Читать книгу The Taste of Romance Collection - Maureen Child - Страница 16

CHAPTER EIGHT

SHARIF STARED DOWN through the window of his private office, watching Irene and his sister walk together through the palace garden below.

Irene looked up, as if she felt his gaze. He lifted his hand in greeting. But she abruptly turned away, her sensual body swaying like music as she disappeared with his sister through the garden. He dropped his hand.

Did she know?

Had she guessed?

Grimly, Sharif set his jaw. Every time he saw her, it was harder to hide. He honestly wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it from her.

For three months now, Irene had been living in his palace. For three months, she’d slept in the bedroom across from his. He’d spoken with her, laughed with her. Seen how the rest of the palace staff had come to respect and even love her.

Three months of torture. Of having her join him at dinner, of looking across the table and seeing the sweep of Irene’s dark eyelashes trembling against her creamy skin, to see the parting of her full pink lips as she ate and drank and smiled.

Three months of wishing that she, and no other, could be his queen. His wife.

Sharif’s jaw set as he looked out the window toward the vast sweep of the sparkling gulf. His whole body electrified every time he thought of how it had felt to kiss her in the water that last night in Dubai. He wanted her in his arms. In his bed.

Cold comfort to tell himself that at least no one knew his feelings. He wished he didn’t know them himself.

Because Sharif could no longer pretend to himself that what he felt for Irene was lust. He respected her too much for that. It wasn’t just friendship, either, no matter how he tried to pretend otherwise. The truth of the matter had hit him hard across the jaw last week, when she’d suddenly burst into laughter at something he’d said—he could no longer even remember what it was—but he’d looked into her sparkling, shining brown eyes, and felt something explode in his chest.

He was in love with her.

In love.

Love wasn’t just a myth. It wasn’t an illusion. It filled him with light and wonder in a way he’d never felt before. The ache in his heart that expanded until he could think of nothing else. He’d known in that moment that he would do anything for Irene’s happiness. Kill for her. Die for her.

He was supposed to be reading through some dry legal documents, in preparation for a phone discussion that afternoon with the Sultan of Zaharqin about a joint oil venture, to be funded both privately and with each nation’s sovereign fund. Instead, Sharif had found himself just standing here by the window, on the off chance he might see Irene walking in the garden. And now he had, and now she was gone, his knees were weak and he felt like someone had stabbed his heart with a dagger.

He was in love with Irene.

And he could never have her. Not in marriage. Not without marriage. He couldn’t have her in any way.

In one week, his sister would be wed. All he had to do was stay away from Irene for the rest of the week, and he could be done with this torture. He wouldn’t have Irene stay another day after that, no matter how he’d once practically begged her. The moment the wedding was done, he would send her away. He’d go back to how he’d felt before.

Numb.

His hand tightened on the window.

“Your Highness, Miss Taylor is asking to see you.”

He whirled around to see Hassan, his chief of staff, in the doorway of his office.

“Send her in,” he said abruptly, then silently jeered at himself. So much for willpower and staying away from her.

Hassan briefly bowed his head, but as he turned to go, he hesitated, then turned back. “If I might ask your advice, Your Highness...would you think it inappropriate if I were to ask Miss Taylor to accompany me to the party after your sister’s wedding—”

“You are forbidden.” The hard words came out of Sharif’s mouth before he even realized what he was saying. Hassan’s eyes widened with shock.

“I see,” he said slowly. “Is there some reason that you—”

Sharif tried to be calm. To be cool. But a visceral fury went through him that he could not control and he whirled a fierce, black glare on his trusted friend that would have decimated a lesser man.

Hassan blinked.

“Ah,” he said quietly. “So that’s the way of it. Does she—”

“No,” Sharif said tightly. “She doesn’t know and she never will. Once my sister is wed, Miss Taylor will return home. That’s the end of it.”

“I see.” He paused. “The staff love her, sire. Though she was not born in Makhtar, it’s clear she loves this country. Your people would joyfully serve her, I think, if you were ever to decide that she—”

“My engagement to Kalila Al-Bahar will be announced next week,” Sharif said flatly.

