Modern Romance - The Best of the Year

Irene followed him across the gated courtyard, the only light the moon, the only sound the burble of the unseen fountain. He stopped in front of a building with large sliding doors. He paused, his hands clenched at his sides. She looked up and saw an expression on his face that truly shocked her to the core.

Fear.

She’d never thought Sharif could be afraid of anything. But she tried to imagine how she would feel if her sister had run away. If her mother was missing and unable to be found. The powerless fear that would grip her heart.

“We’ll find her, Sharif,” she whispered, trying to offer comfort. “We will. I’ll help you find her.” She reached for his hand. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

For a moment, he looked down at her hand.

“Thank you,” he said in a low voice. He pulled his hand away, the brief moment of vulnerability gone, the ruthless air of command returned, and he wrenched open the garage door. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“I still can’t believe this is your idea of invisible,” Irene grumbled a few hours later.

Sharif gave her a wicked grin from the driver’s seat of the insanely expensive red sports car. “Just trying to fit in.”

“Fit in,” she snorted. She stretched in the passenger seat, yawning. “You—”

Then she saw the bright skyscrapers in the distance. Her mouth snapped shut as her eyes went wide.

She breathed, “Is that—?”

“Yes,” he said. “Dubai.”

It was still early morning, and though the sun was barely in the sky, already it was growing hot. She’d slept through the first few hours of darkness, and had just a dim memory of a perfectly modern highway across bare, empty desert, and a sky that was inky black with stars.

They’d entered the United Arab Emirates at the Makhtari border, where they were welcomed with deep respect and courtesy that was fit for—well, a king; and yet with discretion that made it clear they understood this was not a state visit. Against her will, Irene had wondered if Sharif had done this trip before, and with whom.

They’d stopped for gas at a station outside Abu Dhabi. She’d gone inside and discovered the station was not that different from the ones at home. Same brand of candy bars, same sodas, same everything—except the labels had Arabic writing on one side and English on the other. Using her credit card, she bought a bag of chewy fruit candy and tucked it in her purse. She also got two coffees and brought them out to Sharif, who’d just finished refueling the flashy red car.

He’d stared at the outstretched paper cup, frowning, as if she were offering him jewels, not an espresso worth ten dirhams. Taking a long drink, he gave a sigh of satisfaction. He looked at her, his eyes deep. “Thank you.”

“It’s no big deal,” she’d said uncomfortably. “It’s just coffee.” She tilted her head. “Aren’t you used to people bringing you stuff?”

“Yes. Servants. Sycophants. But not—” He cut himself off. He looked at the coffee, then shook his head as his lips twisted upward on the edges. “It’s not poisoned, right? As a warning to make sure I never try to kiss you again?”

She snorted, then gave a wistful sigh. “I can’t really blame you for that. I’m the one who kissed you this time.”

His eyes met hers sharply, and for a single insane moment, electricity crackled between them.

No! She would not let herself want what she could not have!

Turning, she opened the passenger door. “Your sister,” she said.

“Yes.” His voice was low. Getting back into the car, he started the engine.

But as they drove north from Abu Dhabi, she’d looked out the window, far too aware of Sharif next to her in the small interior of the sports car. She tried to focus on the gleaming buildings, the desert, the brand-new, immaculate highway with road signs written in Arabic, with English translations beneath.

Now, as they approached Dubai, Irene said, “How do you know she’s here?”

“She was angry at me yesterday. For firing Gilly.”

“Gilly?”

“Her companion who thought it would be amusing to ambush me while she was naked in my bed.”

“Oh.”

“Gilly was not a good influence on Aziza. She convinced her that things—luxury handbags, jewels, royal titles and money—would make her happy.”

Irene leaned her arm against the window of the Ferrari and said sardonically, “I can see why that would bother you.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “She convinced my sister to accept the Sultan of Zaharqin’s proposal, because of his lavish gifts and high position. It wasn’t my idea. But now I’ve given my word. I cannot allow her to back out.”

“Nineteen-year-olds change their minds all the time.”

“If my subjects do not believe my word is inviolate, how can I expect their respect? Their obedience?” Setting his jaw, he stared at the skyscrapers of Dubai ahead of them. “I suspected Aziza might come to our vacation villa here...”

