“Stop pacing,” Shafir said from behind him. “You called us in to talk about the new hotel you’ve financed, but now you wear holes in that kelim. Sit down and talk.” He tapped his gold pen against the legal pad in front of him. “I’m in a hurry.”
Swiveling on his heel, Rafiq put his hands on narrow hips, and scowled down at where his brother lounged in the black leather chair, his white robes cascading about him. “You can wait, Shafir.”
“I might, but Megan won’t. My wife is determined to spend every free minute we have at Qasr Al-Ward.” Shafir flashed him the wicked grin of a man well satisfied by that state of affairs. “Come for the weekend. Celebrate that the contracts for the new Carling Hotel are in place. It’ll give you a chance to shed that suit for a couple of days.”
Shaking his head, Rafiq said, “Too much else to do. I’ll resist the call of the desert.” He envied his brother the bond he had to Qasr Al-Ward, the desert palace that had been in the family for centuries. Since his marriage to Megan, Shafir had made Qasr Al-Ward their home.
“Don’t resist it too long—or you may not find your way back.”
“Why don’t you take our father?” Rafiq wasn’t eager to engage in the kind of analysis that Shafir’s sharp gaze suggested was about to begin. In an effort to distract his brother, he tipped his head to where King Selim was intent on getting his point across to his firstborn son. The words “duty” and “marriage” drifted across the expanse of the boardroom table. “That way Khalid might get some peace, too.”
Shafir chuckled. “Looks like our father is determined not to give him a break.”
“You realize your marriage has only increased the pressure on Khalid?”
Stabbing a finger at his brother’s chest, Shafir chuckled. “And on you. Everyone expected you to marry first, Rafiq. Unlike Khalid, your bride isn’t Father’s choice. And unlike me, women don’t view you as already wed to the desert. You spent years abroad—you’ve had plenty of opportunity to fall in love.”
“It wasn’t so straightforward.” Rafiq realized that was true. “There were no expectations on you, Shafir. No pressure. You’ve always done exactly what you want.”
His brother had spent much of his life growing up in the desert; he’d been allowed rough edges, whereas Rafiq had been groomed for a corporate role. Educated at Eton, followed by degrees at Cambridge and Harvard. There had been pressure to put thought and care into his choice of partner—someone who could bear scrutiny on an international stage. A trophy wife. A powerful trophy wife.
How could he explain how a relationship that started off as something special could deteriorate into nothing more than duty?
“Take it.” His father’s rising voice broke into his thoughts.
Rafiq refocused across the table. His father was trying to press a piece of paper into Khalid’s hand. “All three of these women are suitable. Yasmin is a wealthy young woman who knows what you need in a wife.”
“No!” Khalid’s jaw was like rock.
“She’s pretty, too.” Shafir smirked.
“I don’t want pretty,” his eldest brother argued.
Pretty. Rafiq shied away from the word. Tiffany had thought she was pretty. Not beautiful. Pretty. Rafiq had considered her beautiful.
“I want a woman who will match me,” Khalid was saying. “I don’t care what she looks like. I need a partner … not a pinup.”
“Hey, my wife is a partner,” Shafir objected. “In my eyes she’s a pinup, too.”
Newly—and happily—married, he’d become the king’s ally in the quest to seek a suitable wife for his brothers. Although Rafiq suspected that Shafir was only trying to drive home how fortunate he’d been to find his Megan. If he could find a woman as unique, as in tune with him as Megan was with Shafir, he’d get married in a shot ….
Khalid bestowed a killing look on Shafir, who laughed and helped himself to a cup of the rich, fragrant coffee that the bank’s newest secretary was busy pouring into small brass cups.
“Thank you, Miss Turner.” To his father Khalid added, “I don’t need a list. I will find my own wife.”
Rafiq craned his neck, peering at the list. “Who else is on there?”
“Farrah? She’s far too young—I don’t want a child bride.”
“Leila Mummhar.”
Rafiq’s suggestion had captured his father’s attention.
“Pah.” The King flung out his arms. “Don’t you give him advice. I was certain you’d be married long before Shafir. Now look at you—no woman at your side since your beloved departed.”
“Shenilla and I had … differences.” It was the best way to describe the pushy interest that Shenilla’s father had started to exert as soon as they’d considered him hooked. Shenilla was a qualified accountant, she was beautiful, her family was well respected in Dhahara. On paper it was the perfect match.
Yet he’d run ….
“Differences?” His father growled. “What is a little difference? Your beloved mother and I had many differences while we were courting. We overcame them and—”
“But your marriage was expected,” Rafiq interrupted. “It was arranged between your families from the time you were very young. You could not end such a relationship.”
The king shook his head. “It made marriage no easier. But we worked at it. Happiness is something to strive for, my son, every day of your life. And you were so in love. Ay me, I was so certain that this time it would be right.”
How could Rafiq confess that he’d been sure that Shenilla had been perfect for him, yet once their families had become involved as quickly as he’d fallen in love with her, he’d fallen out again? And it hadn’t been the first time. Before that there had been Rosa and before her, Neela. He wasn’t indiscriminate. His cautious courtships lasted for lengthy periods—that was expected after the care he put into the choice. But just when they got to the point where formalities like engagements became expected, when the pressure to set a wedding date was applied, the love dwindled, leaving only a restless need to escape the cloying trap the relationship had become.
“Khalid, you may object now but you know your duty.” The king patted his firstborn son on the shoulder. “Choose any one of those women and you will be richly rewarded.”
Rafiq eyed the list and thought of the requirements he’d set for women he considered in the past—after all he was a practical man, his wife would have to fit into his world. Wealthy. Beautiful. Well connected. “Yasmin comes from a powerful family.”
Khalid shook his head fiercely. “No, it’s not her family I’d be marrying. And I want more than power, wealth and looks in a bride. She must be able to keep me interested for many years, long after worldly goods are forgotten.”
Interested? Rafiq’s thoughts veered to the last woman who had occupied his bed.
Tiffany had kept him interested from the moment he’d met her. Yes, he’d told her she was beautiful. And he’d meant it. But she was nothing like the other beauties he’d dated. Her features reflected her every emotion, and the graceful way she moved had held him entranced. She certainly fulfilled none of the other criteria he looked for in a wife … she’d never be suitable.
It shamed him that in one short night with little effort she’d stripped him of the restraint and control he prided himself on. It had disturbed him deeply that a woman whom he didn’t love, held no fondness for, a woman he suspected of being a con artist, a blackmailer, could hold such power over him.
She’d insisted she’d had no intention of bedding him; she’d been as deliciously tight