“Oh.” Hassan stared at him. He didn’t have to say how the palace staff felt about Kalila. After two disastrous visits in the past, Sharif already knew.

“No one must ever know my true feelings for Miss Taylor,” he said quietly. “Least of all her. She cannot know. It is bad enough that I do.”

“I am sorry,” Hassan said. He hesitated. “Shall I still...send her in now?”

Sharif looked at him and shook his head. “It’s all over your face.” His lip curled. “Go out the back. I will let her in.”

Once alone, Sharif took a deep breath. He realized his hands were trembling, so he took a moment to clear the emotion from his heart, from his mind, from his expression. Then he went to open the door.

Irene looked beautiful, he thought, like everything any man could ever want. She was wearing a simple sheath dress in pale pink, the same color she’d been wearing the moonlit November night they’d met. Her hair was twisted into a thick topknot. Her only makeup was red lipstick. Even her new dark-rimmed glasses made her look, in his current demented state, like a sexy librarian.

“You’re wearing glasses,” was all he could manage in the way of intelligent conversation.

“I know,” she said mournfully. “I lost a contact lens this morning. I’ve ordered a new pair, but they won’t get delivered until later today.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She looked at him, then her expression hardened. “You have to call off this wedding.”

How did she know how ardently he’d been wishing that same thing? How had she guessed? In a harsh voice he said, “I cannot. It has been a long-held promise...”

“Not that long,” she pointed out, frowning. “Just six months, Aziza said.”

Six months? It had been nearly twenty years. It had...

He realized Irene was speaking about his sister’s marriage, not his. He’d very nearly blurted out something that would have told her everything. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his brain. “Aziza wanted you to speak with me? That’s why you rushed away when you saw me at the window?”

“She begged me.” Irene’s cheeks turned a tantalizing shade of pink. “She felt that...you might listen—to me.”

Sharif exhaled. His sister was no fool, though sometimes she liked to pretend to be one. If she already knew the influence that Irene had over him, how long would it be before everyone knew—including Irene herself?

“We’ve been through this already,” he said.

“She’s realized all those gifts you bought her in Dubai are meaningless, compared to throwing her life away! She should be in college, Sharif. She’s a bright girl. She should have the chance to—”

“The wedding is in a week. It’s too late.” Sharif folded his arms, glaring at her. “So if there’s nothing else...”

She sighed. “I need to go anyway, or else I’ll be late for—”

She bit down hard on her lip.

“Late to where?” he demanded.

Her cheeks had turned a deeper red. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Clearly she was hiding something. He had the sudden flash of Hassan’s eager face. “Where are you going?”

“I hardly think it matters to—”

“This is my kingdom. You are the chaperone of my sister.” Sharif was conscious he was behaving like a brute, but he couldn’t stop himself from thundering, “I have full right to know—”

“All right, all right,” Irene said irritably. “You don’t need to go Total Emir on me. If you must know—” the blush deepened “—I have an appointment for—hammam.”

“Hammam?” he repeated in a strangled voice. Against his will, he had the image of Irene totally naked in a steam bath, her body getting slowly rubbed down in the heat, drenched with pails of water, her pink skin invigorated, lightly whipped and wrapped with towels.

“I’ve heard of nothing else since I came here.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Apparently it’s like having a spa day and a massage and a facial all rolled into one. I promised Aziza I’d go. Since I’ll be leaving next week, I’m running out of time.”

Her last words hung between them. Running out of time. The silence stretched awkwardly, filled with things neither would say.

“Well, I’m off,” she said, trying to smile. “Although the thought of getting naked in front of strangers makes me blush.”

Naked. Heat pulsed through Sharif’s body. All he could think about was how he wished he could be the lucky bath attendant who would touch her, stroke her, caress her naked skin.

He wished he could be free to make love to her.

No. It was more than that.

He wished he could be free to love her.

Turning to go, Irene stopped at the door and looked back at him one last time, her big brown eyes deep and imploring.

