Modern Romance - The Best of the Year

But after the first day of kindergarten, Dorothy Abbott had been the mother who’d comforted her, Bill Abbott the father who’d protected her. That was the house Irene wanted to live in. The parents she would someday give her own children.

There would be no accidents. Because until she met the right man, there would be no sex. No matter how she might be tempted.

“Work for you?” Irene repeated. She hated the weak sound of her voice and tossed her head, intending to give a sharper retort along the lines of Immature as you are, your worshipfulness, I don’t think you exactly need a nanny, then she remembered all the eyes upon them. That type of banter was private, between her and Sharif, not between Irene Taylor, the American nanny, and the Emir of Makhtar. The banter was in the past, anyway. It was when Sharif had wanted to seduce her, and when she’d nearly given him the chance.

“I was not aware you had any children, Your Highness,” she said coldly.

A half smile twisted the edges of Sharif’s lips. She had the feeling he knew exactly how she’d felt forced to choke back her real reaction. He’d probably set up this meeting in public for exactly those reasons, damn him.

“I have a younger sister,” he said.

Her lips parted. She tried to keep her expression impassive as she said, “Tell me about the position,” as coolly as if she had already had five job offers today and fifty thousand dollars in the bank.

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “I would be pleased to give you further details, Miss Taylor. Shall we talk outside?”

She nodded. Rising to her feet, she followed him out of the villa, to the very same terrace where they’d first danced. It already seemed so long ago.

The blue skies and warm autumn sun had evaporated. Winter, too long held at bay, had finally arrived full force into northern Italy. The lowering sky was gray, and mist covered the tips of the distant hills across the lake. A cold blast of wind made her shiver in her comfy pink hooded sweatshirt and old jeans.

Irene looked pointedly at the bodyguards who’d followed them outside. With a sigh, Sharif gave them a glance, and they backed up to the villa wall, out of earshot.

“Why are you asking me to work for you?” she hissed. “What kind of trick is this?”

“No trick.” He tilted his head, his eyes dark. “I’ve recently had reason to sack my sister’s current companion.”

“What happened? Let me guess. You fired her for talking back? If that’s the case, there’s no point hiring me. You know that I—”

“She showed up here last night. In my bed.”

Her cheeks went pink. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Delivery service. How nice for you.”

“No,” he said sharply. “I don’t sleep with employees. I threw her out. Now my sister needs a trustworthy companion until her wedding three months from now.”

“Wedding? How old is your sister?”

“Nineteen.”

Someone else getting married so young. It made Irene feel suddenly ancient at twenty-three. “Why would you choose me?”

Sharif’s dark eyes met hers.

“Because I feel I can trust you to look out for my sister,” he said quietly. “And I know I won’t find you unexpectedly naked in my bed.”

He sounded so sure of that. He didn’t know what turning down his offer last night had cost her. Irene shivered in her thin cotton hoodie, looking out at the gray lake. She thought of what was waiting for her in Colorado. What was waiting for her in Paris.

“When is the wedding exactly?” she said.

“Late February.”

“And the salary?”

“Ah.” He relaxed, tilting his head as he gave a shrug. “For a trustworthy person of this nature, you understand, no price would be too great.”

“How great is great?”

“Name your price.”

Name your price? That was something people said in movies, not in real life. “You can’t be serious.”

“Try me.”

Irene licked her lips. Recklessly, she thought of a huge amount, more than a whole year’s salary working for her previous families in either New York City or Paris. She opened her mouth to ask for that amount.

Then she snapped it shut.

She mustn’t be hasty. She’d read in a book once that women never valued themselves highly enough—that they were afraid to negotiate salaries out of a fear of being turned down, or even more ridiculously, of not being liked. Well, she didn’t care if Sharif liked her, did she? And he was making it plain she had him over a barrel. If there was ever a time to value herself highly, it was now.

She thought of what it would cost to send her mother to the best rehab facility in Denver. The cost of moving to a brand-new apartment in a brand-new city, of paying rent for the next five years so her sister could go to community college and never again be tempted to go looking for some sugar daddy in a bar. Irene thought of the cost of making sure none of them would ever have to go back to that sad little house by the railroad tracks again. A new life not just for Irene, but for her mother and older sister.

