Modern Romance - The Best of the Year

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.