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“Good.”
As Irene sat back into her chair with the baby, the new Mr. and Mrs. Falconeri went out alone on the dance floor, hand in hand. Swaying to the music, they looked at each other tenderly and passionately, as if no one else were there. Watching them, wistfulness filled Irene’s heart.
Someday...
Someday, a man would look at her like that. And she’d have a baby like this. She looked at the warm, slumbering little boy in her arms, with his dark lashes fluttering against his plump cheeks. When the time was right, when fate meant it to be so, she would meet the One. They’d fall in love and get married. They’d work hard, buy a home, have children of their own. They would do things properly.
But what if it never happened? What if she spent her whole life waiting, working hard, following all the rules, and still ended up broke and alone?
Believe. She squeezed her eyes shut. Have faith.
“You are not dancing, fräulein?”
She looked up with an intake of breath, but instead of the Emir of Makhtar, she saw a dignified blond man with blue eyes. She shook her head, feeling awkward. “No, thank you.” Then, remembering how the sheikh had so unfairly and wrongly compared her to a cactus, she forced herself to smile until her cheeks hurt as she indicated the sleeping baby in her arms. “It’s kind of you, but I can’t, I’m holding Sam while they dance.”
“Ah.” The man sighed and said with a German accent, “Such a pity.”
“Yes. Indeed,” she said, relieved beyond all measure when he moved on. She didn’t know how to react. Two men hitting on her in one night? This had never happened during her year in Paris. But then—she looked down at the sleek-fitting designer gown—she didn’t usually dress like this, either. But still, she wasn’t half as glamorous or beautiful or thin as the other female guests. Not even close!
Irene knew her flaws. Her thick black hair was her one vanity, but other than that... Her body was too plump. Her nose turned up at the end, and her eyesight was truly bad. She blinked hard. Her new contact lenses still felt strange against her eyeballs. She was used to wearing glasses. She was also used to being invisible. She was used to avoiding attention, staying at home reading books, quietly unnoticed in the corner. She thought longingly of the new Susan Mallery novel waiting on her bedside table.
“Good evening, señorita.”
Irene looked up at the deep, purring voice. It was the Spanish man who’d been playing the guitar so beautifully.
“You’re amazing,” she blurted out.
The Spaniard gave a wicked grin. “Who told?”
She blushed. “Your music, I mean. But if you’re here, then who...” She turned and saw there was now a four-person band playing the music. She hadn’t even noticed the change. She finished lamely, “You are very good on the guitar.”
“The least of my skills, I assure you. Would you care to dance?”
“Oh.” Her blush deepened. Another handsome playboy, way out of her league, flirting with her? Weird. Had Emma slipped a ten-dollar bill to the most handsome guests in an attempt to boost Irene’s confidence? Although these didn’t seem like the type of men to be swayed by a ten-dollar bill. Ten million dollars, maybe. Maybe not even then.
Biting her lip, she again indicated the sleeping baby. “Sorry. Emma left me in charge. I’d have only stepped on your feet anyway.” She added hastily, “Thanks, though!”
“Another time, perhaps,” the Spaniard murmured, and moved on without any apparent heartbreak to one of the wealthy-supermodel types she’d seen the sheikh talking to earlier. Irene looked down at the warm, sleeping baby in her lap. At least she didn’t need to worry that anyone had paid little Sam to pretend to like her.
“It must be exhausting,” a man’s sardonic voice observed behind her, “that the ruder you become, the more you have to beat potential lovers off with a stick.”
Irene felt a shock of electricity through her body. She turned her head to see the sheikh standing behind her, his black eyes gleaming. She hid the uncontrollable leap of her heart.
“You would know,” she murmured, looking at him sideways beneath her lashes. “Isn’t that how it usually works for you? You tell women that they mean nothing to you, that they’re just the next mark on your bedpost, and they are so enamored of this thought that they fall at your feet and beg you, Take me, take me now?”
His dark eyes held a bright gleam as he took another step toward her.