“Give Aziza the freedom that you cannot have for yourself, Sharif,” she said. “Set her free.”

His soul shuddered to the core as he looked at those feverishly bright brown eyes.

“I will think about it,” he heard himself say.

Irene blinked in shock. “What?”

He needed her to leave the room, now, before he lost the last thread of his self-control and did something that would ruin someone’s life. Possibly many lives. “Just go.”

The roughness of his voice made her look sharply at him. She searched his face, then swallowed, stepping back. He wondered what she had seen. Then he knew.

She’d seen the truth on his face, that he was barely holding back from claiming her as his own, against his honor, and damn the consequences.

“I’ll go,” she stammered, and fled.

Sharif walked around his large polished wood desk. He leaned his arm against the window, then pressed his forehead against the glass. Give Aziza the freedom that you cannot have for yourself.

He closed his eyes, remembering when he’d first met his sister. She’d been a tiny, squalling baby placed unsteadily in his teenage arms. She’d been helpless, so small and sad, an unloved orphan. He’d vowed to protect her with his life. He’d vowed he would always love her and take care of her.

You’ve lived your life for the last nineteen years, Sharif. He heard his little sister’s tearful voice. What about me? When is my time to live?

His eyes slowly opened.

He couldn’t do it. He was already making the sacrifice of his heart. He couldn’t allow his young sister to do the same. She’d made a mistake when she’d agreed to the engagement. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow her momentary error to become a permanent one.

He would protect her. As he always had.

Turning, he picked up his phone from his desk. He dialed the private number of the Sultan of Zaharqin.

When he reached him, the man was cordial at first, even friendly. But when he realized Sharif wasn’t phoning to discuss the potentially huge oil venture, but to cancel the wedding just a few days before the ceremony, the man’s voice turned frosty.

“You realize,” he said, “that some would consider this affront to be an act of war.”

Sharif’s body went tight. He had a flash of memory, of his palace burned to ash, of Makhtar City in smoke, of hungry children crying. No. But he kept his voice steady. His country had changed. He had changed. He was no longer a fifteen-year-old boy. He was now the one in control.

“Makhtar has always been, and always will be, Zaharqin’s greatest friend and ally,” Sharif said. “As I am yours. But the hearts of teenagers are changeable. It is regrettable, but there it is. You remember when you were that age...”

“Yes,” the sultan said stiffly. “I had already taken my first wife.”

“It was a different world, when you and I were young,” Sharif said, as if they were the same age.

The man snorted. “You’re right about that. Young people today do not know the meaning of duty. Their whims drift on the wind. I should know. My own children—”

The sultan stopped. Sensing weakness, Sharif said smoothly, “Exactly so. But what does not change is friendship, between rulers and between nations. Or the solid profit from good business.” He paused. “It would be a pity to let plans for our multi-billion-dollar oil venture falter, merely because of this small personal matter...”

“You really expect me to partner with you? After the mortal insult you’ve just offered me? I should be calling my generals and telling them to roll our tanks into your city.”

“You are free to do so, of course. Free to try. Your generals will warn you about our modern, highly trained army and state-of-the-art defenses. But you could try anyway. Such a mess it would be.” He sighed. “A shame to cause the deaths of our most loyal servants and friends, for something so silly as a nineteen-year-old girl deciding she was too young for marriage and motherhood.”

“I will be mocked. They’ll say the nubile young bride left me at the altar. They’ll call me old—me, in my prime! Nothing can compensate for the loss of honor.”

“No one will mock you when they hear my sister has left you not for another man, but to study science and literature in college. Your people will say you are well rid of a bride who would have been distracted by academic pursuits from the proper affairs of her high royal position.” He paused. “But mostly they will say that you cut me raw, eviscerated my insides from my body, with the deal you made in our oil venture.”

“Deal?” The sultan cleared his throat. “What deal?”

It was then that Sharif knew he had him.

“The deal where I take all the financial risk, paying billions of dollars in all the expenses of research, development and transport, and you get all the profit.”

