Читать книгу The Taste of Romance Collection - Maureen Child - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCHAPTER THREE
“NOW, THIS—” IRENE sighed, leaning back on the blanket as she felt the warm Italian sun on her face a few hours later “—is lovely.”
“Yes,” Sharif’s low voice said beside her. “Lovely.”
Just the sound of his voice made her heart beat faster. Opening her eyes, she looked at him, lounging beside her on the picnic blanket on the hillside. He’d abandoned his jacket on the way back to the villa. She’d intended to return with the rest of the guests, but he’d convinced her otherwise.
“You’re not going to make me go back alone, are you?” he’d asked. “And desert me for a bunch of people you don’t care about?”
She’d hesitated, and when she saw that Emma had already left the town in a luxury sedan with Just Married written in a sign on the back, she’d found it impossible to say no.
The truth was that she was starting to...like him. It didn’t mean anything, she told herself. After all, it was only natural that she’d find his company slightly more appealing than that of the rest of the wedding guests, none of whom she knew. Why wouldn’t she feel more relaxed around Sharif, especially now that he’d traded the formidable native dress of the Emir of Makhtar for a tailored European suit that made him look exactly like every other man?
Well. Maybe not exactly like every man. And maybe relaxed was not the precise word to describe her feelings around him.
Irene shivered.
Stretched beside her on the blanket, Sharif emanated sex appeal, looking impossibly handsome in a gray vest and tie and tailored gray trousers. She licked her lips as her eyes dropped to the sleeves of his white shirt, rolled up to reveal the dusting of dark hair over his tanned forearms.
Just seeing that much of his skin made a bead of sweat break between her breasts that had nothing to do with the warm Italian sun.
He lifted a dark eyebrow, and she realized she’d been staring. And cripes, had she just licked her lips?
“It’s...warm for November...isn’t it?” she said weakly.
His dark gaze looked amused. “Is it?”
“Haven’t you noticed?” She sat up abruptly on the blanket. She was relieved to see the rest of the wedding party and guests picnicking in the post-wedding luncheon farther down the hill. Golden sunlight danced across the field of autumn flowers, in the meadow on the Falconeri estate. Picnic lunches had been arranged for all of them by the picnic butler. Honest to God, a picnic butler. Shaking her head at the memory, Irene reached for the big wicker picnic basket. She licked her lips again, trying to act as if she’d been thinking about only food all the while. “You must be hungry. When I’m hungry, I can’t think about anything but cream cakes. You’re hungry, right?”
“Starving,” he said softly, his dark eyes tracing her. “And you’re right. When a man is hungry, everything else stops. Until his craving is satisfied.”
Irene had the sudden feeling he wasn’t talking about food. A tremble went over her body as she looked at him.
He gave her an innocent smile with his full, sensual lips.
No man should have lips like that, Irene thought. It shouldn’t be legal. She suddenly wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by those lips.
No! She couldn’t let herself be tempted, not even for a moment. Virginity, once lost, was lost forever. She couldn’t let herself be lured by desire, not when the cost for that momentary pleasure would be the life—the committed love—that she really wanted!
She forced herself to look down at the basket. She took out Italian sandwiches on fresh crusty bread, antipasto and fresh fruit salad, all of which she put on elegant china plates before handing one to him, along with a fine linen napkin and a fork she suspected was made of pure silver.
“Thank you,” he said gravely.
“Don’t mention it,” she said, looking away. She noticed the four bodyguards at a distance, in strategic locations on the edges of the meadow. “They really follow you everywhere, don’t they? I know you’re emir and all, but how can you stand it?”
Sharif used a solid-silver fork to take a bite of antipasto off his elegant china plate. “It is part of my position that I accept.”
She shook her head. “But the loss of privacy...I’m not sure it’s a great trade-off. Wealth, power, fame. But also four babysitters dogging your feet wherever you go.”
“Six.” The corners of his lips tilted upward. “The other two are keeping an eye on my room at the villa.”
Irene stared at him. “Right.” Her voice was heavy with irony. “Because you never know when there might be a sudden attack on Lake Como.”
“You never know what the world will bring to your door.”
“It’s obvious, even to me, that six guards is overkill in a place like—”
“My father was shot down in broad daylight, twenty years ago, while vacationing with my mother.” He took a bite of pasta salad. “Shot down by an ex-mistress. In a private, gated villa on the French Riviera.”
Irene gave an intake of breath, then set down her forkful of fruit salad. She lifted her tremulous gaze. The hard lines of his face held no emotion.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “What...happened?”
“His mistress turned the gun on herself. She died at once. My father bled out on the terrace and died ten minutes later. In my mother’s arms.”
It was all so horrible, Irene felt sick inside. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, helplessly. “How old were you?”
