Modern Romance - The Best of the Year

“Did she. Very well,” he said coldly. “Please inform the kitchen that no meals are to be brought to her room. Perhaps if she grows hungry, she will remember her manners.”

“Yes, sire,” Hassan said unhappily, and bowed again.

Sharif watched him go. He’d told Irene the truth. His chief of staff would be a fine choice for any woman to take as husband—a steady, good-hearted man of some consequence, and at twenty-eight, he was probably even looking for a bride. And yet, when he’d seen the young man starting to walk Irene to her room, seeing them together had caused a strange twist to Sharif’s insides. He hadn’t liked it. At all. It had almost felt like—jealousy. A sensation he wasn’t used to feeling.

His body tightened as he remembered how she’d trembled in his arms, when he’d seized her lips with his own. How she’d thrown her arms around him and leaned against his body, kissing him back softly and uncertainly at first, then with increasing force and a passion that matched his own. His one and only failure at seducing a woman. Ironic, since it was the one he’d wanted most. He still ached to possess her.

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.

He pushed the memory away. He wasn’t going to waste any more time hungering for a woman he could not have. He was bewildered by her idealistic decision, yes. But he respected it. And realized now why he’d envied it.

Because love, or even lust, would never coexist with marriage in Sharif’s life. That pure lovemaking Irene had spoken of so wistfully would never be in the cards for him.

Few people have that anyway, he told himself harshly. Lust is brief, marriage is long and romantic love is a fantasy.

Turning away, Sharif lifted a silver goblet from the polished wood dining table. He took a long drink of cold water. He wiped his mouth.

Irene’s nervousness around him, the way she held his gaze for longer than strictly necessary, told him she still desired him. If he truly wanted to seduce her, in spite of her romantic ideals— He cut off the thought. He wasn’t that much of a selfish bastard. He would leave her alone. Let her go. Even after that searing kiss. Even though he wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman. He would not allow himself to...

“Sorry I’m late.”

Irene’s voice was breezy, unrepentant. It caused heat to flash through his body. He turned, but whatever mocking reply he’d been about to make died forgotten on his lips when he saw her.

She was dressed in white, the color of purity. Could her meaning be any more plain? But even if he knew what she was telling him, her plan had backfired. Because the white of her modest dress only served to set off her creamy skin. Her thick black hair looked exotic, her brown eyes mysterious and deep as midnight. She looked like a woman any man would willingly die for.

Her expression darkened as she looked left and right. “Where is your sister?”

Sister? He struggled to remember. Oh yes. “Aziza...” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I regret my sister is not feeling well. She will be unable to join us tonight.”

Irene glared at him suspiciously.

“Not my idea, I assure you,” he said. “But if my sister is not hungry, I certainly am.” The understatement of the year. “Come. I’m sure my chef is growing antsy, as his dinner has certainly been ready for a while now.”

“Oh.” For the first time, Irene looked uncomfortable. “I am sorry. I didn’t think of that.” She bit her lip. “But just the two of us—I mean, it doesn’t really seem appropriate to—”

“To what? To eat?”

“Alone. Just the two of us.”

“What would you like me to do to avoid gossip? Invite someone else to join us? Perhaps my chief of staff?” he said coldly.

Her eyes brightened. “Good idea.”

He scowled. “Unfortunately he has other duties. He’s already gone home to his family.”

“To his girlfriend?”

“His mother. You take a great deal of interest in him for someone you just met.”

She shrugged. “He’s just the only person I’ve met. Other than the three different people I had to ask for directions to find the dining room, that is.”

So that was why she was late. He’d thought she’d done it on purpose, to taunt him. He relaxed as the servants brought out plates of food, stews of chicken and meat, rice, vegetables and traditional Makhtari flatbread. The air around them suddenly smelled of spice, of cardamom and saffron. She sniffed appreciatively.

“Tell me more about your country,” she said, digging into her dinner. “It is my home now, at least for the next few months.” She took another bite of chicken and sighed with pleasure. “You said it wasn’t always like this.”

“No.” He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell her. “If you are going to be companion to my sister, you’ll be expected to know,” he said finally. “When my father died, the country fell into civil war.”