“Vacation villa, huh? For when you’re bored with being waited on hand and foot at the palace?”

“The guard called me a few hours ago. He confirmed that my sister’s there, with only her nurse as chaperone. I’m grateful it wasn’t worse.”

“Nurse? Is she ill?”

“Nanny, I guess you would call her. Basimah virtually raised her.”

“Why didn’t she call and warn you what Aziza was up to, then?”

“Basimah?” He snorted. “She’s protective of Aziza like a mother bear to a cub. She sees me as the enemy. Especially since the engagement.”

“Hard to believe. So why has your sister changed her mind about the wedding? Did the sultan send her a gift she didn’t like? Last season’s handbags? The wrong color of jewels?”

He stared grimly forward at the widening highway, as the traffic on the outskirts of Dubai increased. He said reluctantly, “The Sultan of Zaharqin is older than she is.”

“How much older?”

He paused. “Forty years.”

For an instant, Irene just stared at him, wide-eyed. Then she exploded.

“You are making a nineteen-year-old girl marry a man three times her age? Are you out of your mind?”

“Aziza agreed to it. If she’s changed her mind since, her duty is to serve her people,” he said coldly. “Just as it is mine.”

“It’s ridiculous!”

“No, Miss Taylor.” Sharif’s eyes were focused on the road, but his jaw was tight as he said, “You are ridiculous to criticize something you do not understand. You have no responsibility to anyone except yourself and your own family. You do not know what it means to rule a country. It is Aziza’s privilege and her duty to protect and defend all of our people. That means doing everything she can.”

“But she is only nineteen—”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I was fifteen.”

“You grew up early.”

“So did you.” He gave her a hard, quick look. “You’ve spent so much time asking why my sister ran away. Why did you?”

She stared at him. “I didn’t run away.”

“You left your home, went to New York, then thousands of miles across the ocean to take a job in Paris. Then you traveled even farther to the Middle East. What else would you call it except running away?”

“I just needed a job...”

“You had a good job in New York. But you chose to leave, when a position became available working for your employer’s cousin in Paris. It’s not just about money. You wanted distance.”

Her whole body went cold. If he already knew that...

“How much do you know about my past?” she whispered.

Sharif gave her a dark look.

“Everything. You think I would have hired you if I did not? I had a complete dossier on you before the plane even landed in Makhtar.”

The chill in her heart became a freeze. “Then you know my mother and sister...” Her voice cracked.

“Yes.” His expression changed, became gentle. “I know everything.”

“And you don’t—want me a million miles from your sister?”

He shook his head.

“But reputation matters so much to you—”

“Honor matters to me,” he corrected sharply. “And you are not to blame for the choices others have made. Even if they’re people you love.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and she suddenly remembered that Sharif, too, had good reason to believe this.

They drove in silence. Then he said, “The only thing I couldn’t understand from the report is how you got that first job in New York. Why would a wealthy family on Park Avenue choose you from their agency, and send for you all the way from Colorado?”

“I was so young and from a small town in the West.” She gave him a sudden impish grin. “They wanted a nanny with a wholesome, sheltered background.”

He snorted, then sobered. “You are sheltered in your way,” he murmured. “You protect your heart.”

“Yes.” Her smile faded. “And you’re wrong to force Aziza to marry against hers.”

Sharif’s expression turned to a scowl. “With your beliefs about the sanctity of marriage, I thought you would support me.”

Ahead of them, she saw gleaming skyscrapers, with futuristic architecture twisting improbably high, high, high into the blue sky. “Marriage isn’t just a bunch of words on paper. The commitment can only come from your heart. From love.”

Sharif’s lip curled. He turned forward to stare stonily at the road. “Spare me your further thoughts on the subject.”

Her cheeks turned hot. “Look,” she tried again, “as ruler of your country, I understand your sense of honor, but surely even you can see that—”

“You, Miss Taylor, may lead your life however you want.” He tossed her a contemptuous glance. “Make lifelong decisions based on romantic fantasies. Break engagements, marry on a whim, divorce as often as you like. You are free to make whatever self-indulgent, foolish choices you wish...”