So she took that first number and exploded it, like turning a single-story building into a skyscraper. Taking her heart in her hands, she kept her face expressionless and looked him straight in the eyes. “A hundred thousand dollars.”

“Agreed,” he said, before she’d even finished the last word.

Oh, no! She’d blown it! The fact that he’d agreed so quickly meant she hadn’t asked for nearly enough!

“Per month,” she added quickly.

He gave her an amused smile. “Naturally.”

“Fine,” she said, wishing she’d had the guts to ask for more.

“Fine. I will have my people pack your things.”

“Thanks, but I prefer to pack my own stuff. I already did it in any case.”

“Of course you did. Independent and responsible as you are.” He smiled again, and his dark eyes seemed to caress her face, causing an answering spark of awareness to light like a match inside her. Match? That match had been lit from the moment he’d found her standing alone at the moonlit lake that first night. It had turned into a simmering fire that was waiting at any moment to explode.

She wouldn’t let it. She’d already passed the test, hadn’t she? She’d resisted her attraction to him and for the sake of the three hundred thousand dollars, more money than she’d ever seen in her lifetime or would ever expect to see again, she would resist it again.

Fortunately, she knew he wouldn’t pursue her romantically again. Obviously, he’d been just trying to amuse himself with a bit of slumming during his friend’s wedding weekend, but they were returning to real life now. To his home country.

Holy cow. Sharif was Emir of Makhtar. He’d made her forget. Once they were in Makhtar, though, she’d likely never see him in the palace, not until the day he paid her. Likely not even then. Paying the help? He had people to handle that sort of thing.

“So when do we leave?” she asked awkwardly.

He smiled. “As soon as we say our goodbyes and get the suitcases in the car.”

Two hours later, they were boarding his enormous private jet.

“So what did Mrs. Falconeri say when you told her you were coming to work for me?” Sharif asked as they crossed the tarmac.

Irene blushed. “I, um, never told her.”

He gave a low laugh that was way too knowing. She changed the subject. “What’s it like? Your home?”

“An oasis on the Persian Gulf. Sparkling new city, palm trees, a bright blue sky, warm, friendly people.”

She looked at him skeptically. “I already agreed to the job. You don’t have to sell the place like a tourist-board representative. I want to know what it’s really like.”

Sharif stopped, looking at her. “It’s the best country in the world. I would do anything for Makhtar. Sacrifice anything.”

His love for his country shone in his face. She’d never seen such passion, idealism, vulnerability in his dark eyes. She had to look away.

Fortunately, it was easy to find something astonishing to look at. The inside of his private 747 looked nothing like any of the flights she’d been on. Not even that first-class flight. The front cabin of his plane was wide and gleamed with light and comfortable white sofas and seats, with a bar on one side and a large flat-screen television against a wall. It looked like the contemporary interior of an expensive New York restaurant.

Overwhelmed, she sank into the closest seat. “I guess I should call you Your Highness now.”

“And from this moment, you are Miss Taylor,” he agreed.

Biting her lip, she looked out the window. As the jet’s engine warmed up, to take them away from Italy and up into the clouds, Irene felt her heart grow suddenly lighter. Thanks to this stroke of fate, she hadn’t had to give up her principles. And she’d never need to worry about money again. This would change everything for her family. Everything. With a deep breath, she looked at Sharif.

“Thank you for hiring me,” she said softly.

As the bodyguards trailed past him to the rear cabin, he frowned in surprise. “Thank you for solving my problem.”

A flight attendant, glamorously attired in a skirt suit and a jaunty blue hat and scarf, served some sparkling water on a silver tray. Taking a sip of the cool water, Irene looked at her new employer.

Sharif looked handsome and powerful in his stark white robes, sitting on the white leather sofa on the other side of the spacious cabin. Taking his own sparkling water off the tray, he smiled his thanks to the flight attendant. Irene sighed with happiness, leaning back against her own plush leather seat.

