Modern Romance - The Best of the Year

Turning with a smile, she got her first look at Sharif in a tuxedo and her heart lifted to her throat. How could he look even more devastatingly handsome? How was it even possible?

Taking her hand in his, Sharif bent and kissed her skin. At the touch of his lips on her hand, the hint of his hot breath, a flush of heat covered her body. Her eyes were wide as he straightened. He smiled at her, then held out his arm.

“Shall we show them how it’s done?”

This time, there was absolutely no hesitation before she took his arm. They walked into the ballroom together. Irene was conscious of many pairs of eyes on them as they danced and danced and drank champagne and toasted the happy couple and danced some more. All night, they never left each other’s side. They spoke about everything and nothing, and as she smiled up at him, he looked down at her, caressing her with his eyes.

Every word, every moment, seemed filled with magic and a delicious sort of tension, as if the very night were holding its breath. Irene felt dizzy, drunk with happiness. Against her will, she found herself wondering what it would be like to be in Sharif’s arms, not just for these few hours, not just for this one night, but for tomorrow as well, and the day after that.

As they swayed to the music on the dance floor, he gave her a sensual smile, brushing an errant tendril of dark hair from her face. Just feeling the soft brush of his fingertips, even though they were in the middle of the ballroom with hundreds of couples around them, made her almost forget to dance. She stumbled, but he caught her smoothly, lowering her into a dip.

“Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly, looking up at him.

Sharif’s eyes were dark with heat. “My pleasure.”

It seemed like minutes or hours that he held her in the dip, almost horizontally, and she wondered wildly if this was the way he would look over her in bed. Her knees went wobbly, but before she could collapse completely, he pulled her back upright, tight against his hard body.

She licked her lips, pressing her cheek to the shirt of his tuxedo. She could feel his warmth beneath the fabric, feel the power and strength of his body towering over her own. She thought she could hear his heartbeat.

He stopped dancing. Took a ragged breath.

“Irene,” he said in a low voice.

Terror struck her—or maybe it was excitement—she no longer knew the difference. She only knew what was about to happen and that she could not stop it, even if she wanted to. And she didn’t. Slowly, she pulled away from his chest. She lifted her gaze to his.

Sharif’s eyes seemed to burn with dark fire. He ran his hands over her bare shoulders, softly down her back. She felt the roughness of his hands, the size of them, the strength. He ran his fingertips up her arms, to her neck. He stroked the edge of his thumb softly against her aching lips, sizzling where he touched, making her yearn, making her need.

Cupping her face, he tilted back her head. She felt the warmth of his breath. Felt the hard heat of his body against hers. For an instant, time seemed suspended. She forgot the people around them. Forgot to dance. Forgot all rational thought. Forgot to breathe.

He lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her.

It was like nothing she’d ever experienced. The memory of Carter’s sloppy kisses of two years ago instantly evaporated, became laughable. Sharif took command, holding her in his arms, his lips hard and hot and sweet and soft. The music stopped. She heard only the rush of blood through her veins, making her dizzy, lost in the riptide of pleasure that tore through her, body and soul, leaving her weak and clutching his shoulders as if only this kiss could save her. As if his kiss were life itself.

She wanted him. She wanted this powerful billionaire sheikh, who had become simply Sharif to her. She wanted him. Even if it destroyed her...

“Fireworks! Come out now for the fireworks!”

The words rang out multiple times, in multiple languages. Irene heard the delighted response of the crowd, felt the rush as people started to leave the ballroom. Sharif pulled away. Her eyes opened slowly. She felt almost bewildered as she looked up at his handsome face, at his dark eyes, half-lidded with desire. Then she saw something else in his eyes.

Smugness. Masculine smugness.

She blinked. Took a deep breath. Eyes wide, she put her hand to her forehead.

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

“Don’t you know?” Sharif tilted his head as he looked down at her, his black eyes hot with desire. He stroked her cheek. “I am seducing you, Irene.”

A shock of awareness blasted over and through her, causing prickles to go up and down her body from her earlobes to her breasts and lower still. “You’re—you’re seducing me?”

“Forget the fireworks outside.” Running his hands down the bare skin of her shoulders above her strapless red gown, he lowered his head to her ear. “Come back to my suite and we’ll have our own.”

