Modern Romance - The Best of the Year

Well, she’d never know now. Instead, she’d be going home even worse off than she’d left—unemployed, broke and with all the baguettes and croissants she’d eaten in Paris, not exactly thinner, either.

She’d thought she could make a better life for herself. Even after the unfortunate incident that had gotten her fired six months ago, she’d still held out hope she’d find a new job in Paris. She’d gone through her savings, even the precious thousand-dollar bequest that the Abbotts had left her when they died.

Irene stopped. She pressed her fingers against her eyes, trying not to feel the jagged pain in her throat.

There will be no more tears tonight. Only enjoyment and pleasure. She could still hear his low, husky voice. You are spending the evening with me. Not just the evening, but the night.

Why her?

She’d always tried to believe it was just her family’s reputation that made people in her home town so cruel. That it wasn’t personal. But if that was true, why had the dark sheikh immediately assumed the worst of her, asking if she intended to seduce Emma’s husband—as if she would want to! As if she could! Why had he assumed she would immediately fall into bed with him, just for the asking?

Irene closed her eyes, brushing her forehead with a trembling hand. Her cheeks were hot. All right, so she’d been attracted to him. How could any woman not be?

How could any woman not be attracted to a man like that, dressed so exotically in full white robes, with his black eyes and cruel, sensual lips? Anyone would be attracted to that darkly handsome face. To his strong, broad-shouldered body. To the aura of power and limitless wealth that followed him like his entourage of bodyguards.

If Carter was out of her league, then this sheikh was so far out of her league that she couldn’t even see his league. It was somewhere out in space. Possibly by Jupiter.

Why would a man like that be interested in her?

It was true that for Emma’s sake, Irene had done her best to look nice today, brushing out her black hair, putting on makeup. She’d even worn contact lenses instead of her usual soda-bottle glasses, and had on a beautiful, borrowed designer dress. But that didn’t explain it.

Had she just seemed like easy pickings, crying by the lake? Or was there something wrong with her, some black mark on her soul that only men like Carter and the sheikh could see?

She remembered how the man’s piercing black eyes had looked right through her soul, seeing far too much.

You feel alone. That is why you were crying. That is why you are angry. You are tired of waiting for your lover.

Pushing the memory of his low, sardonic voice away, she took a deep breath.

She couldn’t go back to Colorado. She couldn’t. But all she had left was twenty euros, a studio apartment in Paris paid for till the end of the week and the return flight home.

Hearing the clanging of a bell, Irene looked up the hill to the highest terrace. Beneath the wisteria-covered trellis with hanging fairy lights, she saw Emma, now Mrs. Falconeri, summoning her guests to the outdoor dinner reception. Emma’s new husband, Cesare Falconeri, smiled down at his new bride as their baby son, dressed in a tiny tuxedo, yawned in his arms.

Emma had found her true love, married him, had a baby with him. They were blissfully happy. And kind-hearted. Also, Cesare was a billionaire hotel tycoon, which couldn’t hurt anything. Without asking her, they’d simply tucked a first-class airline ticket from Paris to Lake Como in their wedding invitation. First-class. She smiled wistfully. Now, that had been an experience. The flight attendant had waited on her hand and foot, as if she were someone important. Crazy.

The truth was, she didn’t need first-class. She just needed to believe that someday she might have what Emma had, and what Dorothy Abbott had once had: a husband she could love, respect and trust. A happy, respectable life, raising children in a snug, warm home.

She slowly walked up the hill with the other guests. The shadowy terrace was long, filled with three large communal tables placed end to end down the middle, decked out with flowers and glowing candles and colored lights dangling from above. Irene shivered in the November air, in spite of four heat lamps at the corners of the terrace, all going full blast.

She looked at the happy couple holding their fat, adorable baby, trying to ignore how her heart was aching. She was happy for Emma, she truly was. But she wondered at times if she would ever have the same.

Swallowing hard, Irene turned away. And walked right into a hard wall of muscle.