After that, it was easy. The man’s anger faded, lost in greed and the happy thought of the story that would make the rounds, of how the great Emir of Makhtar had been crushed by his good friend in a business deal. They spoke for some time, hashing out the details of the press release. By the end, the sultan was laughing.

“Even my own children have never cost me so much,” he said gleefully. “I wish you joy of her. Please send my best wishes to your sister and thank her, from the bottom of my heart.”

Hanging up the phone, Sharif groaned a little, putting his head in his hands. The cost of this little escapade would be far more than any mere shopping spree or diamond trinket. This one would hurt, and he’d be taking it out of his own private fortune. It might take twenty years for his net worth to recover. If it ever did.

But he could live with that. What he couldn’t live with was Aziza being unhappy and trapped forever in a loveless marriage. Not his baby sister. Not when he’d vowed to protect her.

But if it wasn’t for Irene’s interference...

Sharif sucked in his breath. He had to see Irene. Now. He had to tell her that the wedding was off. She had to be the first to know.

Sharif nearly ran down the hall, but Irene’s room was empty. Then he remembered. Hammam. Turning, he rushed with almost indecorous swiftness to the other side of the palace. The female servants’ eyes went wide as he hurried past them, but no one dared to stop the emir as he strode into the dark, quiet, peaceful hammam of the women’s wing.

He stopped.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He’d never been in here before. The large, hexagon-shaped room was filled with shadows. The high dome soaring overhead was interlaced with patterns of stars, which caused star-shaped beams of sunlight to fall softly into the darkness. Brass lanterns with flickering candles edged the floor, and in the center of the room, a blue pool of water reflected illuminated waves of light on the surrounding dark alcoves.

Only one woman was receiving the pleasures of hammam, the steam baths, wraps, massage. Sharif’s gaze focused on her.

And he suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Irene was lying on a warmed marble slab, facedown with her eyes closed, getting rubbed down by the bath attendant, an older woman who had been hired away from Istanbul long ago. Only a single towel covered Irene’s body. As he watched, that towel slipped and fell to the tile floor.

His mouth had already dropped. But seeing Irene naked, his knees shuddered beneath him. He forgot the reason he’d come here. Or maybe suddenly, for the first time, he truly knew it.

The Turkish bath attendant looked at him in surprise, her eyes wide. He held his finger to his lips, then motioned for her to leave.

She looked disapproving, but what could she do? He was the emir. For the first time in his life, Sharif used his raw power for his own selfish purposes.

The woman left, and he took over, pressing his hands against Irene’s back, massaging the warm, pink skin of her naked, overheated body.

* * *

Aziza had told Irene that the hammam, or Turkish bath, would be steamy. “A sort of middle place between heaven and hell,” she’d said, then added hastily, “but you’ll like it. Trust me.”

Irene had already sat naked on a marble slab in a dark alcove for an hour, sweating profusely in steam that was thick as mist. Periodically, the female bath attendant had returned to splash Irene’s naked body with hot soapy water, dumped from buckets, then used a coarse hand mitt to scrub her skin from top to bottom. After several times of this procedure, Irene had started to feel like her skin was glowing and also slightly raw.

The worst was that she couldn’t see anything in the hammam except patterns of shadow and light. She’d taken off her glasses, leaving them with her clothes in the changing room. Without them, she felt disoriented, even helpless, but maybe it was all for the best. Getting totally naked in front of a stranger, even one as businesslike as the female attendant, was a brand-new experience. Without glasses, and with no contact lenses either, she couldn’t tell if the attendant was judging the shape of her body. Irene couldn’t have even said what the attendant’s face looked like. Especially in the deep shadows of the hammam. The only light came from the enormous dome above, gleaming tiny pinpoints of light, leaving dappled stars onto the white marble. Heaven and hell indeed.

Just like the last three months had been.

She’d seen Sharif every day, lived in the same palace, even the same hallway. Every morning, every evening, she’d sat across from him at the dining table. She’d seen his darkly handsome face, heard his voice. They’d spoken about politics and world affairs; they’d discussed Makhtar’s recent international film festival and new art gallery. And that was just in public. In private, when they were alone, they’d teased each other about everything and nothing.

