Читать книгу The Taste of Romance Collection - Maureen Child - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss Taylor. You are ready?”

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

“Yes, Your Highness.”

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

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

“It’s cooler,” she said in surprise.

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

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

“The palace?”

“The whole country.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friendly?”

Sharif scowled. “Flirty.”

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

“No.”

“Engaged.”

“No.”

“A womanizer. A liar. A brute.”

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

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

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

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

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

She exhaled. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes—I mean, no! I mean...”

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They love you,” she said.

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

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

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

“Before?”

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

Irene stepped into the room.

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

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

Sharif did not enter the room.

“Dinner is at nine.”

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

“My sister will be joining us.”

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

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

She had to get a hold of herself!

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

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

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

Well. Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But how could she?

* * *

Sharif paced three steps across the dining hall.

Irene was late. It surprised him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.