She gasped, her high-heeled shoes sliding beneath her. She started to fall to the stone floor, but a strong hand reached out to grab her wrist.

“Thank you...” Then she saw the face of the wall that had caught her: the handsome, arrogant sheikh, in the white robes with that darkly handsome face and piercing eyes.

“Oh,” she scowled. “It’s you.”

He said nothing in reply, just lifted her to her feet. She felt the warmth and heat of his palm against her skin. It did strange things to her. He looked down at her in the moonlight on the villa’s veranda as wedding guests laughed and ambled beneath the fairy lights dangling from the trellis beneath the deep violet Italian sky.

She ripped her arm away. “Thank you,” she repeated, in a hostile tone directly at odds with the courtesy of the words.

But he did not immediately turn and leave as she’d hoped. Instead, he stared down at her, his eyes as black as the cord wrapped around his white headdress.

“You accused me of being rude, signorina,” he said in a low voice. “I was not.”

Unconsciously, Irene rubbed her wrist, as if he had burned it with his touch. “You insulted me.”

“When I invited you to spend the night with me?” He sounded almost bewildered. “How was that an insult?”

“Are you kidding? What else could it be?”

He looked bemused. “Women generally take it as a compliment...”

Irene flinched. Women. Of course he’d used the line a million times, on a million interchangeable women!

“How lovely for you,” she said coldly, “that ten words can usually make any woman fall into bed with you. Sorry I’m not following your agenda.”

His lips had parted slightly. His brow was furrowed as he stared down at her. “Have we met before?” he said faintly. “Do you have some reason to despise me?”

“We’ve never met before, if that’s what you’re asking. But yes,” she said grimly, “I have a reason.”

“Which is?”

“Look, I have no idea who you are or why you decided to make me your target, but I know your type.”

“My—type?”

“Do you really want me to spell it out? It might hurt your feelings. But then—” she tilted her head “—fortunately I don’t think you have any.”

“Try me,” he said flatly.

“I could say that you’re a heartless playboy who accused me, within five seconds of meeting me, of planning to seduce my friend’s new husband. Saying I was waiting for a lover and oh, lucky me, you’re the very man for the job! How dare you pretend you can see into my soul, and poke at my heart in a rude and selfish way? Those are the things I could say, but I won’t, because it’s Emma’s wedding and she deserves a perfect day. I don’t want to cause a scene. Because I was taught that if you can’t say something nice to someone, to say nothing at all.” Dorothy Abbott had taught her that over oatmeal cookies and peppermint tea. She glared at him. “Some people,” she said sweetly, “have good manners. If you’ll excuse me.”

She started to turn, but he held on to her wrist. She glared at his hand, then at his face. He abruptly let her go.

“Of course, signorina,” the handsome sheikh said, holding up both his hands. “You are right. I was rude. Please allow me to apologize.” His lips twisted. “The better I know you, the more I realize the great mistake I made. Of course you do not want a lover. No sane man would ever want to be your lover. It would be like seducing a cactus.” He gave her a short half bow with a sweep of his robes. “Please forgive me, signorina. And do not allow me to keep you from your eternally desirable solitude.”

In a single smooth movement, he turned away from her. Irene stared after him, open-mouthed, as he disappeared into the crowd.

She closed her mouth with a snap.

Ooh! Helplessly, she stomped her foot. Eternally desirable solitude! The big jerk!

But at least now he was no longer looking at her—near her—touching her, it was easier to think straight. She was relieved to no longer be under the intense scrutiny of his black eyes, his gaze that seemed to see straight through her soul.

She’d wanted to get rid of him, and she’d succeeded. She did know his type. Well—not exactly. A wealthy sheikh in full robes, with bodyguards hovering, was rare in Colorado. Even her mother and older sister had never managed to bring home someone that exotic. But she knew the playboy type. She hadn’t judged him unfairly. She hadn’t.