Sharif knew her now. He knew her as no one ever had. He knew her, though he hadn’t kissed her since that night in Dubai.

After she’d started learning Arabic with a Makhtari tutor, Sharif had asked her to be his de facto hostess, entertaining ambassadors and heads of state. Breathlessly, Irene had dressed in designer gowns from local boutiques. She’d entered the ballroom on his arm. Once she would have been shy and afraid of strangers, but now, at his side, she was ready to do battle, to do her best to charm his friends and enemies alike. For him. All for him.

She wanted to make him proud. She wanted to make his dark eyes gleam as he smiled at her across the ballroom. And afterward, when they were alone, she wanted to hear him say in his deep, sensual voice, “Thank you, Miss Taylor. You are a pearl beyond measure. Makhtar is grateful for your service.”

“I know,” she would tease in reply. “You’re seriously lucky to have me. All the other emirs keep calling.”

He would laugh, then his eyes would turn dark and he would start to say something—then stop himself. Irene would catch her breath and turn away. Without even asking what he could not say. Because she knew.

Heaven had turned to hell. Having Sharif so close, but never being able to touch him, never being able to say what was truly in her heart...it was agony.

How could she bear to stay another day?

How could she ever bear to go?

In a week, whether she was willing or no, Irene would leave Makhtar forever. Aziza would be married to a man three times her age, and Sharif would take as his queen a woman he despised. No one was marrying for love here. All those lives ruined.

Including, she was starting to fear, her own.

“Stop thinking,” the bath attendant barked in English, sloughing Irene’s shoulders with the rough hand mitt, scrubbing her skin until she flinched. “Too tense!”

“Yes.” She sighed, and tried to obey. The woman pulled her to standing and rinsed her with a shock of cold water, then stepped back and made some sort of gesture. She waited expectantly.

“I’m sorry, I can’t see,” Irene said apologetically for the tenth time.

“Come,” the woman said roughly in English, grabbing her hand. “I take.”

She led Irene out of the alcove, to the center of the hammam, beneath the dome. She gently pushed her to lie down, with her naked belly against the marble slab in the center of the room, on the edge of the illuminated blue pool. Irene sighed as she felt the cool marble beneath her skin. Her backside was covered with a towel, and thick white steam floated beneath the tiny beams of light, between the shadows.

“Close eyes,” the attendant said, and Irene obeyed. She tried not to think, not to let herself feel the rising heartbreak inside her, but quiet her mind and soul and just let the attendant’s hands massage the aching muscles of her shoulders.

But just as Irene started to relax, the hands were gone. She heard a heavy step, the attendant’s intake of breath. Then the hands returned to rubbing her back, even more intently than before.

She tried not to think about Sharif. It was impossible. In just a week, Irene would leave this country, and never see him again... Never feel his eyes on hers. Never feel the heat of his body as he brushed innocently against her in the hallway. Never feel his hand take hers, or the soft innocent press of his lips against her cheek. Never see his smile, or the wicked gleam of his dark eyes.

Cold water was splashed on her naked body in the semidarkness. She heard the hiss of hot coals. Felt the hard, firm hands slowly kneading into her tense back, going slower, deeper...

Why couldn’t she forget Sharif? Why wasn’t this working?

She couldn’t be falling in love with him. She couldn’t. He was promised to another. And she’d made promises to herself, to her own future, that she intended to keep.

How she wished there had been another choice. But there wasn’t. Soon, another woman—his bride and queen—would take Irene’s place at all those diplomatic dinners.

“Walk with me,” Sharif had said quietly last night, as he often did when they were dining just as a family, without all the fuss and pomp of ceremony. For two hours after dinner, they’d been alone, walking together in the moonlight of the garden. But for the first time, there had been no teasing laughter between them. No laughter of any kind.

“What is the emir’s future bride like?” she’d asked Basimah wistfully that morning.