He pulled back from her, and she saw in his face that he expected her to say yes. He thought he’d won. In spite of all her protests, he’d always expected to win. Dawning horror rose inside her soul.

“All of our time together—it’s just been one long set-up? From the moment we met?”

Sharif twirled a tendril of her long dark hair around his finger. “I’ve never had to work so hard for any woman. But no woman has ever intrigued me more. Come back to my room, Irene. Let me show you everything the night can be...”

Irene ripped out of his arms, pressing her hands against her temples. One long set-up. All the laughter and banter. All the camaraderie and delight. She’d thought it was magic. She hadn’t seen the secret work of the magician pulling the strings.

“It was all just to get me into bed?” she whispered. “All our—our friendship was a lie?”

Sharif’s smug expression disappeared.

“Not a lie,” he said sharply. “A seduction. Surely even you can see the difference.”

“Even me?” Pain wrenched through her, the pain of shattered dreams, dreams she should have known better to have but that she’d allowed herself to believe in anyway. “Stupid. Stupid,” she whispered, hating herself.

“Irene...”

Looking up at him, she hated him even more. She couldn’t bear to meet his black gaze that always saw through her soul. Was he seeing through her now? Did he know what a fool he’d nearly made of her—the fool she’d nearly made of herself, letting herself fall into the magic, believing it to be real?

A sob lifted to her throat. Turning on her heel, she fled the empty ballroom, out into the night.

Outside, hundreds of wedding guests stood across the terraces, their eyes lifted up as the first explosions of colorful fireworks streaked across the sky, across the black mirror of the lake.

Irene fled in the opposite direction, toward the garden, her red silk skirts flying behind her. Only when she was in the dark quiet of the overgrown trees did she exhale. And cover her face with her hands.

She remembered how harshly she’d judged her mother and sister for falling for men’s lines, again and again, first for love, then for attention and finally for money. Oh, if only she’d known how it all started! With such breathless, foolish hope!

Sharif’s voice was low behind her. “I don’t understand.”

Trembling, she whirled around.

The moon had gone behind the clouds and in the darkness of night, she couldn’t see his face. “It’s been fun, hasn’t it?” he said. “Why are you reacting like this?”

Fireworks suddenly lit up the sky again, and she saw his face. He looked bewildered. He had no idea what he’d done to her.

Irene was glad for that, at least. She looked down, waiting for the sky to grow dark. Waiting for her voice to grow steady enough for her to speak.

“It’s just sex,” Sharif said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does to me,” she said. “Either it’s making love with all your heart, or else it’s just an empty, hollow shell of what it’s meant to be.”

He snorted. “You’re making a big deal out of—”

“I’ve waited my whole life for the man I will love. The man I’ll marry.”

Another boom of fireworks, a distant happy cry from the crowd, and she saw the shocked expression on his face. “You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying.”

She waited for it to be dark again. Then she said quietly, “When I marry, it will only be for love. And our wedding night will be truly about making love. The kind that will last forever...” Her throat caught. “You’ve accused me of being romantic,” she said softly, blinking fast. “I’m just waiting for the One.”

“One at a time?” he said weakly.

She shook her head. He scowled.

“What difference does the number of lovers make?”

“To you, it doesn’t.” Irene looked up. “But it matters to me. Sex is sacred. It’s a promise without words. A promise I’ll only make to the man who will love me for the rest of his life, and I can love for the rest of mine.” Her throat ached as she asked him a question to which she already knew the answer. “Are you that man, Sharif?”

A last blast of fireworks ricocheted across the night like a lightning storm, illuminating his expressionless face.

“No,” he said dully.

The ache in her throat now felt like a razor blade. She forced herself to ignore it. To smile. “I didn’t think so.” Unclasping the necklace was suddenly easy. She blinked fast, and was proud of herself for her clear, unwavering voice as she said, “Thank you for a weekend I’ll never forget.”

Reaching for his hand, she pressed the heavy diamond necklace against his palm. He looked down.

“It was a gift,” he said.