But still—she thought of those dark eyes. Of the way her heart had pounded in the moonlight when she’d first seen him standing in front of her on the lake, the very instant after she’d wished with such reckless, passionate yearning that someone would love her. Of the sizzle that had coursed through her body when he’d touched her—just from the touch of his hand on her wrist!

It was good she’d managed to scare him off. No sane man would ever want to be your lover. Yup. She’d scared him off thoroughly.

Good, she told herself. Better to be alone, better to be a virgin forever, than have her heart trampled into nothing.

She wanted more.

After her first day of kindergarten, when Dorothy had comforted her and Bill had gone to the school to set the bullies straight, Irene had started spending her afternoons with the retired couple. She’d tried to pretend the Abbotts’ tiny, warm house was her real home. When she was older, trying to ignore the cruel taunts of the girls and blatant come-ons of the boys in high school, Irene had once asked Dorothy how she and Bill had found each other. Dorothy had smiled.

“We got married at eighteen, both virgins, nervous and broke. Everyone thought we were too young.” She’d laughed, and taken another sip of peppermint tea. “But we knew what we wanted. Waiting made it special, a commitment between us. I know these days, people think sex is no big deal, a moment of cheap pleasure, easily forgotten. But to us, it was sacred. A promise without words. And we never regretted the choice.”

Hearing the story when she was eighteen herself, Irene had vowed to wait for true love, too. She’d watched her sister and mother have so many cheap, forgettable affairs until there was no promise left in it, very little pleasure and certainly no joy. She wanted a different life. Her love would last.

She’d nearly gone astray with Carter, but never again. No way. No how. And if there was one thing she knew down to her bones, it was that a man like the sheikh—exotically handsome and rich and full of himself—would never truly love her, not even for an hour, much less a lifetime. She’d been right to scare him off.

But still, as Irene looked for her assigned place at the long wooden table, she was relieved to see it was on the opposite end from the sheikh’s place. As the twenty or so wedding guests had a hearty dinner on the terrace, surrounded by heat lamps to make the November night feel like summer, he kept his distance. Irene tried not to look in his direction, but she felt his dark eyes on her. Taking her heart in her hands, she dared to look down the long table—only to discover that he was laughing, as two gorgeous young supermodel types fawned over him. Irene looked away grumpily. Silly her, to imagine he’d been staring at her. She couldn’t imagine why on earth she’d thought that....

The fairy lights hung above, swaying in the breeze. The moon was bright like a big pearl in the velvety sky. After the champagne toast and the delicious dinner served by the villa’s staff, the long tables were pushed aside to turn the veranda into an impromptu dance floor. A dark-haired man with soulful eyes brought a guitar from the music room and started to play.

She saw a flash of white in the corner of her eye, and her body went on high alert. But, turning, she saw it was only Emma, holding out her baby. “Will you hold him so we can have our first dance?”

“I’d love to,” Irene said, smiling, happy to cuddle the warm, sleeping baby. But after she had Sam in her arms, she had a sudden thought and touched Emma’s arm. “There’s a sheikh here—one of your guests. Who is he?”

Emma blinked, then frowned in a very “unhappiest day of my life” kind of way. Looking to the right and left, she lowered her head until her white translucent veil dripped to the floor. “That is Sheikh Sharif al-Aktoum, the Emir of Makhtar.”

“Emir?” Irene said, amazed. “You mean, the king? Of a whole country?”

“Yes.” Straightening, Emma gave her a hard stare full of meaning. “He’s very rich, very powerful and very famous for breaking many, many, many women’s hearts.”

“I was just curious.”

“Don’t be too curious about him.” She shook her head and said severely, “Just because Cesare reformed from being a playboy, you mustn’t expect that any other man...”

“I forgot about that,” Irene said. “Cesare used to be a playboy, too...”

Emma sighed. “He was. It used to be my job to buy designer watches as parting gifts for his one-night stands. I actually bought them in bulk. But the point is, Irene, most playboys never change. You know that, don’t you?”

Her friend looked so anxious that Irene gave her a reassuring nod. “Definitely.”

“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?”