“I wish all the people who were mean to me in school could see this.” A low laugh escaped her lips. “No one would ever have guessed I’d someday be companion to a princess of Makhtar. Especially with my grades in geography. I couldn’t have placed Makhtar on a map.” Irene wasn’t a hundred percent certain she could do it now, but she kept that to herself. “Um, are you still sure about this?”

He set down his glass. His handsome face was inscrutable as he slowly looked her over. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Irene hesitated, feeling self-conscious. “I told you I have a bad habit of talking back to employers. Knowing the kind of woman I am, Your Highness, are you sure you really want me as your employee?”

“I’m sure, Miss Taylor. There can be no doubt.” His black eyes met hers as he said huskily, “I want you.”

CHAPTER FIVE

IRENE HAD NEVER flown on even a small private plane before, let alone the huge 747 that belonged to the royal house of Makhtar. But by the time the plane landed that evening, she was growing shamefully accustomed to the luxury that accompanied Sharif wherever he went. Even the stretch Rolls-Royce, and the attendant entourage of black SUVs for the guards, was starting to seem almost routine.

There was just one thing she couldn’t get used to. One thing that was a shock to her senses, each and every time.

She looked at him beneath her lashes, in the back of the limo. He was busy now, speaking with a young man, his chief of staff, who’d met him at the private airport at the edge of the city. The two men were speaking in rapid Arabic, leaving Irene free to sneak little glances.

Gone was the darkly seductive playboy she remembered. Here, Sharif was the emir. Formal. Serious. And definitely not paying the slightest attention to her. Telling herself she was relieved, she looked out the window, which was tinted against the shock of the hot Makhtari sun.

Makhtar City gleamed from the desert, like a polished, sun-drenched diamond in the sand. It was a new city, still being rapidly built with cranes crisscrossing the blue sky.

She saw prosperous people, families pushing baby strollers on newly built sidewalks to newly built cafés. It had to be almost ninety degrees Fahrenheit, from the blast of heat she’d felt walking across the airport tarmac to the air-conditioned limo. Very different from the chilly morning in the Italian mountains. But Sharif had told her on the plane that this was their winter.

“In November, people finally come out of their houses, as the weather turns pleasant. In summer, it can reach a hundred and twenty degrees. Tourists complain then that swimming in the gulf is like taking a hot bath—no relief whatsoever from the unrelenting heat.” He’d grinned. “Makhtaris know better than to try it.”

It sure didn’t seem like winter to her. The hot sun made her want to rip off her jeans and hoodie in favor of shorts and a tank top. But on the street, both men and women wore clothing that completely covered their arms and legs. They didn’t even look hot, strolling with their families. Irene still felt a little sweaty from her four minutes outside. It was way more humid than Colorado, too. She’d have to get used to it.

Still, there was something about this city, this country, that she immediately liked. It wasn’t just the gleaming new architecture of the buildings, or the obvious wealth she saw everywhere—luxury sports cars filling the newly built avenues, lined with expensive designer shops and gorgeous palm trees.

It was the way she saw families walking together. The way she observed, on the street, young people holding open doors for their elders. Family was even more respected than money. The wisdom and experience of age was respected even more than the beauty and vigor of youth. It felt very different from the neighborhood she’d grown up in. At least the house she’d grown up in.

As a child, she’d wanted so desperately to respect her mother and older sister. She’d wanted a mother who would give her hugs after school, a sister she could emulate and admire. She’d wanted a family who would look out for her.

But by the time she was nine, she’d realized that if she wanted milk in the fridge and the light bills paid, she’d have to take care of it herself. She’d learned how to run a household from watching Dorothy, but sadly there was nothing she could do for her mother and sister beyond that. Any attempt she made to suggest a different career path just made them accuse her of judging them.

Now, for the first time, Irene would really be able to help them. No more just sending them bits and pieces of her salary that didn’t really change anything. With such a huge amount of money as three hundred thousand dollars—or whatever was left after taxes—she could change not just her own fate, but the lives of the people she loved deeply, no matter how many times they’d broken her heart.