“Foolish!” she cried. “Self-indulgent!”

“But my sister and I are not.” He tilted his head coldly. “Tell me, Miss Taylor. How many happy marriages have you seen in real life? Can you name even one?”

“Emma and Cesare!”

“Too easy. They’re newlyweds. Anyone can be happy for four days. Who else?”

She said slowly, “I was virtually raised by an elderly couple, neighbors who lived down the street. They were barely out of high school when they eloped to a judge’s office, but they were married for over fifty years. They never loved anyone but each other. They raised children, they took care of each other, grew old together. They died one day apart...”

“After fifty years of marriage, they were probably happy to die.”

“Shut up!” Irene shouted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, you can give out the truth, but you can’t take it?”

“They loved each other! I saw it! Their house was the only place I ever felt happy or safe in my whole childhood!”

Silence fell.

“Ah,” he said softly. “At last. The reason for your ironclad virginity. You think if you hold out for marriage, you’ll be happy and safe for the rest of your life. But it doesn’t work like that.”

“No? How does it work, then—sleeping around with women you don’t even like, that you can’t even remember? How is it working for you, knowing you’ll never truly have a partner, someone to watch your back, someone to protect and adore? Tell me more about your great life, Sharif, how wonderful it feels to never love anyone, or have anyone ever love you back!” She shook her head, blinking away furious tears. “You’re just scared to admit I’m right, because if you did—”

“Enough.” He suddenly sat up straight, every inch the arrogant, untouchable Emir of Makhtar. His broad-shouldered anger filled the space of the Ferrari. “I’ve allowed your honesty, even appreciated it, because it serves my ends. I need my sister to have a companion I can trust. But do not speak to me of love.” His low voice dripped scorn. “Love is nothing more than selfish delusion that weak-minded people allow to come before duty. Before honor. Before even their own good. People destroy their lives, and the lives of their families, over this poisonous thing that you call love.”

The sports car seemed to be going faster and faster through the heavy traffic, until they were darting around the big trucks and luxury sedans on the road. Sharif turned the car off the highway in a hard right, barely slowing down.

He’d been right about one thing, Irene thought unhappily. Their flashy red sports car fit right in. No one gave it a second glance.

She took a deep breath.

“I told you when you hired me,” she said shakily, “that you might regret it. Because I speak the truth.”

“It’s not truth. It’s your opinion. One that you are free to have because you have nothing to lose. You do not have the lives of two hundred thousand people depending on you.”

“No, but—”

“Share your feelings with me, Irene Taylor. Talk your head off whenever you want. But if you say one word of it to my sister—if you preach to her about love that lasts forever—that is your last day under my employment. You will be sent back home without pay. Do you understand?”

Setting her jaw, Irene looked away.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She gripped the edge of her leather seat as he turned the car sharply into a private driveway. Ahead of them, she saw a stucco fence at least ten feet high, with a guardhouse at the gate.

The air in the car, which had crackled with such sensual energy in the gas station outside Abu Dhabi, now seemed frozen over. How was it possible, Irene wondered miserably, that feelings could burn so hot one moment and so cold the next? Just a few hours ago, she’d been crying at the thought of his engagement.

Now, she would have dearly loved to push him out of the Ferrari and leave him in a ditch by the side of the road.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I CANNOT BELIEVE that you would take such a risk coming here unprotected... Knowing full well that your future husband might hear of this foolish escapade...”

Sharif set his jaw, folding his arms with a scowl as he looked down at his young sister. He’d been lecturing her for some time.

“Of all the selfish, idiotic...”

Aziza sat meekly on an outdoor sofa on the grand terrace of their family’s vacation villa, which overlooked an Olympic-size pool and the gleaming brilliance of the Persian Gulf beyond. His sister’s eyes were turned down, but he recognized the stubborn set to her jaw. It matched the stubborn expressions of the two women sitting on each side of her.

Old Basimah was on the left, glaring at him with hard beady eyes, her sagging jowls quivering with unspoken fury that he, the elder brother who was merely and unimportantly the emir and absolute ruler of Makhtar, would dare to scold her precious charge.

Ignoring her, Sharif continued harshly, “You must never do such a thing again...”