The color drained from her face. She set down her fork. “Oh, no.”

“My father had held everything together. With him suddenly gone, none of the great families could agree on anything. Except that they didn’t want a fifteen-year-old boy on the throne.”

“How bad did it get?” she said quietly.

Gripping his silverware, he looked down at his plate.

“Half this city burned,” he said. “By the time I arrived back here from boarding school, this palace was ash. One day, I was a boy studying astronomy and calculus and history. The next, my father was dead, my mother prostrate with grief and rage, my home destroyed. And my country in flames.”

Silence fell in the shadows of the dining room.

Slowly, Sharif lifted his gaze to hers. He saw tears streaming down Irene’s stricken, beautiful face. Strange, when he felt nothing. He’d stopped feeling anything a long time ago.

“What did you do?” she choked out.

“What I had to.”

“You were only fifteen.”

“I grew up quickly. My mother’s brother, and my father’s former adviser, the vizier, were both trying to claim themselves as regent until my eighteenth year. They were destroying Makhtar in their battle. Even at fifteen, I could see that.” Feeling that he wanted to finish the topic as quickly as possible, he set down the goblet. “So I made the deal I had to make to save my country. Then I brought Aziza to live with us. She was a baby, a newborn.”

“She wasn’t living with you before?”

“She was with her mother.”

Irene frowned. “But your mother was with you.”

“Aziza is my half sister. The day I lost my father, she became doubly an orphan. She lost both her parents.”

“You can’t mean...” Irene gave a low gasp. “Aziza’s mother was your father’s mistress, who killed him?”

He gave a single nod.

Her hands covered her mouth as if she couldn’t bear the pain—but why? Sharif wondered, as if from a distance. It was not her pain to bear. Why was she taking it so personally?

“And you still brought her here? Raised her?”

“Aziza had been left with a paid servant. I couldn’t abandon her. She is my sister.” Setting his jaw, he looked away. His voice was thick as he said, “Nothing that happened was her fault. She needed me.”

For a long moment, Irene looked at him.

“You have a heart,” she whispered.

He set his jaw. “What else could I have done? Refused to even see her, as my mother did? Leave her to the orphanage or worse? She’s a princess of the blood. My sister.”

“You love her.”

“Yes.” No matter how Aziza irritated the hell out of him sometimes, Sharif could never forget the first time he’d seen her, a tiny baby crying so desperately she was nearly choking with piteous sobs. He’d never allow anyone to hurt her.

“You have a heart,” Irene repeated quietly. As if she still couldn’t quite believe it.

“Anyone would have done the same.”

“Your mother didn’t.”

Sharif felt a lump in his throat. “Don’t be hard on her. She’d just lost everything. She barely was able to look at me, either. Her heart gave out. She died a few months later.”

“So you were alone—ruling the country—at just fifteen? With a newborn baby sister to watch over?” She shook her head. “How did you do it? At fifteen, I could barely manage a part-time job after school to pay our utility bills. How did you manage to pull your whole country back together? All alone?”

Here it was, then. The one thing she didn’t know. The thing he’d been dreading to tell her. The thing that he had been trying to force himself to face.

Sharif put both his hands against the table. “Because even then, I understood human nature.” He wouldn’t be a coward. He wouldn’t. He looked at her. “I encouraged my uncle to believe he would have great influence over me, to make him give up the idea of a regency. And as for the vizier—to him, I made a promise.” He said quietly, “I promised to marry his daughter.”

Irene stared at him, as if she hadn’t heard right. She blinked.

“You...” She swallowed. “You’re engaged?”

“Officially, it has not yet been announced.” He looked back at the water, wishing for something stronger. In the royal palace he respected his country’s long custom and abstained from alcohol. How he wished he did not honor such niceties at the moment. He felt he could have drunk an entire bottle of scotch as he forced himself to say aloud the very words he’d been desperately trying not to think about for months. “But it is time for me to make good on that promise. Our engagement will be announced after Aziza’s wedding.”

“Do you—” She flinched, then whispered, “Do you love her?”