“Miss Taylor. You are ready?”

They’d arrived in a large, gated courtyard past the palace gate, filled with palm and date trees surrounding a burbling fountain. Sharif was looking at her quizzically.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

His eyes widened at her meek, impersonal tone. But she knew how grand households worked. One hint that she was anything but his sister’s companion, a single sly suggestion that she was also the emir’s mistress, and by nightfall she’d be despised by the entire palace staff.

A uniformed servant opened the door, and she stepped out.

“It’s cooler,” she said in surprise.

“The palace is on the gulf. And here in the courtyard—” Sharif’s eyes seemed to caress her “—you can feel the soft breeze beneath the shade of the palm trees.”

She looked up at the towering Arabic fantasy of the palace in front of her, like something out of a dream. “It’s just like you said it would be.”

“The palace?”

“The whole country.”

Sharif paused. “I’m pleased you like it.” He turned to his young chief of staff. “Please escort Miss Taylor to her new quarters.”

The young man looked at Irene with clear interest. “With pleasure.”

Sharif stepped between them. “On second thought,” he said abruptly, “I will do it myself.”

“Yes, sire,” the young man said, visibly disappointed. Sharif swept forward in his robes, and Irene fell into step behind him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered once they were out of earshot. “You can’t show any particular interest in me. The other servants will talk.”

“Let them talk. I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“Friendly?”

Sharif scowled. “Flirty.”

“And that is bad because...he’s married.”

“No.”

“Engaged.”

“No.”

“A womanizer. A liar. A brute.”

Sharif’s jaw twitched. “No, of course not. Hassan is none of those things. He is an honorable, decent man. Of course he is. He’s my chief of staff.”

Irene looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. “So why not let him take me?”

“If any man is going to take you,” he said softly, “it will be me.”

She stopped, blushing in confusion. Surely he couldn’t still be thinking he...

“Your room is next to my sister’s. I am headed that way.”

She exhaled. “Oh.”

The palace was huge, with high ceilings and intricate Middle Eastern architecture. As they passed from room to room, each more lavish than the last, every servant they passed bowed at the sight of Sharif, with obvious deep respect.

So many rooms, so many hallways. Irene grew increasingly worried that she’d ever be able to find her way back again. After they went up a flight of stairs, she expected to see some sort of servants’ wing. Instead, the rooms just got more lavish still. A sudden fear seized her.

“Your bedroom isn’t in the same hallway as mine, is it?”

Sharif looked down at her with his inscrutable black eyes. “Why, Miss Taylor,” he said softly, “are you asking for directions to my room?”

“Yes—I mean, no! I mean...”

He tilted his head. After a full day since his morning shave, there was a dark shadow along his sharp jawline that made him seem even more powerfully masculine. “Your room is close to mine. That won’t be a problem, I presume?”

She licked her lips. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

Because part of her was still afraid she might forget herself some night and sleepwalk naked into his bed, just like hapless What’s-her-name who got fired. If Sharif knew the hot dreams she’d had last night, starring him... And he was her employer now.

Irene shook her head helplessly. “I just wouldn’t want you to think...”

He paused, his sensual lips curved as he looked down at her, close but not touching. “Think what, Miss Taylor?”

Her voice came out in an embarrassing little squeak. “Never mind.”

Sharif stared at her for a long moment, then setting his jaw, he turned away with a swirl of robes. “This way.”

She followed him down the new hallway, still shaking with the ache of repressed desire. As they went down the marble halls and approached the royal apartments within the palace, the hallways grew more crowded, not just with servants, but also with the emir’s advisers, serious men all in white robes, some of whom bowed as Sharif passed, others who merely inclined the tip of their heads. But in the faces of them all, Irene saw the most sincere respect.

“They love you,” she said.

He glanced at her. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he said dryly.

“It’s just that—I don’t see respect like this for leaders anymore.”

His jaw tightened. “They just remember how it was. Before.”

“Before?”