“Say those five words to me, Miss Taylor,” he said softly, “and see what happens.”
A tremble electrified her body, from her earlobes down her spine to the hollows of her feet. She licked her lips and tossed her head.
“That’s one thing I’ll never say to you. Not in a million years.”
“I could make you say it, I think,” he said softly. “If I really tried.”
He looked down at her with eyes black and hot as smoldering coals, and her throat went dry. She felt her body turning into putty, her brain into mush.
“Don’t bother trying,” she managed to croak. “You’ll fail.”
He tilted his head. “I don’t fail.”
“Never?”
“No.”
As they stared at each other, the air thickened between them. Something sizzled, something primal. The people around them became blurs of color, mere noise. Held in his dark gaze, Irene felt time stand still.
Then her heart started to beat again. “You used my name. How did you know? Did you ask about me?”
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “I was curious.”
“I know about you now, too. The famous playboy emir.”
He tilted his head toward her, as if confiding a secret. “I know something about you, too, Miss Taylor.”
“What’s that?”
With a slow, sensual smile, the billionaire emir held out his hand.
“The reason you refused to dance with those other men,” he said huskily, “is because you want to dance with me.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE INTENSITY AND focus of his gaze held her down like a butterfly with a pin, leaving her helpless and trembling. Irene’s heart pounded in her chest.
“I want to dance with you, Miss Taylor.” The sheikh looked down at her. “I want it very much.”
Her throat was dry, her mind scrambling. She exhaled when she remembered Sam sleeping in her arms. “Sorry, but I couldn’t possibly. I promised to hold the baby and...”
Unfortunately at that moment Sam’s mother brushed past them to scoop her sleeping baby up in her arms. “It’s time to put this sleepy boy to bed,” Emma said, holding him snug against her beaded white gown. She threw the sheikh a troubled glance and said in a low voice to Irene, “Be careful.”
“You don’t need to worry,” Irene said. Really, couldn’t her friend see that she could look out for herself? She wasn’t totally naive.
“Good,” Emma murmured, then turned and said brightly to the sheikh, “Excuse me.”
Irene looked at him, wondering how much of the whispered conversation he’d heard. One glance told her he’d heard everything. He gave her an amused smile, then lifted a dark eyebrow.
“It’s just a dance,” he drawled. He tilted his head. “Surely you’re not afraid of me.”
“Not even slightly,” she lied.
“In that case...” Holding out his hand with the courtly formality of an eighteenth-century prince waiting for his lady, he waited.
Irene stared at his outstretched hand. She hesitated, remembering how her body had reacted the last time they’d touched, the way he’d made her tremble with just a touch on her wrist. But as he’d said, this time he was just asking for a dance, not a hot, torrid affair. They were surrounded by chaperones here.
One dance, and she’d show them both that she wasn’t afraid. She could control her body’s response to him. One dance, and he’d stop being so intrigued by her refusals and leave her safely alone for the rest of the weekend. He’d move on to some other, more responsive woman.
Slowly, Irene placed her hand in his. She gave an involuntary shudder when she felt the electricity as their fingers intertwined, and she felt the heat of his skin pressing against her own.
His handsome face was inscrutable as he led her out onto the terrace’s impromptu dance floor. Above them, dappled moonlight turned wisteria vines into braided threads of silver, like magic.
He held her against his body, leading her, swaying her against him as they moved to the music. He looked at her, and Irene felt her body break out in a sweat even as a cool breeze trailed off the moonlit lake against her overheated skin.
“So, Miss Taylor,” he murmured, “tell me the real reason you were pushing me away—along with every other man here.”
She swallowed, then looked at him. “I will tell you. If you tell me something first.”
“Yes?”
“Why you have continued to pursue me anyway.” She looked at the women watching them enviously from the edge of the dance floor. “Those other women are far more beautiful than I. They clearly want to be in your arms. Why ask me to dance, instead of them? Especially when it seemed likely I would say no?”