Past his ear, she saw movement on the edge of the garden, his bodyguards hovering at a distance. It almost made her laugh. “Your minders are here.” With a deep breath, she reached up and touched his rough cheek. “I wish all kinds of beautiful things for you, Sharif.” She tried to smile. “There’s lots of magic to believe in. The kind people make for themselves.”

But as Irene looked at his stricken black eyes, her throat suddenly closed tight. Without another word, she turned and ran toward the villa. Above her, the fireworks’ grand finale exploded across the sky in exquisite bursts of color, like flowers blooming to life then just as swiftly fading away.

She’d passed the test. She’d won.

Irene barely reached her bedroom before her knees collapsed beneath her. Sliding to the floor in a splash of red silk, she covered her face with her hands, and cried.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE’D LOST. FAILED.

Sharif could hardly believe it.

I wish all kinds of beautiful things for you.

Remembering her lovely, anguished voice, he muttered a curse. He stalked through the crowd watching the last fireworks, stomping back toward the villa. Two bodyguards fell in behind him as always. One spoke to him in urgent Makhtari Arabic.

“Your Highness, you should know that—”

“Later,” he bit out. His whole body felt tight. For the love of heaven, couldn’t they leave him alone, even now? Stomping up the stairs, Sharif paused, looking down the dark hallway toward Irene’s room. But what was the point?

There’s lots of magic to believe in. The kind people make for themselves.

Furiously, Sharif turned toward his own suite. He could hardly believe that it was ending like this. That after hours of flirting with her, dancing with her, it had still ended with him going back to his bedroom alone.

For the last thirty hours, Irene had been the center of his battle strategy, the intense focus of his every thought. He’d used all his best techniques, the ones that never failed. He’d charmed her, listened to her, given her his complete attention—and not just for an hour, but for the entire day. More. He’d told her the truth when he said he’d never tried so hard before. He’d forced himself to seduce her slowly, an inch at a time, luring her as a horse trainer would tame a skittish colt.

And this was the result?

He looked down in disgust at the extravagant diamond necklace clenched in his fist. Women could never resist him. So how had she?

I’ve waited my whole life for the man I will love.

Sharif took a shuddering, incredulous breath. He’d never met a woman like this. She was crazy. But that was also why she’d drawn his interest, that light inside her. The fierce purity.

I don’t fail, he’d boasted to her once. Well. He rubbed the back of his head. She’d certainly proved the truth of that.

What did he care? he told himself harshly. What was one woman to him, more or less?

He just had never failed before. Not in any arena of his life. When he tried something, he always succeeded.

Until now. And he suddenly felt something for Irene he hadn’t felt for any woman in a long time.

Respect. No. More than respect. Envy.

Which didn’t make any sense at all. After all, he wasn’t bound by any antiquated, ridiculous rules about sex. He could have it whenever he wanted.

Well, except now. With her.

More irritated than ever, he stomped down his empty hallway. Four bodyguards were waiting near his door, glancing at each other, all of them looking nervous.

“Your Highness,” one of them tried.

It took all of Sharif’s self-control not to shout in the man’s face. “Later,” he growled, and pushed past them into his room, nearly slamming the door behind him. Your minders, Irene had called them. The symbols of a duty that in this moment chafed him almost beyond bearing. For God’s sake, couldn’t they leave him in peace, even for a moment?

In the dark bedroom, he tossed the ten-million-dollar diamond necklace carelessly across his desk, hearing it clatter and fall.

Then he heard something else.

“Your Highness,” a kittenish voice gasped in the darkness. “I’ve been waiting for you!”

Irene? But even as the thought flashed through his mind, he knew it wasn’t her. And if it wasn’t Irene... Coldly, he switched on the bedside light.

To his shock, he saw the beautiful blonde Gilly, his sister’s companion, who’d come from a respectable family with such excellent references.

“You sounded tired over the phone...” she purred, sitting up. She was naked, and smiling at him like a cat with a bowl of cream.

Sharif felt suddenly, crashingly weary. “How did you get past the bodyguards?”

“Oh. That.” She giggled. “I told them there was an emergency with Aziza and I had to speak with you privately as soon as you left the party.”

So that explained why they’d wanted to talk to him. His weariness faded, turned to anger. “And my sister?”