But at this, the woman sitting on Aziza’s other side, holding her hand, looked up sharply.

“She has explained why she came to Dubai, Your Highness,” Irene said coolly. “She apologized for not telling you her intention, but surely you would not begrudge the sheikha a simple, discreet weekend vacation.” Irene lifted an eyebrow, as if to say, You, of all people, cannot criticize her for that. When she saw her mark hit home, she relaxed and gave him a placid smile. “She is not, after all, a prisoner—is she?”

Sharif’s scowl deepened. He’d expected that Irene would get along well with his headstrong young sister. He hadn’t expected them to become friends so quickly. Or that she would take his sister’s side so craftily, in a way he could not easily fight. Aziza knew it, too. There was a reason his sister was arguing in English, not Arabic.

“There are many places to relax,” he replied through his teeth, “in Makhtar City.”

Irene gave him a sweet smile. “But Her Highness had her heart set on coming here, where she could test her skiing lessons at the indoor ski slope at the Mall of the Emirates.” She tilted her head. “She could have requested the use of your private jet, and flown off to a ski resort in Switzerland or Patagonia with an entourage. Instead, she came here simply and privately, at very little expense. Surely her thriftiness should be rewarded, not scolded.”

The woman should be in diplomacy, he thought grumpily.

“Of course,” he said through gritted teeth. She was not only giving his sister a reasonable defense, she was also obliquely pointing out his lavish spending on his own trips abroad. While not directly giving voice to her disapproval of Aziza’s coming wedding, she was undermining his authority and giving his younger sister greater confidence in her decisions, to better fight him later. Well played, he thought. But Irene didn’t know who she was dealing with.

Sharif looked down at his sister. Aziza’s plump cheeks were still stained with tears, her hands listless in her lap. She was, after all, just nineteen. He himself had first started taking illicit weekends himself at that age as a way to escape from the pressures of the palace. That was what he’d first feared when she’d left—that she was meeting some boy here, some waiter she’d met, or heaven knew what. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. So perhaps—just perhaps—he was being too hard on her.

Sharif took a deep breath. “All I want is for you to be happy...”

Aziza looked up. “How can I be happy?” she cried. “When I’m just waiting, waiting to marry that old man?”

“How indeed?” Irene murmured under her breath.

Thus encouraged, the younger woman glared at her brother and tossed her head defiantly. “It’s like having a date with the guillotine!”

Enough was enough.

“You made a promise,” he said sharply. “You know your duty. You have yours, just as I have mine...”

“It’s not fair! I went from an all-girls boarding school to the palace, and now I’m trapped there until I go to my husband’s house, where I’ll be trapped for the rest of my life.” She shook her head. “You’ve lived your life for the last nineteen years, Sharif, bossing everyone around as emir, enjoying yourself in London and all over the world. What about me? When is my time to live?”

Sharif looked at the three mutinous feminine faces in front of him and felt momentarily outgunned.

He saw the tenseness of Aziza’s trembling shoulders as she sat on the outdoor sofa. Saw the brittle expression on her face. All she’d wanted was a chance to swim and ski and distract herself from the engagement she’d entered into so hastily. He, of all people, could understand this.

“Perhaps in my desire to keep you safe, I haven’t given you enough freedom,” he said slowly. “I didn’t realize you felt trapped in the palace, Aziza.” He paused. “Shall we remain in Dubai for a few days? Have a holiday? Perhaps when you’re done skiing, we should go on a shopping excursion.”

“Shopping?” Aziza said hopefully.

“Every bride needs wedding clothes.”

“How much can I buy?”

“Anything you want.”

Aziza slowly rose to her feet, her eyes wide. “Anything? Five new handbags? A new wardrobe? Ball gowns? Jewels?”

“Anything and everything.”

“Thank you, Sharif! Oh!” she cried, tossing her arms around him. “You’re such a good brother!”

Now, Irene was the one to scowl. And he was the one to give her back a placid smile, as if to say, Did you expect to win so easily? I’ve been in politics my whole life.

“It’s just what I needed,” his young sister said, wiping her eyes. “It will make me feel so much better.”

