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“Annoying, isn’t it? Just like you did with me.”
Sharif stopped on the dance floor, looking at her. “I have never given any woman a false promise of love. Never.”
Irene suddenly felt how much taller he was, how broad-shouldered and powerful. He towered over her in every way, and he had a dangerous glint to his eye that might have frightened a lesser woman. But not her. “Perhaps you haven’t actually spoken the promise in words, but I bet you insinuate. With your attention. With your gaze. With your touch. You’re doing it now.”
His hands tightened on her as he pulled her snugly against his body. His hot, dark eyes searched hers as he said huskily, “And what do I insinuate?”
She lifted her troubled gaze.
“That you could love me,” she whispered. “Not just tonight, but forever.”
For an instant, neither of them moved.
Then she moved her body two inches away from him, a safe distance any high school chaperone would approve of, with their arms barely touching.
“That’s why I wouldn’t dance with the others,” she said. “Why I’m not interested in you or any man like you. Because I know all your sexy charm—it’s just a lie.”
Sharif stared at her. Then his eyebrow lifted as he gave her a sudden wicked smile.
“So you think I’m sexy and charming.”
She looked up at him. “You know I do.”
Their eyes locked. Desire shot in waves down her body, filling her with heat. Making her tremble. She felt the electricity between them, felt the warmth and power of his body. Her knees were weak.
Most playboys never change. You know that, don’t you?
She hadn’t needed Emma’s warning. She’d learned it well. From the wretched lessons of her childhood. From Carter. She’d learned it up close and personal.
She abruptly let Sharif go.
“But you’re wasting your time with me.” She glanced back at the beautiful women watching him with longing eyes, as if they could hardly wait to throw themselves body and soul onto the fire. Irene’s lip curled as she nodded in their direction. “Go try your luck with one of them.”
Turning on her heel, she left without a backward glance. Praying he wouldn’t see how her body shook as she walked away.
* * *
He’d underestimated her.
Sharif’s jaw was tight as he stalked off the dance floor alone. He walked through the crowd of watching women, some of whom tried to talk to him as he passed.
“Your Highness, what a surprise...”
“Hello, we met once at a party, if you remember...”
“I’d be happy to dance with you, Your Highness, even if she won’t...”
Grimly, he kept walking, without bothering to reply. Perhaps he was rude, after all, just as Irene had accused. But these skinny women, with their glossy red lips and hollow cheekbones, were suddenly invisible to him. It wasn’t their fault. All other women were invisible to him now because he was interested in only one.
The one who wasn’t afraid to tell him the truth. Who wasn’t afraid to insult him. And who found it so easy to walk away.
Miss Irene Taylor. Of Colorado, the wild, mountainous center of the United States he knew only from skiing once in Aspen.
There’s nothing special about me.
He shook his head incredulously. How could she honestly believe that?
He wanted her.
He would have her.
But how?
“Having a good time?”
Sharif stopped. It took him a moment to focus on Cesare Falconeri, the bridegroom, standing in front of him in a tux. “Your wedding has been most exciting,” he replied. “In fact, the most interesting I’ve ever attended.”
“Grazie. Emma will be pleased to hear it.” The man gave him a sudden grin. “And this is just the start. Tomorrow, we have the civil ceremony in town, followed by all kinds of fun for the rest of the day, including the ball at night.” He clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “So save some energy, Your Highness.”
The rest of the weekend. As Cesare walked away, Sharif relaxed, took a deep breath. He still had two days. He felt rebounding confidence. Yes. What was he worried about? He had the rest of the weekend to seduce her. She’d already given so much of her true emotion away—too much. He knew she wanted him. She was fighting her own desire. That never worked for long. Willpower always gave out eventually.
Sharif would win. As long as he had the stamina for a long, drawn-out siege. He thought of her.
He definitely had the stamina.
But how to go about it?
All day tomorrow. A ball lasting far into the night. By the end of it, she would be in his bed. Simple as that.