“Fifteen.” His mouth pressed into a grim line. “At boarding school in America. A teacher pulled me out of class. Two men I’d never met before bowed to me, calling me the emir. I knew something must have happened to my father but it wasn’t until I arrived back at the palace that I discovered what it was.” Reaching out with an unsteady hand, he poured a bottle of springwater into one of the glasses. He drank it all in one gulp, then looked away. “It was a long time ago.”
She felt awful, needling him about bodyguards when his own father had died in a situation every bit as apparently safe as this. “I’m sorry...you...I’m such a...I can’t even imagine...”
“Forget about it.” Sharif looked at the rest of the wedding party farther down the meadow. “As you said, today is a day for celebration. What’s this?” Reaching into the basket, he pulled out a bottle of expensive champagne. “And still chilled.” His lips curved as he looked at the label. “Now, this is the right way to endure a wedding.”
Endure? She wondered at his choice of words. Then, she could hardly blame him for thinking so ill of romance, love or marriage, when his own parents’ marriage had ended as it had.
He looked up, his dark gaze daring her to ask him more about it. Her mouth went dry.
“It’s a little early for champagne, isn’t it?” was all she could manage.
Without answering, Sharif popped the bottle open and poured it into two crystal glasses. He held one out to her, with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.
“Surely you, Miss Taylor, with your romantic nature,” he drawled, “would not refuse a glass of champagne to celebrate your dearest friend’s happy day?”
When he put it like that... “Well, no.” She took the glass. “And for heaven’s sake. Call me Irene.”
Sharif looked down at her across the blanket.
“Irene,” he said in a low voice.
Sensuality and power emanated from him in a way that fascinated her. In a way that was dangerous. Her eyes fell to his lips. To the slight shadow of scruff on his sharp jawline. To his neck.
Forcing herself to look away, she drank deeply from her glass. She’d never tasted champagne before, and it was every bit as delicious and bubbly and intoxicating as it looked in the movies. Sitting here in the meadow, beside a sexy Makhtari emir, overlooking a two-hundred-year-old Italian villa with the blue sparkling lake beyond, Irene felt as if she, too, had been transported into a movie, or a dream.
They ate in silence. With no words to fill the air, she was even more aware of Sharif’s every movement. She looked at him sideways through her lashes, at the gleam of golden sunlight against his tawny skin. The thick shape of his throat above his white collar and blue tie. His long, muscled legs beneath the well-tailored trousers. She felt a cool breeze on her own overheated cheeks and the bare legs peeking out from her dress. But just as she was desperately trying to think of something to talk about, he abruptly spoke into the silence.
“So, you live in Paris?”
It was such a small-talk sort of salvo, it surprised her. Irene suddenly wondered if, in spite of Sharif being a powerful, rich sheikh, he might also be a person, who himself might have been trying to think of conversation, just as she had been.
“I had a job there. As a nanny for the Bulgarian ambassador’s children.”
“Had?”
She ate some fruit salad. “I was, um, fired.”
He looked shocked. “You?”
“I loved the children, but...their parents and I had some creative differences.” She took a big bite of sandwich and chewed slowly, but after she swallowed, he was still waiting patiently for her to continue. She sighed. “I’ve never been good at holding my tongue. I felt the parents were spending too much time at parties and entertaining, and were neglecting the emotional needs of their girls and needed to get their priorities straight.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “And you—said this—to them?”
“I’ve always had a problem with telling the truth.”
“You mean the problem is that you actually tell it?” He gave a low laugh, and she loved the sound. So sexy. So warm. It made his dark eyes light up in a way that melted her inside.
“Don’t laugh,” Irene said. “You’re a billionaire and a king. I bet no one tells you the truth about anything. They’re too scared.”
“I doubt that very much.” He gave another laugh, but this time there was no warmth in it. “I wish some of my servants were a little more afraid, to tell you the truth. My sister has a companion who—”
He cut himself off.
“You have a sister?”
“Yes.” He looked away.
Birds sang above them, echoing plaintively across the valley. Feeling awkward, Irene lifted her glass to her lips to take a fortifying drink of champagne, only to discover she’d finished it already. How had that happened?
“Allow me.” Sharif brought the bottle to her glass. Placing his hand over hers, to steady her hold on the crystal stem, he tilted the bottle against the lip and poured deeply into her glass. Irene felt his larger hand over hers, felt the warmth of his palm against her skin, and a deep shudder went through her.
She looked up at his darkly handsome face.
“So where are you working now?” he asked.
She licked her lips. “I’m, um, not.”
“Taking time off?”
“I’m sadly between jobs,” she said lightly. “It’s been six months. I’m running out of money.”
Sharif frowned. “Can’t Mrs. Falconeri arrange a job for you at one of her husband’s hotels?”
“She probably could, if I asked her. But I won’t.”
“No desire to work in the hotel business?”