“It’s not a question of love. I made a promise. I cannot go back on my word. Even though I might wish otherwise.” He looked away. “When my time comes, I will make the sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice. You speak of it as if it’s a death.”

“Because it is,” he said in a low voice. “For these last few months of freedom I’ve tried to enjoy what pleasures I could. But even then, even now, I feel the bars starting to close in.”

Irene stared at him for a long moment, and he saw her beautiful face struggle between sympathy and anger. Anger won.

“How could you?” she said. “How could you live like you do—Europe’s biggest playboy...”

“My reputation as a playboy might be more than my actions truly deserve...”

“And all along—you’ve been committed to marry someone?” She rose to her feet, her face a mask of fury. “How could you flirt with me when you were promised to another woman? How could you try to seduce me? How could you kiss me?”

“Because I’m trying not to think about it,” he snapped, rising to his feet in turn, meeting her fury with his own—except Sharif’s anger was cold and deep and edged with despair. “Can you understand what it is like to despise someone to the depths of your soul, and know you’ll still be forced to call her your wife? To have a child with her?” He paced by the dining table, his jaw taut as he swiveled to glare at her. “You asked why I was at Falconeri’s wedding. I barely know the man! I went because...”

“Because?”

“Because I was trying to accept my fate!” he exploded. Turning away, he forced his voice to calm down, forced his heart to slow. He took a deep breath. “I went because I needed to feel like any ridiculous fantasies I ever had about marriage were wrong. I knew Falconeri was marrying his housekeeper for the sake of their baby. I thought, if I went to the wedding, I would discover the truth beyond their happy facade. I’d discover they could barely tolerate each other. Instead, I saw something different.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “And I met you.”

Looking at Irene’s beautiful, honest, stricken face, emotion filled Sharif’s heart. He found himself yearning for what he’d never known, and what he’d never have.

Their eyes locked. Irene’s expression became sad, vulnerable, filled with grief. “How could you?”

He looked at her.

“How could I not?” he said in a low voice.

Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head. “Never kiss me again,” she choked out, and fled the room.

CHAPTER SIX

SHE SHOULDN’T BE crying.

She had nothing to cry about.

Sharif—His Highness, Irene corrected herself savagely as she stomped up the stairs toward her room—was her employer, nothing more. So what if he’d kissed her in Italy while virtually engaged to another woman? It wasn’t as if Irene ever thought they might be together. She’d lost absolutely nothing. In fact, she should be glad to be proven right—Sharif was every bit the heartless womanizer she’d first believed him to be!

Though maybe not completely heartless...

Can you understand what it is like to despise someone to the depths of your soul, and know you’ll still be forced to call her your wife? To have a child with her?

No! She pushed away the memory of his hoarse voice and bleak eyes. She wasn’t going to have an ounce of sympathy for him. She was not!

I made the deal I had to make to save my country.

Childishly, she covered her ears as she continued to rush down the hall. Things were right and wrong. Black and white. There were no shades or colors between. Only excuses. She wouldn’t let herself feel a whit of sympathy. What he’d done was wrong!

Irene somehow managed to find her way back to her room. The dinner that had seemed so delicious was now churning inside her belly. She took a shower, brushed her teeth and caught a look at her face in the bathroom mirror. Her hand trembled as she set down her toothbrush. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then froze.

She still felt his kiss there. She touched her lips with her fingertips. She could still feel his mouth on hers, the way he’d claimed them so passionately as his own on that night of fireworks in Italy. She could still feel the way she’d kissed him back, with a lifetime of pent-up loneliness and need. With intoxicating hope.

Irene dropped her hand. She couldn’t think about that now. Glancing out her window, toward the moonswept Persian Gulf beyond the palace, she swallowed over the lump in her throat. Whatever it had been between them—a lie? a dream?—it was definitely over.

Climbing into her bed in the huge room, Irene pulled the luxurious sheets up to her chin. What would Dorothy have told her to do? She’d have said that Irene shouldn’t sell her integrity, not for any price. She squeezed her eyes shut. She’d couldn’t remain in Makhtar, under the same roof with him. Not now. She’d take the first commercial flight out of Makhtar City tomorrow morning, back to...