He would seduce her, bed her, satiate himself with her, and they would part on mutually respectful terms the following morning, after the final breakfast. He dismissed Irene’s concern about his playboy nature out of hand. Perhaps she’d be right to fear some kind of emotional fallout if they had some kind of continuing connection. But they did not move in the same circles, so it was highly unlikely. This Italian villa—he looked up at the Falconeri mansion—was a weekend party out of place and time. It would be a pleasant memory for both of them, nothing more. One night together would hardly be enough to inspire love, even in a woman as romantic as Irene Taylor. She might be young, but she had an old soul. He’d seen it in her eyes. Heard it in the tremble of her voice as she spoke about the selfishness of playboys. One must have hurt her, once.
Sharif would distract her from the pain of that memory, as she would distract him from his own pain that lay ahead. He would fill her with pleasure. It would be a night they’d never forget.
She’d won the battle tonight, but he would win the war.
Sharif felt oddly exhilarated as he returned to the villa. One by one, his six bodyguards fell wordlessly into step behind him, then peeled off to their assigned rooms as he returned to his suite, two of them standing guard in the hallway outside his door.
Alone in the lavish bedroom, he smiled to himself as he removed his white keffiyeh and black rope of the agal. He ran his hands through his short dark hair. His head felt sweaty—and no wonder, since every inch of his body had felt overheated since he’d met the delectable Miss Taylor. He started toward the en suite bathroom for a shower, when he heard the ring of his cell phone.
He glanced at who was calling, and his jaw went tense with irritation. He had no choice but to answer.
“Has something happened with Aziza?” he demanded by way of greeting.
“Well...” Gilly Lanvin, the twentysomething socialite he’d hired as his young sister’s companion, drew out the word as long as she could, clearly scrambling to think of a way to keep him on the phone.
“Is she hurt?” he said tersely. “Does she need me?”
“Nooo...” the woman admitted with clear reluctance. “I was just wondering...when you’ll be back to the palace.”
“Miss Lanvin,” he snapped. “These calls have to stop. You are companion to my sister. Nothing more. It would be inconvenient for me to replace you so soon before her wedding. Do not make me do so.”
“Oh, no, Your Highness. I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I just thought you might be lonely. I just thought—”
He clicked off the phone before he was forced to endure hearing what she’d thought. He needed to replace her. He’d known it since she’d first started making eyes at him two months ago. But Aziza liked her. So he’d hoped to just ignore it until Aziza’s wedding, when a companion would no longer be required and he could send the woman back to Beverly Hills on the next flight.
Three months. Just three months and his sister would be married, and it would no longer be his problem. He stalked into the gleaming white marble bathroom and removed the rest of his clothes, then stepped into a steaming hot shower. He turned his mind back to the delicious Miss Taylor. He let his imagination run wild, picturing her in this shower with him, naked, as he soaped up those full lush curves of her body, hearing her gasp as he pressed her against the shower wall and took her deep and hard, as her wide-spread hands pressed against the steamed glass...
Oh, yes. Tomorrow night. Sooner, if he was at the top of his skill.
Climbing naked into his large bed, he slept very well that night, dreaming of everything he intended to do to Irene Taylor, in this very suite, before the next day was through.
He woke to see the sun shining gold through the tall windows. Yawning, he stretched in the huge bed, feeling the Egyptian-cotton sheets beneath his skin. Smiling to himself, he brushed his teeth, shaved, dressed with care. Not the traditional Makhtari dress today. Instead, he reached into the closet for a crisp white shirt and suit tailored for him in London. Unlike many men of his position, he preferred having no valet, something that had caused a minor scandal in his palace. But there were some things a man just liked to do for himself. He ran his hands impatiently through his black hair and smiled at himself in the mirror.
He would have her tonight.
Sharif went downstairs to join the other guests in the breakfast room. Soon, they were joined by the blushing bride and groom, who looked very happy and not a little tired. But there was no sign of Irene. He waited. Even when the other guests piled into the arranged limos, to take them all into town for the civil ceremony, he waited, waving off Falconeri.
“I’m not quite done with my coffee,” he’d said by way of explanation. The man gave him a strange look, as if he thought it wasn’t an entirely satisfying reason for a guest to miss a wedding. But they all left.