The older woman had turned red. “Do not ask me about her.”

“But you’ve met her. Aziza said your sister worked in her household once, was even her personal maid.”

“The emir is getting what he deserves, that’s all I’ll say,” Basimah muttered. “Making my poor lamb marry that sultan. If I could do something to prevent his wedding, if I knew something that would prevent it, I still wouldn’t lift a finger. That’s all I’m going to say about his fine bride with her fine fancy feathers. They deserve each other.”

So Irene had been forced to go looking online for pictures of the Makhtari heiress. It didn’t make her feel better. The beautiful future queen of Makhtar was all brilliant eyes and severe cheekbones and pouting red lips, skinny as a rail and always dressed in the highest fashion.

She’d seen pictures of Kalila Al-Bahar at a royal polo match... Skiing in Gstaad... Coming out of a club in London, dressed in a fur... Attending a royal wedding. After graduating from an expensive boarding school in Switzerland, she had skipped college to become a full-time jet-setter. She would fit into Sharif’s world as she, Irene, never could.

The pressure gentled on her back. Rough fingertips slid down her naked skin in a way that was distinctively...sensual. And Irene’s eyes flew open.

Twisting her head, she looked back and saw a dark blur. She couldn’t see a face. But she knew.

“What are you doing here?” she choked out. “You aren’t supposed to be in here!”

Sharif’s voice was low, even silky. “I rule this country. I can go where I please.”

“Not in the women’s bath in the palace!” Sitting up, she tried to twist around in a way that would hide her body. It was impossible. She wanted to cover herself with a towel, but couldn’t find it. She was naked, sitting on a slab of marble, in the hot steam of the hammam, alone with the man she wanted most. The man she couldn’t—mustn’t—have!

“What are you doing here?” she cried again, covering her breasts with her arms.

She felt, rather than saw, his eyes slowly rake over her body.

“I came to...” His voice was hoarse. “To tell you...”

His words trailed off. He abruptly pulled her against him.

“Irene,” he whispered against her lips. She felt his hands grip her upper arms. Felt the heat of the steam room and the rawness of her pink, freshly scrubbed skin. His hands tightened. She heard his ragged intake of breath.

And he savagely lowered his mouth to hers.

This kiss had nothing of tenderness in it. It was searing. Hungry. Demanding. It took possession, hard and deep.

She felt Sharif’s lips on hers, and after her three months of yearning, something snapped inside her. She forgot she was naked—or didn’t care—she just needed him, needed this, or she would die. Wrapping her arms around him, she returned the kiss desperately, kissing him back so hard that it bruised her lips, needing to taste him, to possess him in return.

He shoved her back against the marble, kissing her as if he’d lost his mind, and she kissed him back with equal force, because she’d certainly lost hers. They held each other in a frenzy of mutual passion and need. He roughly started pulling off his clothes, ripping off his shirt, then his trousers. Above the hiss of water dripping against hot coals on the other side of the darkened, domed room, empty of everything except the six-sided marble slab surrounding the illuminated blue water of the pool and the pinpoints of light above, she heard the gasp of his breath as he pulled her back hungrily into his arms. His hands swept down her naked skin, and she touched him all over, realizing he was naked, too. Naked against her, in the hot, steamy hammam, suspended directly between heaven and hell.

She kissed him, nibbling on his lower lip, gasping as she felt his hands cup her aching breasts. He licked up her neck, sucked on the tender flesh of her earlobe, then moved down her body, tasting every inch of her as he went down, down to the valley between her breasts.

“I’ve wanted you—for so long,” he choked out. “For months I’ve thought only of you—”

He pushed her full breasts together with his large hands, pressing his lips in the cleavage between before he moved to suckle her. She cried out. She’d never felt any sensation like this before. Never imagined what it could be.

She twisted on the marble as he moved down her body, his wet, hard body sliding slowly against hers. He gripped her hips, then went down farther. She trembled beneath him as his fingertips traced the outside edge of her body, her waist to hips to knees, all the way to the sensitive soles of her feet, which he kissed, one by one. Then he slowly moved upward, pushing her legs apart—kissing to her inner knees—upward, upward...