“She’s fine,” she said hastily, correctly interpreting his glare. “Well, except for counting down the days until her wedding.”

“Counting down?”

“You know—with dread.”

His jaw became granite. “Her engagement wasn’t my idea.”

“Yes, well...” Gilly waved her hand airily. “I’m sure it will all work out.”

Turning away from her, Sharif sat on the chair by the fireplace and pulled off his shoes, one by one. He’d hired her as Aziza’s companion only because, after years spent with an elderly governess, his young sister had begged him for someone closer to her own age. She’d been thrilled when Gilly Lanvin had moved into the palace, with her sophisticated ways and intense love of fashion. But the result for his sister had been nothing short of disastrous.

When Aziza, at barely nineteen, had been sent expensive gifts and flowers by the aging sultan of a neighboring country, Gilly had turned her head with fairy-tale dreams of being a queen. His sister had begged and pleaded with Sharif to allow her to accept the proposal. Finally, with some reluctance, he had. It was a good match politically, and if his sister truly was so sure...

Except Aziza’s certainty had now melted away as the wedding approached, and she realized she was about to become the wife of a man forty years older than herself, a man she barely knew beyond his excellent taste in Louis Vuitton handbags and Van Cleef & Arpels earring sets. She was desperate to get out of it now, but it was too late. Sharif had signed the betrothal. Some choices, he thought grimly, you just had to live with. He knew that better than anyone.

“...I knew you were hoping I would surprise you. I could tell.” He realized Gilly was still talking, crooning in a really annoying singsong voice. “If you’ll just come over here, Your Highness—Sharif—I’ll rub you down, make you feel so good—”

“Get out,” he said flatly.

She gasped. “But—”

“Get. Out.”

Rising to his feet, he opened the door and spoke coldly to his bodyguards in the hall. “Miss Lanvin is returning to Beverly Hills. Get her last paycheck and put her on the next plane.”

The bodyguards glanced at each other as if they knew they all had a good chance of being fired.

“Now,” Sharif said tightly.

The next second, the bodyguards were at his bed, and as one of them lifted the naked, whining woman from the mattress, another efficiently covered her with a thick white terry-cloth bathrobe from the en suite bathroom. Within thirty seconds, they were carrying her down the hall and down the stairs and permanently out of his life—and Aziza’s.

So the bodyguards were of some use after all. Sharif leaned back against his door, almost smiling to himself as he thought of using this point against Irene. Then his smile faded as he realized it was unlikely he’d ever talk to her again. The thought made him hurt a little inside. Why? Simply because he was too proud to accept failure? Surely he couldn’t be so childish as that?

Pulling off his tuxedo and silk boxer shorts, he stepped into the shower.

Irene wanted to wait for love and marriage. So be it. Even if he didn’t agree with her idealistic sentiment, he could respect it. He had no choice but to respect it.

His own life and ideals were different. When he married, love would have nothing to do with it. In fact, once he and his future wife had a child to be heir and another as requisite spare, he fully expected he’d avoid her for the rest of his life.

Climbing naked into bed, he gave a suspicious sniff. He could still smell Gilly’s flowery perfume on the sheets. It irritated him. He was tempted to call the villa’s housekeeping staff and have them change the sheets, but that seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Not to mention likely to cause a scandal. He could just imagine what Irene would say if she heard. Some scathing remark about the promiscuous nature of selfish, coldhearted playboys.

Getting up, he opened the large oak wardrobe, found some clean sheets and changed the bed himself. He’d never done such a thing before, as from birth all of his needs had been attended to by servants. He’d mostly been raised by an American nanny and Makhtari tutors who taught him history and languages, along with fencing and fighting and riding. Even at boarding school, someone else had changed his sheets. So cleaning up after himself, even in this small way, was new. His fingers were clumsy as he did it.

Finally, Sharif stood back from the bed, surveying his work with satisfaction. Just because he’d never done something before didn’t mean he couldn’t learn the skills. Again, he wished he could show Irene. Again, he reminded himself he’d never see her again.

There’s lots of magic to believe in. The kind people make for themselves. Her dark eyelashes had trembled against her pale cheeks.

Climbing into bed, he closed his eyes into a hard, dreamless sleep. He woke early, with the sound of his phone ringing.