The villa became quiet, except for the low hum of servants preparing the next meal, and his own bodyguards conversing quietly on the edges of the cavernous, brightly painted breakfast room. Five minutes later, he heard high heels clicking rapidly across the marble foyer and sighed in anticipation.
He looked up from his Arabic-language newspaper with a ready smile as Irene burst into the doorway.
“Am I too late?” she cried.
“You just missed them,” he replied. “They left five minutes ago.”
Irene looked even more beautiful than last night, he thought. She was dressed in black pumps and a 1950s-style day dress that accented her hourglass figure—Valentino? Oscar de la Renta?—topped with a soft pink cardigan and pearls. A smudge of deep pink lipstick was her only makeup, accenting the slight bruise of violet beneath her huge dark eyes that suggested a sleepless night. Perhaps she hadn’t found the sensual dreams of them making love quite so comforting and pleasant as he had.
“Dang it!” She hung her shoulders. “I can’t believe I overslept. On Emma’s special day. I am the worst friend ever!”
“She has three special days,” he said sharply. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It doesn’t matter.”
“I can’t believe I was so careless.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I must have turned off my alarm. I was just so tired, I didn’t fall asleep until dawn...”
“Oh?” He tilted his head suggestively. “I’m sorry to hear that. Something keep you awake?”
She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed. “Never mind.” She reached for the silver coffeepot and a china cup edged with a pattern of twenty-four-carat gold. As she poured the steaming hot coffee, followed by tons of cream and sugar, she glanced at his paper.
“What are you reading?”
“Today’s newspaper from my home country.”
“Today’s? How did you get it?”
“It was delivered to me by plane.”
“Can’t you get it online?”
“I like paper.”
“So you had a whole plane fly all the way here just because you—”
“Yes,” he said. “Just because.”
“Ridiculous,” she grumbled. Sitting on the very edge of the farthest chair, she sipped her coffee, glaring at him over the rim of her cup. “You expecting some kind of war today?”
“War?” Finishing the last of his espresso, Sharif calmly set the cup back in the saucer.
She looked pointedly at the four bodyguards, all now still as statues in the four corners of the room. “You brought your army along for breakfast?”
“I am Emir of Makhtar,” he said, as if it explained everything.
She snorted. “Are you afraid you’ll be attacked?” She looked at the cheerful yellow walls, the tall windows overlooking Lake Como, the high ceilings with their early-nineteenth-century frescoes. Her lips lifted. “Clearly this could be dangerous.”
He shrugged. “Standard procedure.”
“Having four hulking babysitters always hovering around sounds like my idea of hell. Although at least it’s easy to get rid of your lovers the morning after.”
“Are you looking to start a fight with me, Miss Taylor?”
“You said you were going to call me Irene. And yes, I’m looking to start a fight. It’s your fault I overslept. You’re the one who kept me up all night.”
He hadn’t expected her to admit it so easily. “Dreaming of me?”
“Dreaming?” She looked at him as if he was crazy. “It wasn’t a dream I heard all night, banging and moaning in the room next door. It was really quite...athletic, the length and stamina of it all. I’m glad you so eagerly took my advice and found another woman more willing to service you.”
“Length?” He looked at her with wickedly glinting eyes. He rubbed his jaw. “Stamina?”
Her cheeks flamed a delectable red. “Forget it.”
“I’m flattered you immediately assumed it was me.”
“Of course it was you,” she snapped. “I don’t appreciate how you kept me up all night. Now I’ve missed Emma’s civil ceremony because of you. Next time tell your bed partner to keep her opinion of your acrobatics to herself.”
“I appreciate the compliment, but it wasn’t me.”
“Sure,” she said scornfully.
Sharif looked at her.
“It. Wasn’t. Me.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then her expression changed. “Oh.” If anything, she seemed to get even more embarrassed. “Sorry.” She wiped her eyes fiercely, tried to laugh. “I really seem to be messing everything up today.”
“You are really so upset about missing the civil ceremony?”
She blinked back tears. “I don’t miss things like this. I don’t. I’m the one that people count on. What if she needs me to take care of the baby during the ceremony? What if she’s upset because I’m not there? What if...”