He used his powerful hands to part her thighs. He lowered his head. Irene suddenly couldn’t breathe, as she felt the warmth and heat of his breath against her most sensitive core. If some part of her was screaming that she had to stop, stop this now, she wouldn’t let herself hear it. Later. She’d let herself think later. When her body wasn’t on fire with need for him... For only him....

He inhaled, exhaled, as if breathing her into the rhythm of his own heart. Then he moved his head closer and licked her inside thigh. Her eyes squeezed shut, her lips parted in a gasp. He moved up higher, gripping her legs, holding her down against the marble. Finally, with agonizing slowness, he lowered his head.

He took a long, lingering taste between her legs, so deep and slow that her hips bucked with the intense wave of pleasure that crashed over her, nearly drowning her with desire and need.

“Sharif...” she gasped. “You...you can’t...”

But he could. And he did. Using his mouth and tongue, he teased her, using her body as if he’d known it all his life. As if he knew it better than she did. She twisted beneath him, side to side, nearly weeping with the weight of her desire. She would do anything. Anything.

As he continued to lick and suckle her aching wet core, she felt him push a single thick fingertip inside her. Then another. He invaded her tight, virgin body, slowly stretching her with his fingertips, as she expanded to accept him inside her. Caught in the onslaught of brutal pleasure she’d never imagined possible, her body went tighter and tighter still, as her hips lifted of their own accord. Her lips parted with a long intake of breath that seemed to go on and on and on, until she felt dizzy beneath the shadows and light of the Turkish bath, beneath Sharif himself, as the world spun around her, and sent her flying.

She hung on to his shoulders with her fingernails as she flew and flew. She heard a scream as the black-and-white world exploded into a million bright colors, and fell, chiming like music.

Sharif moved over her almost instantly, lifting his body so that the thick hardness of him was between her legs, demanding entry.

She lay beneath him, limp with pleasure, unable to resist. Not wanting to resist. Any thoughts she’d once had of the future or honor were washed away from her mind, like sand beneath an ocean wave. Who cared about something so unimportant as the future? What was that, compared to this?

He drew back his hips, to plunge inside her.

Her eyes lifted to his face. Even this close, she couldn’t see his face. All she could see was shadow.

The moment before he would have entered her, he hesitated. He held himself still.

Then, with a low curse, he rolled off her.

It took several moments before she realized he wasn’t coming back. She blinked, struggling to understand, to awaken from the sensual haze.

Something white flew toward her. Looking down at her lap, she saw a towel. He’d thrown her a towel?

“Get dressed,” he growled. Bending over the tile floor, he picked up his trousers and pulled them over his naked, hard, unsatisfied body.

Irene’s throat suddenly hurt. She looked down at the towel, at her own naked body. She’d thrown herself at him, she realized. She’d been willing to throw everything away for the sake of a single moment—and he was turning her down.

“I don’t understand,” she said in a small voice.

“Don’t you?” he said in low fury.

Wrapping herself in the towel, she rose from the marble. She felt humiliated. She hadn’t known. She hadn’t fully realized how overwhelming sex could be, the need that could block out all reason, as primal as the need to breathe or eat or sleep.

Close as she was, without her glasses, she still couldn’t see his face. As her cheeks turned hot in shame, she was glad. “I can’t imagine what you think of me.”

“No. You can’t.”

She said over the razor blade in her throat, “Was it to teach me a lesson? That I’m nothing more than a naive fool, a prude, with my ridiculous dreams of love and saving myself—”

“No,” he cut her off. “It wasn’t a lesson.” She saw the tension of his shoulders, the set of his body that was like a trap waiting to snap shut. “It was a mistake.”

“I never knew it could feel like that.” She suddenly felt like crying. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Going to her, he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Now they were so close, she finally saw his agonized dark eyes. “I am to blame,” he ground out. “Only me. When I came here, I never meant...but I saw you and—” Dropping his hand, he clawed back his dark hair. “I am the only one to blame.”

