knew that during the dinner she’d receive her engagement ring. She would also be introduced to all the family and friends that had been invited.
The wedding itself would take place late tomorrow morning, and then later in the evening in a much smaller ceremony Zayed would be crowned king.
But first, there was tonight’s formal dinner to get through, a lavish party that could last late into the night with close to one hundred guests attending.
Queen Jesslyn and the children would be among the family members attending, and Zayed’s younger brother, Sheikh Khalid Fehr, who’d been in the desert for the past several days as part of Sharif’s rescue efforts. However, Khalid’s young wife, Olivia, couldn’t join them, although she’d sent word that she desperately wanted to be there, but being late in her pregnancy she couldn’t fly. Zayed’s mother wouldn’t be there tonight, either, as she was still in the hospital, although she hoped to attend the wedding in the morning.
So many people. So many people there to look at her. Rou’s stomach rose and fell in a sickly surge of panic. She didn’t like being the center of attention, not like this. It was different when she was working, different when she was speaking, because she had a purpose then—she had a clear message to deliver—but tonight there was no message. Tonight her duty was to be attractive, groomed and agreeable.
Just like when she was a girl and dragged to court by her mother or father’s attorney to testify against the other parent.
The attorneys always wanted her dressed up then, too. They all had an idea of how she should look, and she’d be forced to sleep in rollers to turn her straight hair into blond ringlets. They insisted on “pretty clothes”—frilly, pastel party dresses; white, lace-edged ankle socks; and shiny, black patent shoes. And dressed up like a living doll, she’d be marched into court and stared at and interrogated, photographed and pitied. Pity was the worst of all.
Eyes closing, Rou forced the hateful images away. It was long ago. She wasn’t a child anymore. She wasn’t helpless or powerless. She was a woman, and she’d agreed to help Zayed in order to help Sharif and his family.
She could do this. She just needed a dress. Just something less frilly to wear tonight.
A light knock sounded on the bedroom door and when Rou answered the door she found Zayed. “I brought you an alternative,” he said, handing her a long, cream garment bag. “I didn’t realize how much you hated pink.”
She hesitated a moment before taking the garment bag. He was so big he seemed to fill the entire doorway. “And what is this? A peace offering in baby blue?” she answered mockingly, even as her fingers tingled and burned from where they’d brushed his.
“Close.” His gaze held hers, the golden depths warm, and revealing amusement as he then gave her a shopping bag. “And these are the accessories. Shoes, jewelry, undergarments.”
Her eyebrows arched as she struggled to ignore the coil of tension in her belly and how just that light brush of fingers made her back tingle and nipples harden. She was becoming far too sensitive around him, and far too responsive to the very real heat he generated whenever he looked at her. “Undergarments?”
“I thought you might want something special to wear under this gown.”
“Did you buy them yourself or have one of your assistants do the shopping?”
“I did. The shop was near the hospital. It just made sense.” His smile turned crooked. “So if the sizes are off, you have no one but me to blame.”
No one but him.
But wasn’t that the problem? Her cool, logical, scientific mind had made the most hopeless of choices in falling for him.
Zayed wasn’t safe. She wasn’t going to leave Sarq without a broken heart, was she?
“I’m sure everything will fit fine,” she said in a rush before thanking him and sending him out the door. But as she shut the door behind him, a hot flicker of pain shot through her, and she pressed a fist to her chest. It already hurt. Loving him would hurt.
Blinking back tears, Rou unzipped the cream garment bag to expose a featherlight gown the color of the sea, and felt her eyes sting. The dress was neither aqua nor cobalt, not turquoise or sapphire. It was a color so deep and intense and yet filled with light that she felt as though it’d been made just for her. Hand shaking, she drew the gown from the bag and the skirt tumbled to her feet in a long, narrow column of ocean blue with the softest, sheerest layer of chiffon over crushed silk.
Rou turned to the mirror, held the delicate gown against her chest and even in the soft light of her bedroom the fabric shimmered like water, like waves, and Rou, who’d never liked color before, loved this.
Rou, who’d never been beautiful, thought maybe, just maybe, tonight she would be beautiful. The very thought thrilled her, and she was ashamed at herself for being so shallow, but why couldn’t she play the beautiful fairy princess just once? Why couldn’t she pretend that she was one of those girls in the fairy tales who fell in love with a handsome prince and lived happily ever after?
Quickly she bathed so she could dress, and, still damp in her towel, she opened the shopping bag and took out the shoes and jewelry and undergarments which were just a small, silky pair of black panties. That was it.
Rou blushed and shook her head as she slid them on. The black panties were the softest silk, just wisps of fabric that covered next to nothing. But they were delicate and elegant and very sexy and the first sexy thing she’d ever owned.
Biting her lip, she looked at herself in the mirror in nothing but black panties against pale skin.
Definitely naughty. And pretty.