Her eyes flew open.

To where?

To her hometown in southern Colorado, to join her mother, drunk and bitter, and her sister, growing old before her time? She’d give up her newfound joy at the thought that she could take care of them?

Irene took a deep breath. No way.

She wasn’t going anywhere. She’d stay here the rest of November, then December and January and part of February. She could do it. She had to do it. So the answer was simple.

She wouldn’t be even slightly attracted to her dangerous, sexy, all-but-engaged boss. She’d look into Sharif’s face and be cold, cold, cold all the way to her heart...

She thought again of his handsome face, his dark, bleak eyes.

Can you understand what it is like to despise someone to the depths of your soul...

She wasn’t going to feel an ounce of sympathy. Why should she, for a man who had everything in the world, who was handsome, rich and powerful, the ruler of a wealthy Persian Gulf nation? The man had everything!

Except love. Or even hope of love, until the day he died...

Exhaling, Irene turned on her other side, squeezing her eyes shut. She would stay here and work, but nothing more. She wasn’t going to think of him for another moment, except as anything but her boss. She wouldn’t... She vowed, yawning. Wouldn’t...

Except she saw Sharif standing in the moonlight on the edge of Lake Como, dressed all in black.

What are you doing here? she choked out. He was the last person she’d expected to see.

He turned. The silvery light frosted the edge of his dark hair, illuminating his black eyes.

Don’t you know? he said softly, coming toward her. She shook her head. He pulled her into his arms, brushing back tendrils of her hair. His expression was different than she’d ever seen before. He looked tender, hopeful, yearning as he searched her gaze.

I’m seducing you, Irene, he said in a low voice. Their eyes locked. I’ve been waiting to seduce you for all my life.

Waiting for you...for you. The words echoed across the moon-swept Italian lake mockingly, like the plaintive cry of night birds, and each echo caused a new twist in her heart, somewhere between ecstasy and grief, because she knew she’d been waiting for him, too. But all the waiting was in vain.

But why? Weren’t they meant to be together? Hadn’t they been waiting in their loneliness for the other?

Sharif’s expression changed, became stark with need. As if claiming her, he whispered her name. She was breathless, spellbound, as he slowly lowered his mouth to hers.

Come to me, he whispered. Be with me. Love me. With every syllable of every word, she could feel the brush of his lips against hers, so close, tantalizingly close. His last two words were so faint she heard them only with her heart.

Save me.

And at that, her soul could no longer resist what her body hungered for. Wrapping her arms around him, she drew him against her and pressed her lips to his. She nearly gasped from the explosive sensation of his mouth against hers. She pulled him down against her, sinking back against the soft bed. Her hands twisted in his hair. She felt the deliciously heavy weight of him pressing her deep into the mattress, and gasped against his lips. She needed to feel more of this, more...

Wait a minute. An alarm went off in the back of her brain.

Mattress?

Irene’s eyes flew open. She suddenly realized two things.

First: She’d been dreaming about him on the Italian lake.

Second: She wasn’t dreaming now.

Sharif’s body was over hers on the bed. His weight on hers. His lips on her. So hot. So sweet. So impossible to resist...

Then Irene remembered why she must resist, and she pushed him away. Hard.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“What are you doing?”

Sitting up furiously, she turned on the light on her bedside stand. Sharif was sitting on the edge of her bed in a dark shirt and trousers.

“I told you never to kiss me again!” she accused.

“You,” he replied pointedly, “kissed me.”

“Don’t be—” Irene paused at the sudden humiliating memory of pulling him down against her on the bed, of pressing her lips to his. Oh, dear heaven, was it possible that she, while lost in her dream, could have—

Irene shook her head furiously. “You shouldn’t be in my bedroom!”

“That’s not what you seemed to think a moment ago.”

“I thought I was dreaming,” she retorted, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

His dark eyebrow lifted. “Dreaming of me, were you?”

Her cheeks flamed with heat. “It’s the middle of the night! What are you doing in here? Get out!”