So it hadn’t been a test? Her heart started beating again. “Then why did you stop? I couldn’t have stopped you.”

“You could have stopped me at any time—just by saying no.”

“But I couldn’t. The way it felt...” Irene took a shuddering breath. “I lost all control, I lost my mind. If it wasn’t a test, then I don’t understand. You had me in your power. Why didn’t you...”

“Why didn’t I take you?”

Wordlessly, she nodded.

Sharif stared at her for a long moment. “You say that you now understand how overwhelming passion can be. I now understand what you were talking about as well. Making love should be an expression of love. Love that lasts forever.” Reaching out, he stroked her cheek and whispered, “I won’t take your dream away from you.”

Irene realized that tears were spilling over her lashes. And it was in this moment that she knew, knew it to her very blood and bones, that if she’d made love with him today it would have only been the expression of what was in her heart.

She loved him. All of him, his honor and ferocity and humor and selfishness, all of him, with every bit of her soul.

“Sharif...” she choked out. Don’t marry that other woman, beautiful as she is. Marry me. Love me.

“You’re getting what you want,” he said in a low voice. “That’s what I came to tell you.”

She gaped at him.

He gave her a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. Dropping his hand, he stepped back. “I’ve canceled my sister’s wedding, Miss Taylor. You’ve won.”

“Aziza’s free?” Irene closed her eyes as she pictured the young girl’s face. She looked at him in gratitude. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank you. For reminding me of my place.”

“But what about you?”

His expression hardened. His voice was even as he said, “Canceling Aziza’s wedding means that my own must go forward as soon as possible. I will be phoning Kalila and—”

“I saw pictures of her,” Irene said miserably. “She’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said dully. He exhaled with a flare of nostril, looking away. “Very beautiful.”

Looking at him, Irene’s heart broke.

“Don’t do it,” she said. “Don’t marry her.”

“I gave my word.”

“Break it,” she said desperately.

He gave a low, humorless laugh. “You are saying this? You?”

She swallowed, remembering all the times she’d insisted on honor, on love, on the importance of marriage and honesty.

He looked at her. “Even if I could discard my honor so lightly, Kalila comes from a powerful Makhtari family. If I offended her father, it would start trouble. It could even start a war.”

“It’s not fair,” she said tearfully. “You made the promise when you were fifteen—a boy!”

“I knew what I was doing.” He pushed back a tendril of her damp hair. “And if I could so lightly break my promise to Kalila, how could anyone ever trust my word again?” Looking down at her, he said softly, “How could you?”

“I could,” Irene insisted, even if part of her wondered. She gripped the towel wrapped tightly over her breasts, over her breaking heart. “I know you, Sharif,” she said, her voice cracking. “Honor, caring for your family, for your country—that’s everything to you. You can’t—”

A heavy door banged against the wall. Cold air rushed into the hammam, causing the steam to melt away. Irene jumped when she saw the bath attendant rush in. The woman didn’t even look at her, just went straight to Sharif and spoke in rapid Arabic. The words were too quick for Irene to understand, but she saw the instant tension of Sharif’s body, like a man who’d just been cut with steel.

“What is it?” she asked as the attendant bowed and hurried away. “What’s happened?”

Sharif walked to a wall. He flicked on an electric switch, and the bath was suddenly filled with harsh light, causing all the shadows and mysteries to disappear, leaving only cold reality.

“You need to get dressed.” His voice had no expression.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Longing to put her arms around his naked chest, to offer him comfort, she went close to him, trying to see his face. He looked at her. He was once again the powerful emir in control. The vulnerable man she’d so briefly seen beneath the mask had disappeared as if he’d never been.

Emotionlessly Sharif said, “My future bride has seen fit to honor us with a visit.”

Irene’s lips parted. “You can’t mean—”

“Kalila has just arrived unexpectedly at the palace.” He turned empty eyes to hers. “Come, Miss Taylor,” he said. “Come meet my beautiful bride.”