The Desert Kings. Оливия Гейтс
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lips tugged, and it appeared as though he were trying very hard not to smile. “I will still take my time. I promise to make it pleasurable for both of us.”
Zayed’s gaze rested on her face, enchanted by the vivid wash of rose in her cheeks. It’d been a long time since he met a woman that blushed.
“You don’t have to drag it out,” she said, lips compressing. “We have a job to do. Let’s just get it done.”
“Is that how you view lovemaking?”
She gave him a sharp look and muttered, “We’re not in love, therefore it’s not lovemaking.”
“Is there a more scientific name you prefer?”
He could see her mind race, considering all the different possibilities, and none of them pleased her. Her mouth compressed even smaller, her chin set. “To call it sex is fine.”
And Zayed, who had so much on his mind, and so much pain in his heart, felt something else in his heart, and it wasn’t sorrow or grief, but a lightness that hadn’t been there in weeks.
My God she was funny. And nervous. And tongue-tied.
And perfect. Perfectly prickly. Perfectly priceless.
An hour later they’d said their goodbyes to their guests and were excused from the after party and now were in Zayed’s wing. His suite of rooms and the furnishings were bold and royal and utterly magnificent. Rou stood in the middle of his living room, noting how his plaster walls were draped with regal tapestries and the low couches and drapes were all rich midnight-blue velvets and silks embroidered with gold.
Turning her head, she saw an open doorway, and through that she glimpsed an enormous bed, this, too, covered in rich blue velvet. She looked away, wishing she hadn’t seen it, knowing exactly what would happen in there in just a matter of time.
“A glass of champagne?” he asked, reaching for a bottle chilling in a silver ice bucket.
She hadn’t had anything to drink at lunch—only half the guests drank due to culture and religion—but a glass of champagne sounded perfect now. It might even take away that terrible bite of nerves. “Please,” she said, pressing a hand to her stomach as if she could quiet the butterflies.
“Do sit,” he said, as he expertly popped the cork.
She looked around for a safe spot to sit and chose the only single chair in the room. Zayed smiled as he noted her choice of seating, which only made her sit taller and straighter on the low velvet chair.
He filled two crystal flutes, carried them to her and handed one over.
“Cheers,” she said quickly, brightly.
He looked down into her eyes. “To a long and happy marriage.”
She flushed and winced, thinking his toast made hers sound shallow and insincere. “To a long and happy marriage,” she answered more quietly, clinking the rim of her flute to his. The crystal tinged and then she drank, letting the cold, dry champagne bubble across her tongue and fizz all the way down as she swallowed. The cold bubbles brought tears to her eyes and warmth to her middle. “This is good.”
“You don’t usually drink,” he said, taking a seat on the blue velvet couch across from her and stretching his arm along the back. He looked so comfortable, so at ease with himself and life that she felt a burst of envy. Life would be so different if she behaved as he did—owning his space, seizing it, taking as much as life offered. Unlike her, who tried to take as little as possible.
She took another quick sip. “Not much, no.”
“Why?”
“This is your inheritance,” she said, lifting a hand to gesture around the palatial suite. “Mine is a little different.”
His gaze narrowed. “Was it your mother or father who drank?”
“My father.” She felt her cheeks warm. “My mother preferred pills.”
His gaze rested on her flushed face. “Not you?”
“No. I’m an adult child of addicts. I have other issues. Lack of trust. Problems with boundaries. Serious need for control.” Her lips curved, self-mocking. “I’m sure none of this is news to you, though. You’ve spent enough time studying me.”
“You never talk about your parents.”
Her chin lifted. “I just did.”
“Your parents were very famous.”
“And famous for their lack of control.” She took another long sip from her champagne, her flute now half-empty, and then resolutely set the glass on the low table between them.
His gaze never left her face. “Why do you hide your beauty? You’re as beautiful, if not more beautiful, than your mother, and she was one of the great beauties of her time.”
It was all Rou could do to stay seated. She longed to leap up and move. Pace. Walk. Run.
Run away.
Instead she swallowed the panic rushing through her, panic stirred by memory and painful emotions, and forced herself to answer calmly, “Beauty means nothing if it’s selfish. Hurtful.”
“You are neither.”
“Because I’ve chosen not to focus on the externals. I’ve committed my life to finding true beauty, inner beauty. It’s why I work to help people find true companionability, relationships built on shared values and needs.”
He said nothing for a moment, intent on listening, watching. Finally, “If I had gone through your matchmaking system, what would have happened, after the first meet?”
She shrugged. “Second dates, third dates … eventually love.”
“Pippa told me you had rules for the dates, including rules about sex.”
“I think you have sex on the brain,” she said tartly, pressing her hands together to keep from making wild, nervous gestures.
He laughed, creases fanning from his eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. You are incredibly beautiful, as well as intriguing. Does it bother you that I look forward to being with you?”
Rou swallowed hard and, crossing her legs, turned the conversation back to her matchmaking rules. “Pippa was right. I do discourage my clients from sleeping together for the first five meets. After that, it’s up to them.”
“But why five dates, and why the need for any rules at all?”
“Sex changes the relationship, particularly for women. The majority of women feel emotionally involved from the point they make love. Men don’t internalize sex the same way. Abstinence levels the playing field.”
She thought he’d laugh, but instead his expression sobered. “Do you think sex will change the way you feel about me?” he asked quietly.
She opened her mouth, then shut it. “I … I don’t know. I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t ever felt close to a man after sex.” There, she’d said it. She shrugged a little to hide her discomfort and waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He just regarded her with those intense gold eyes.
“I’m probably not the most experienced woman alive,” she continued, “but at the same time, I know enough to know how I respond … and …” Suddenly her courage was gone. She couldn’t find the words to say that she didn’t respond, that in bed, she didn’t feel. It was her own failure as a woman, and one she’d decided not to focus on as there were so many things she could do. But now that failing loomed large, and she was terrified of not just disappointing herself, again, but of disappointing him.
“Do you always sleep with a woman on a first date?” she asked abruptly.
“Do