Sharif rose from her bed, absolutely calm, as if what had just happened hadn’t affected him at all—even while it had left her overwhelmed, humiliated, intoxicated and furious. Stupid dreams! She hated them all!

He took a deep breath.

“I need your help,” he said quietly. “I need you to come with me. Right now.”

She stared at him. “Have you lost your mind? It’s—” she twisted her head to look at the elegant, nineteenth-century antique bedside clock “—three in the morning! I’m not going anywhere with—”

“My sister has run away.”

Irene cut off her angry words. She looked at his face in the dimly lit room.

“Run away? Are you sure?” She narrowed her eyes. “This better not be some kind of joke—”

“Do you think I would joke about my sister?”

She looked at him.

“No.” She sighed as all the anger went out of her, making her deflate like a balloon. Pushing her blankets aside, she stood up. Amusement flickered in his eyes as he looked at her long flannel nightgown, which went up to her neck and down to her wrists.

“Is something funny?” she demanded.

He cleared his throat. “Not a thing.”

Sheesh, did no one wear old-fashioned nightgowns anymore? Apparently none of Sharif’s lovers. Whatever. Irene liked it. A deliberate choice from all the tight knit camisoles and hot pants her mom and older sister used to lounge around in, on the off chance a current boyfriend might stop by the house for a booty call.

Irene lifted her chin, silently daring him to say something about her choice in sleepwear so she could bite off his head. Wisely, he didn’t.

“Aziza took no bodyguards. Only her old nurse is with her. It might be innocent. It might not be. Either way, I need you to help me find her. Quickly. Before any of the servants notice. Because once they do...”

Biting her lip, Irene nodded. Although many employees in a large household were loyal to death and would die before they said anything, others would find the gossip too delicious a currency to resist telling at least a friend or two. From there, rumors would spread like wildfire. “But why would she run away?”

Sharif’s face looked grimmer still. “Why is irrelevant. What matters is finding her. Quietly. Before the news gets back to her fiancé and the whole wedding is in an uproar.”

“But why,” she persisted, “would your sister run away from her own fiancé? If I were planning to marry, I’d be counting down the days. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me from the man I loved...”

“You are a private citizen. You have freedom that Aziza and I never will.”

“But—”

“You don’t need to understand. Just get dressed and come with me now.”

Was it possible his sister wasn’t keen on this marriage? But looking at Sharif’s hard expression and the impatient set of his shoulders, Irene knew there was no point in asking. She’d ask Aziza herself, once they found her. “Give me three minutes.”

He didn’t move.

“Wait outside!”

“Three minutes,” he warned her, “and I’m coming back in.”

She believed him. As soon as he went out in the hall and closed the door, she flew to her closet, putting on the quickest clothes possible, a casual maxi dress and a jean jacket. She pulled her unruly dark hair into a hasty ponytail and grabbed her purse. Three minutes? She’d done it in two. She opened her door. “Ready.”

He’d been leaning against the wall. He straightened, his face shocked.

Now she was the one to be amused. “Surprised?”

“I’ve never known a woman who could—” He pressed his lips together, then said tersely, “You’re different. That’s all.”

Not totally different, sadly. One of the things that had given her speed was that she didn’t want him back in her bedroom. But even now, against her will, she remembered how it had felt to have his body on top of hers. How it had felt to twine her hands in his hair as she pulled him hard against her and kissed him so deep she never wanted to let go...

“Um.” Her cheeks turned pink. So much for treating him only as an employer. She’d kissed him. Told him she’d been dreaming about him! Trying to pretend the kiss had never happened seemed like the best bet. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

He gave a single abrupt nod, then gestured for her to follow him down the silent hall. Her flip-flops thwacked against the marble floor, so she took them off to pad silently in bare feet.

Once they were out of the palace, he held up his hand harshly. She froze, confused. Then she saw that the gesture wasn’t for her, but for the bodyguards outside. For the first time since she’d known him, he was leaving all the bodyguards behind.

“Are we taking a plane?” she ventured.

Still walking, he shook his head. “It would involve too many people. I don’t want to take that risk until I know what she’s doing. We’ll have to travel in a way that no one will look twice at us. In a way that makes us invisible.”