Sharif smiled at her. This was what he liked best—for his orders to be met with thanks and joy. But in this case, he felt he shouldn’t take full credit. “Thank Miss Taylor,” he murmured. “It was her idea.”

Irene’s lips parted. “It wasn’t exactly my—”

“Thank you, Miss Taylor!” Aziza threw her arms around Irene’s shoulders. “You’re already so much more fun than Gilly!” A smug smile crossed the younger woman’s face as she crowed, “Just wait until Alexandra sees all the things I’m going to buy today—it’ll be twice as much as all the pictures she’s been posting from her dorm! I win! I win, win, win!”

Irene rose heavily to her feet. Sharif saw the sour expression on her face and hid a smile.

He spread his arms wide. “I will have my driver bring the car around. My bodyguards arrived ten minutes ago.”

“They did?” Irene said, then: “Of course they did.”

Twenty minutes later, the four of them—plus a driver and bodyguard—were in a gray limousine, speeding from the villa to the mall, with the other bodyguards driving SUVs ahead and behind.

Sitting in the back of the limo, Sharif felt Irene’s sideways glare. He didn’t mind at all. Like his sister, he’d won.

Aziza was settling down, on track to a marriage that would increase the stability and prestige of his small nation. And, he hoped, her older husband would stabilize her. Yes, the Sultan of Zaharqin was older, but he was steady and respectable. It would be a good match. Something that would last, and would in time, as they built their family, lead to mutual respect, Sharif hoped, even affection, between husband and wife.

Stability. Peace. Those were the things he valued, both in his country and in his life. His eyes fell on Irene sitting across from him in the back of the limo.

He wished he could say he felt peaceful now.

They were barreling down the road at a breakneck pace, the driver well accustomed to the traffic laws of Dubai, which were often treated more like suggestions, really, than laws. The battle of wits between him and Irene had his blood flowing. All his senses were aware of her.

Sharif’s gaze slowly traveled from the impatient tapping of her foot in those ridiculously casual plastic flip-flops, to the curvaceous outline of her body in the long knit cotton dress. A jean jacket covered her tightly folded arms in the frigid air-conditioning of the Bentley. He saw the angry set of her jaw. The warm creamy hue of her skin. She was staring out the window, her teeth biting down on her full, pink lower lip. She was clearly repressing the words she wished to say, but her body language said it all for her. She’d lost this battle, and she didn’t like it.

He couldn’t stop looking at her lips, the full sensual lips that had kissed him so suddenly and unexpectedly when he’d gone into her bedroom to wake her. Her beautiful eyes had fluttered open, she’d smiled, whispered something he couldn’t hear, then pulled him down hard against her on the bed. His whole body suddenly felt tight, his heart pounding at the memory.

What a woman. If it had been his choice, he would have chosen a woman like this for his queen, angry and sweet, sexy and idealistic and proud. He respected her. Even though it was a pain in his side, he admired the way she’d fought for his sister. Even before she’d met Aziza, she’d been protective of her. She wasn’t afraid to fight for what she believed in.

He suddenly wondered what it would be like to fight with Irene every day, having her argue with him furiously over the breakfast table, her deep brown eyes shooting sparks of fire. Then taking her to bed every night, where the fire could explode. It wouldn’t always be peaceful. Or stable. And yet it would be, because what was between them, both the good and bad, would always be real...

He cut the thought off. Real, he mocked himself. His lip curled. He was starting to sound as bad as Irene. Like a romantic. Real?

The promise he had made at fifteen to wed the vizier’s daughter was real. His need to protect his people and keep Makhtar prosperous and safe—that was real, too. He would announce his engagement to Kalila as soon as Aziza’s wedding was done. Kalila would be his queen, would provide him with the heir he needed.

That was the most real of all. Even if the thought of what he’d need to do to get that heir on Kalila repelled him. She was sly, devious, cold-blooded. It would be like bedding a snake.

Whereas the woman sitting close to him now—

Irene made him feel warm all over. Hot to boiling. She was passionate and alive. Everything she believed, she believed with all her heart. She wore her heart on her sleeve, even if that made her vulnerable, even if she risked looking like a fool. She appealed to him in a way he couldn’t explain, not even to himself.