It was his chief of staff, back at the palace. He was needed in Makhtar. His European vacation was over. No more pleasure. No more distraction. All that awaited him at home was cold hard duty and a young sister in tears at the mess she’d made of her own life. He’d have to find her a new companion to hold her hand for the remaining three months until her wedding.

Rising from the bed, Sharif yawned, rubbing the back of his head. He reached his arms upward, stretching his naked body before he dropped to the floor and did a few quick push-ups, just to wake up and get some of the adrenaline out of his bloodstream.

Find Aziza a companion? The situation seemed hopeless. He needed a woman who was both young, for Aziza’s sake, and old, for his. He needed someone he could trust, someone who wouldn’t jump into Sharif’s bed, someone who would be professional enough to put Aziza’s needs before everything else. Someone who...

Sharif’s spine snapped back as his eyes went wide. He picked up his phone again. He read through business emails, made a few additional calls. Without hurry, he dressed in his traditional Makhtari garb and, leaving others to pack his suitcases, he went down to the breakfast room, bodyguards falling into line behind him.

He walked straight through the pale yellow room, ignoring all the women who tried to catch his eye. He offered an absentminded “good morning” to the host and hostess, then saw the person he’d been looking for. Pushing past all the rest, he went straight to Irene, who was sitting at the table with a plate loaded with pastries and scrambled eggs as she poured a great deal of cream into her coffee. He stopped right in front of her.

“I want you to come work for me,” he said. “At my palace in Makhtar.”

* * *

Irene’s eyes still felt scratchy from a night of crying. She’d prayed she’d never have to face Sharif again. Foolish hope.

It had taken her hours to fall asleep, hours of running worried circles in her mind about the choice she’d make today. Would she take her first-class flight back to Paris, where she had only a few days left of paid rent, and then the open-ended economy ticket back to Colorado, to the rickety house on the wrong side of the tracks? Would she go back in penniless humiliation to the place where Carter had told her she’d never be remotely good enough for a man like him?

Or would she ask Emma to find her a job in one of her husband’s luxury hotels around the world—using a friendship for her own financial gain?

In her darkest hour, Irene had bitterly regretted her pride, which had made her spurn Sharif’s lavish gift of the diamond necklace. If she’d kept it, she and her family could have been wealthy—set for life!

But at what cost?

No. She’d done the right thing. He’d made her want him. Dazzled her with romance. But she’d resisted the temptation, and she’d never see him again. So the damage wouldn’t be permanent, either to her heart, or to her soul.

So how could she abandon her principles now, and ask Emma to arrange a job for her?

But how could she not?

Anxious and unsure, feeling exhausted and alone with her heart still aching over the coldhearted way Sharif had tried to seduce her, the way he’d kissed her, Irene had finally gotten out of bed. She’d taken a shower and dressed. No fancy designer clothes this time, but her own plain cotton T-shirt and hoodie and jeans fit for traveling. Going down to the breakfast room, she’d filled her plate with a mountain of food. She’d numbly sat down alone at the table.

Then she’d felt a shiver of awareness behind her. Without turning, she knew who’d just come into the breakfast room. A dark shadow came across the table in front of her.

“I want you to come work for me. At my palace in Makhtar.”

It was the same husky voice that had haunted her dreams. Irene looked up from her plate of food. A shiver went through her body as she met Sharif’s dark eyes, a hard aching tingle across her lips, which he’d bruised every bit as thoroughly as her heart.

He was once again dressed in his full sheikh regalia, with his bodyguards hovering behind him, the full presence of the Emir of Makhtar. And he’d never looked so handsome. The ultimate male figure of every woman’s romantic fantasy. Or at least hers.

Wrong, she told herself fiercely. Her ultimate fantasy was a smart, funny, loyal man who would mow the lawn of their little cottage, read books to their children and love her forever. A man who would notice if a little neighbor child walked past the house, crying after her first day of school. A man who would roll up the sleeves of his old shirt, pull down his cap and go up to the school to make sure it never happened again. Her mother hadn’t done it. She’d never known her father, either. Irene had been an accident, a mistake. Her mother had told her that all her life. Stupid condom didn’t work. Don’t know which one.