He swirled her around to the music, then stopped. “I knew you wouldn’t say no.”
“How?”
“I told you. I never fail to get what I want. I wanted to dance with you. And I knew you wanted the same.”
“So arrogant,” she breathed.
“It’s not arrogant if it’s true.”
Irene’s heart was pounding. “I only agreed to dance with you so you’d see that there’s nothing special about me, and leave me in peace.”
His lips lifted at the corners. “If that was your intention, then I am afraid you have failed.”
“I’m boring,” she whispered. “Invisible and dull.”
His hands brushed against her back as they danced.
“You’re wrong. You are the most intriguing woman here. From the moment I saw you on the edge of the lake, I felt drawn to your strange combination of experience—and innocence.” Leaning down, he bent his lips to her ear. She felt the roughness of his cheek brush against hers, inhaled the musky scent of his cologne, felt the warmth of his breath against her skin. “I want to discover all your secrets, Miss Taylor.”
He pulled back. She stared up at him, her eyes wide. She tried to speak, found she couldn’t. His dark eyes crinkled in smug masculine amusement.
He twirled her to the music, and when she was again in his arms, he said, “I answered your question. Now answer mine. Why have you been pushing every man away who talks to you at this wedding? Do you have something against them personally, or just dislike billionaires on principle?”
“Billionaires?”
“The German automobile tycoon has been married three times, but still considered very eligible by all the gold diggers in Europe. Then, of course, my Spanish friend, the Duque de Alzacar, the second-richest man in Spain.”
“Duke? Are you kidding? I thought he was a musician!”
“Would it have changed your answer to him if you’d known?”
“No. I’m just surprised. He’s a good guitar player. Rich men usually don’t try so hard. They expect other people to entertain them. They don’t care who else gets their heart bruised trying to win their attention, their love—”
She broke off her words, but it was too late. Aghast, Irene met his darkly knowing glance.
“Go on,” he purred. “Tell me more about what rich men do.”
She looked away. “You’re just not my sort, that’s all,” she muttered. “None of you.”
The sheikh looked around the beautiful moonlit terrace. His voice was incredulous. “A German billionaire, a Spanish duke, a Makhtari emir? We are none of us your type?”
“No.”
He gave a low, disbelieving laugh. “You must have a very specific type. The three of us are so different.”
She shook her head. “You’re exactly the same.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Your eminence... I’m sorry, what am I supposed to call you?”
“Normally the term ‘Your Highness’ is the correct form. But since I suspect you are about to insult me, please call me Sharif.”
She snorted a laugh. “Sharif.”
“And I will call you Irene.”
It was musical the way he said it, with his husky low voice and slight inflection of an accent. She had never heard her name pronounced quite that way before. He made it sound—sensual. Controlling a shiver, she took a deep breath. As he moved her across the stone floor, they were surrounded by eight other couples dancing. The bride and groom were no longer to be seen, the wine was flowing and the lights in the wisteria above them sparkled in the dark night, swaying in the soft breeze off the lake.
“Explain,” he said darkly, “how I am exactly like every other man.”
She got the feeling he wasn’t used to being compared to anyone, even tycoons or dukes. “Not every man. Just, well—” she looked around them “—just all the men here.”
Sharif set his jaw, looking annoyed. “Because I asked you to dance?”
“No—well, yes. The thing is,” she said awkwardly, “you’re all arrogant playboys. You expect women to fall instantly into bed with you. And you’re full of yourselves because you’re usually right.”
“So I am conceited.”
“It’s not your fault. Well, not entirely your fault,” she amended, since she wanted to be truthful. “You’re just selfish and coldhearted about getting what you want. But when you throw out these lines, these false promises of love, women are naive enough to fall for them.”
“False promises. So now I am a liar, as well as conceited.”
“I am trying to say this gently. But you did ask me.”
“Yes. I did.” He pulled her closer against his body. She felt his warmth and strength beneath his white robes, saw the black intensity of his gaze. “We were introduced five minutes ago, but you think you know me.”