“It’s not that. I wouldn’t dream of presuming on our friendship that way. It wouldn’t be right.”
He was staring at her as if she were crazy. “What are you talking about?”
She glared at him. “I’m not that kind of person, okay? Feelings are feelings, friends are friends, and I’m not going to use any relationship for financial gain. I won’t. I’m not like—”
Like my family, she almost said, but cut herself off just in time.
Or maybe she didn’t. Sharif was looking at her with consternation. As if seeing her for the first time.
“What happened?” he said in a low voice. “I thought some man broke your heart. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Or else why wouldn’t you ask a good friend for help finding a job? Why would you be afraid?”
“I’m not afraid!” Her cheeks flamed. “I just prefer to find a job on my own, that’s all. I don’t need Emma’s help.” She wouldn’t let him see into her soul. She wouldn’t. “Don’t worry about me, Your Highness,” she said coldly. “I’ll be fine.”
He looked as if he didn’t believe her. His lips parted, as if he was about to ask her questions she wouldn’t want to answer.
Looking down across the meadow, she rose unsteadily to her feet. “Let’s pack up. I’m done.”
But after they’d silently packed the dishes and he’d folded the blanket, as she started to walk ahead of him, Sharif caught her arm.
“Wait.” Tilting his head, he gave her an impish, sideways smile. “Before we rejoin the other guests, I have something to show you.”
* * *
An hour later, Irene was still staring at it in shock.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said for the sixth time. She tilted her head, regarding it from the other direction. Nope. It still didn’t look real. It was too outrageously huge, too ridiculous to be believed.
Beside her, Sharif tilted his head as well, looking down at it with poorly concealed masculine smugness. “Like it?”
Irene licked her lips, trying to find the words.
“A little too big?” he offered finally.
She looked up at him. “You think?”
“It’s purely for your pleasure.”
“I didn’t ask for anything that huge.”
“You didn’t ask for anything at all. But I knew you wanted it. Every woman does.”
Irene bit her lip, staring at it.
“Touch it,” he said encouragingly. “Go on. Don’t be afraid. It won’t bite.”
“That’s what you think,” she muttered, but finally, the temptation was too much to resist. It was too spectacular not to touch. She wanted to feel it for herself, every hard delicious curve.
Reaching out, she gently stroked her fingertips over the diamond necklace he was holding out in the black velvet case.
The diamonds felt hard and smooth. Especially the center five stones, which had to be well over ten carats...each. They sparkled from the fire inside them.
Just as she did when she was near Sharif.
“Put it on,” he said, coming closer. “You know you want to.”
Yanking back her hand, she shook her head, setting her jaw. “I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“Why not?”
She looked at him in disbelief. “You really have to ask? After I told you how I feel about mixing the lines between relationships and financial gain?”
Sharif lifted a dark eyebrow.
“Why, Miss Taylor. Are we in a relationship?” he purred. “Am I to understand you cannot accept my small gift because you’ve fallen desperately in love with me?”
He’d caught her very neatly.
“Of course not,” she said, glaring at him.
“In that case...”
He pulled her to the full-length mirror in his bedroom suite. Removing her borrowed band of Emma’s pearls, he replaced them with the diamond necklace from the black velvet box.
She nearly gasped at the cool weight of the stones against her skin.
“You look beautiful,” Sharif said softly, standing behind her. “You will be the queen of the ball tonight.”
“No one will be queen but Emma,” Irene said. “It’s her day.” Then she swallowed as she looked at herself in his mirror.
Afternoon sunlight was beaming down from the tall windows of his bedroom. She saw her own big eyes, the pink flush on her cheeks, her full, trembling lips. In her borrowed Lela Rose dress, with the diamonds flashing fire against her skin, she did look like a queen. But she couldn’t kid herself it was the dress, or even the jewels that made her look so...alive.
It was the man standing behind her now. She couldn’t touch him. But she could touch this...
Unthinkingly, she raised her hand and ran it down the thick, hard jewels. “How much did it cost?”
“It’s not good manners to ask, is it?”
“How much?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “A minor amount that I can easily afford.”
Irene licked her lips, still staring at herself in the mirror. Take it off this instant, she ordered herself, but she found her hand wouldn’t obey. Instead of reaching back to undo the clasp at her nape, it was stroking the huge jewels as they trailed from her collarbone to the center of her breastbone. It probably cost as much as a car, she thought. A car? A house. A mansion.
“A loan?” she suggested weakly.
He shook his head. “A gift.”
Irene had never seen anything so lavish and exquisite as this necklace, and knew she never would again. Crazy to think she was wearing a million euros around her neck—or more—when she had less than twenty euros in her purse.
But it wasn’t a gift, whatever Sharif had said. It was payment in advance. No man gave something for nothing. What was the difference between accepting a diamond necklace from a sheikh or getting a hundred bucks from old Benny who pumped gas as the Quick Mart? No difference at all.