“Here we are, Miss Taylor.” His voice had gone cold and formal again. He pushed open a door, giving only a brief glance inside before he indicated she should go forward, while he waited in the hall.

Irene stepped into the room.

“Oh,” she gasped. She took two steps inside, looking at the enormous bed, the view over the Persian Gulf, complete with her own balcony. The lavishness of the Middle Eastern decor was like nothing she’d ever seen before. She’d thought her room at the Falconeri villa in Lake Como had been spectacular, but it had been like a roadside motel room, compared to this!

“This whole room is for me?” she said faintly.

Sharif did not enter the room.

“Dinner is at nine.”

She turned back to face him, her cheeks flooded with heat as, against her will, she immediately pictured an intimate dinner for two, with total privacy. “I don’t know if—”

“My sister will be joining us.”

“Oh.” Her blush deepened. “Then of course I will be there.”

“Of course, since I bid it.” His voice reminded her of her place here, and who was king. But his sensual dark eyes said something else.

She had to get a hold of herself!

“Thank you, Your Highness. I look forward to meeting my new charge.”

With an answering bow of his head, he left her.

Irene closed the door behind her, sagging back against it as she exhaled. Then she looked slowly around her incredible bedroom. It was twice as big as the whole house she’d grown up in. She looked at the silk damask, the fanciful decorations, the gold leaf on the walls. And most surprising of all: her meager possessions from her rented studio apartment in Paris had miraculously been transported here. How the heck had he done that? What was he, magic?

Well. Yes.

If not magic, he was a magician who knew well how to pull invisible strings.

But they had a deal. A business arrangement. Her whole family’s future was now riding on it. She couldn’t forget that. One slip-up, one indication that she was still desperately fighting her attraction to him—now more than ever—and she’d be thrown out as ruthlessly as her predecessor.

She just had to forget everything that had happened in Italy, that was all. Forget the heat of his skin on hers when he’d taken her hand. Forget his smile. The intensity of his dark eyes. The strength of his body against hers as he’d swayed her to the music. Forget the passion of the kiss that had set her on fire.

She had to forget the huskiness of his voice as he said, I am seducing you, Irene.

The Emir of Makhtar, powerful billionaire, absolute ruler of a wealthy Persian Gulf kingdom, had once wanted her—a plain, simple nobody. She had to forget that miracle. Forget it ever happened.

Irene put a tremulous hand to her bruised, tingling lips, still aching from his kiss the night before.

But how could she?

* * *

Sharif paced three steps across the dining hall.

Irene was late. It surprised him.

So was his sister, but that left him less surprised. He’d briefly spoken with Aziza earlier, after showing Irene—Miss Taylor, he corrected himself firmly—to her room. His sister had been glad to see him for about three seconds, before he’d informed her, without explanation, that he’d fired Gilly and hired a new companion.

“But she was going to take me to Dubai tomorrow,” Aziza had wailed. “Isn’t it bad enough that you’re forcing me to go through with this wedding? Do you also have to take away my only friend? I’m trapped here! Like a prisoner!”

And she’d fallen with copious sobs to her enormous pink canopy bed.

Irritated by the memory, Sharif paced back across the dining hall. He leaned his hand against the stone fireplace. It had been built nearly nineteen years before, along with the rest of the palace, in perfect replica of the previous building, which had been left in ruins during the brief dark months of civil war after his father’s sudden death.

Aziza could blame him if she wanted for her choice to marry. But he would not go back on his word. He would not risk scandal and instability. Not for his own happiness. Nor even for his sister’s.

He heard a noise and whirled around, only to discover his chief of staff. “Yes?”

The man bowed. “I regret to inform you, sire,” he said sadly, “that I carry a message from the sheikha. She wished me to relay to you that she is unwell and will not be attending you at dinner, nor meeting her new companion.”

Sharif’s eyes narrowed. Irritation rose almost to an unbearable level as he pictured his spoiled, petulant little sister coming up with this plan as a way to register her complaint and get her own way. The fact that it shamed him, as host and brother, that she was refusing to appear for dinner and meet her new companion would only make her happier still.