Читать книгу The Taste of Romance Collection - Maureen Child - Страница 14

CHAPTER SIX

SHE SHOULDN’T BE crying.

She had nothing to cry about.

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

Though maybe not completely heartless...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes flew open.

To where?

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

Irene took a deep breath. No way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Save me.

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

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

Mattress?

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

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

Second: She wasn’t dreaming now.

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

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

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took a deep breath.

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

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

“My sister has run away.”

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

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

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

She looked at him.

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

“Is something funny?” she demanded.

He cleared his throat. “Not a thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

He didn’t move.

“Wait outside!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we taking a plane?” she ventured.

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

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.