But she found herself still stroking the jewels for another five minutes before she gathered the willpower to reach for the clasp.
He put his larger hand over hers, stopping her. Their eyes met in the mirror.
“They’re yours.”
“I told you. I can’t accept.”
“I won’t take them back. They were bought for you today in Rome.”
“Rome?” she cried. “How?” Then she remembered his newspaper. “It’s very wasteful,” she grumbled. “Sending private jets all around the world at the drop of a hat. Buying diamonds for a stranger.”
“You’re not a stranger. Not anymore.” He shrugged. “If you don’t want the necklace, toss it in the lake. Bury it in the garden. I care not. It’s yours. I won’t take it back.”
“But—”
“I’m bored with this subject. Let’s find something fun to do.” He gave her a lazy smile. “Perhaps go congratulate the bride and groom on their civil ceremony?”
Guilt flashed through her as she recalled how she’d barely spoken three words with Emma all day. “Good idea,” she mumbled.
But for all the rest of the long afternoon, she found herself unable to take off the necklace, or to part company with Sharif, who was continually at her side, whispered shocking things to try to make her laugh, and then laughing himself when she whispered her own shocking things in return.
The beautiful, chic supermodel types goggled at them for the rest of the afternoon, and through dinner, too, as if they couldn’t imagine what the handsome, powerful Emir of Makhtar could find so fascinating about Irene. Oh, if only they knew. She was insulting him, mostly.
She allowed herself a small, private giggle with her after-dessert coffee. Then her eye caught Emma’s worried face across the table.
Irene’s smile fell. Looking away, she scowled. Emma should know she didn’t need to worry. She knew what she was doing.
Didn’t she?
After dinner, alone in her own room for the first time that day, Irene looked down in awe at the beautiful gown Emma had loaned her for the ball that night. It was strapless red silk, with a sweetheart neckline and a very full skirt. The perfect gown for a night that would be the culminating event of the wedding celebration. Tomorrow would be nothing but hangovers and staggered breakfasts, as guests scattered for the airport, for the train, back to their real lives. But tonight—tonight.
Tonight there would be fireworks.
Trembling, Irene looked at herself in the mirror, wearing only a red strapless lace bra and panties—and the necklace. Lifting her long dark hair off her neck, Irene bit her lip, turning her head to the left and right.
She’d wear it just a few hours more. Then she’d give it back to Sharif, she promised herself, and no harm done.
Irene brushed her long dark hair, then piled the heavy weight on top of her head in an elegant topknot. She put on black eyeliner and red lipstick. Pulled on the strapless scarlet ball gown. Zipped it up behind her.
Looked in the mirror.
A woman she didn’t recognize looked back at her.
Beautiful.
Exotic.
Rich.
An illusion, she thought. Just for tonight. Tomorrow she’d turn back into a pumpkin. She’d face the hollow choice of asking a friend for a job, against her pride and principles, or else going back to Paris to pack her things to return to Colorado, a penniless failure. She’d go back with nothing but the dream that someday, if she worked hard enough and followed all the rules, she’d be good enough. She’d find a good man to love her as she wanted to be loved. She took a deep breath.
But just for tonight, she would forget all that. She’d pretend she was someone else, just like the other women at the villa, wealthy and beautiful and without a care in the world.
Going out into the hall, Irene ducked back when she saw Emma and Cesare, both of them dressed for the ball, coming out of the next doorway. Emma was giving her husband an impish smile as she ran her hand down the front of his tuxedo. Cesare looked at her with a low growl, then gave her a passionate kiss, pulling her right back into their bedroom—next door.
Well, that was one mystery solved. Sharif wasn’t the one who’d kept her awake last night with all the noise. Smiling to herself, Irene counted to ten to give Emma and Cesare time to close their bedroom door before she went back into the hall.
She felt strangely nervous as she went down the sweeping stairs to the ballroom. Her hands were trembling for some reason she couldn’t imagine. She touched the diamond necklace again, as if it was some kind of good-luck charm.
Just for tonight, she repeated to herself. No harm done.
The gilded ballroom was packed with people. Already, the hum of excited conversation and the music of the orchestra filled the huge room all the way to the high ceilings and the enormous crystal chandeliers. Unlike most of the weekend, which had involved an intimate number of twenty or so guests, tonight’s event had brought celebrities and royalty and tycoons and politicians and billionaires, not just from Europe but also from South America and Asia and Africa. There had to be at least five hundred people, or maybe eight hundred. She had a hard time counting, and anyway, she didn’t really care, because even though she wouldn’t admit it to herself, there was only one person she was really looking for—
“Irene.” His low voice behind her caused a thrill of pleasure to rush through her body. “You dazzle me.”
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.
