The Desert Kings. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ 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? 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, СКАЧАТЬ