Читать книгу Modern Romance - The Best of the Year - Ким Лоренс, Miranda Lee - Страница 40
ОглавлениеTHE INTENSITY AND focus of his gaze held her down like a butterfly with a pin, leaving her helpless and trembling. Irene’s heart pounded in her chest.
“I want to dance with you, Miss Taylor.” The sheikh looked down at her. “I want it very much.”
Her throat was dry, her mind scrambling. She exhaled when she remembered Sam sleeping in her arms. “Sorry, but I couldn’t possibly. I promised to hold the baby and...”
Unfortunately at that moment Sam’s mother brushed past them to scoop her sleeping baby up in her arms. “It’s time to put this sleepy boy to bed,” Emma said, holding him snug against her beaded white gown. She threw the sheikh a troubled glance and said in a low voice to Irene, “Be careful.”
“You don’t need to worry,” Irene said. Really, couldn’t her friend see that she could look out for herself? She wasn’t totally naive.
“Good,” Emma murmured, then turned and said brightly to the sheikh, “Excuse me.”
Irene looked at him, wondering how much of the whispered conversation he’d heard. One glance told her he’d heard everything. He gave her an amused smile, then lifted a dark eyebrow.
“It’s just a dance,” he drawled. He tilted his head. “Surely you’re not afraid of me.”
“Not even slightly,” she lied.
“In that case...” Holding out his hand with the courtly formality of an eighteenth-century prince waiting for his lady, he waited.
Irene stared at his outstretched hand. She hesitated, remembering how her body had reacted the last time they’d touched, the way he’d made her tremble with just a touch on her wrist. But as he’d said, this time he was just asking for a dance, not a hot, torrid affair. They were surrounded by chaperones here.
One dance, and she’d show them both that she wasn’t afraid. She could control her body’s response to him. One dance, and he’d stop being so intrigued by her refusals and leave her safely alone for the rest of the weekend. He’d move on to some other, more responsive woman.
Slowly, Irene placed her hand in his. She gave an involuntary shudder when she felt the electricity as their fingers intertwined, and she felt the heat of his skin pressing against her own.
His handsome face was inscrutable as he led her out onto the terrace’s impromptu dance floor. Above them, dappled moonlight turned wisteria vines into braided threads of silver, like magic.
He held her against his body, leading her, swaying her against him as they moved to the music. He looked at her, and Irene felt her body break out in a sweat even as a cool breeze trailed off the moonlit lake against her overheated skin.
“So, Miss Taylor,” he murmured, “tell me the real reason you were pushing me away—along with every other man here.”
She swallowed, then looked at him. “I will tell you. If you tell me something first.”
“Yes?”
“Why you have continued to pursue me anyway.” She looked at the women watching them enviously from the edge of the dance floor. “Those other women are far more beautiful than I. They clearly want to be in your arms. Why ask me to dance, instead of them? Especially when it seemed likely I would say no?”
He swirled her around to the music, then stopped. “I knew you wouldn’t say no.”
“How?”
“I told you. I never fail to get what I want. I wanted to dance with you. And I knew you wanted the same.”
“So arrogant,” she breathed.
“It’s not arrogant if it’s true.”
Irene’s heart was pounding. “I only agreed to dance with you so you’d see that there’s nothing special about me, and leave me in peace.”
His lips lifted at the corners. “If that was your intention, then I am afraid you have failed.”
“I’m boring,” she whispered. “Invisible and dull.”
His hands brushed against her back as they danced.
“You’re wrong. You are the most intriguing woman here. From the moment I saw you on the edge of the lake, I felt drawn to your strange combination of experience—and innocence.” Leaning down, he bent his lips to her ear. She felt the roughness of his cheek brush against hers, inhaled the musky scent of his cologne, felt the warmth of his breath against her skin. “I want to discover all your secrets, Miss Taylor.”
He pulled back. She stared up at him, her eyes wide. She tried to speak, found she couldn’t. His dark eyes crinkled in smug masculine amusement.
He twirled her to the music, and when she was again in his arms, he said, “I answered your question. Now answer mine. Why have you been pushing every man away who talks to you at this wedding? Do you have something against them personally, or just dislike billionaires on principle?”
“Billionaires?”
“The German automobile tycoon has been married three times, but still considered very eligible by all the gold diggers in Europe. Then, of course, my Spanish friend, the Duque de Alzacar, the second-richest man in Spain.”
“Duke? Are you kidding? I thought he was a musician!”
“Would it have changed your answer to him if you’d known?”
“No. I’m just surprised. He’s a good guitar player. Rich men usually don’t try so hard. They expect other people to entertain them. They don’t care who else gets their heart bruised trying to win their attention, their love—”
She broke off her words, but it was too late. Aghast, Irene met his darkly knowing glance.
“Go on,” he purred. “Tell me more about what rich men do.”
She looked away. “You’re just not my sort, that’s all,” she muttered. “None of you.”
The sheikh looked around the beautiful moonlit terrace. His voice was incredulous. “A German billionaire, a Spanish duke, a Makhtari emir? We are none of us your type?”
“No.”
He gave a low, disbelieving laugh. “You must have a very specific type. The three of us are so different.”
She shook her head. “You’re exactly the same.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Your eminence... I’m sorry, what am I supposed to call you?”
“Normally the term ‘Your Highness’ is the correct form. But since I suspect you are about to insult me, please call me Sharif.”
She snorted a laugh. “Sharif.”
“And I will call you Irene.”
It was musical the way he said it, with his husky low voice and slight inflection of an accent. She had never heard her name pronounced quite that way before. He made it sound—sensual. Controlling a shiver, she took a deep breath. As he moved her across the stone floor, they were surrounded by eight other couples dancing. The bride and groom were no longer to be seen, the wine was flowing and the lights in the wisteria above them sparkled in the dark night, swaying in the soft breeze off the lake.
“Explain,” he said darkly, “how I am exactly like every other man.”
She got the feeling he wasn’t used to being compared to anyone, even tycoons or dukes. “Not every man. Just, well—” she looked around them “—just all the men here.”
Sharif set his jaw, looking annoyed. “Because I asked you to dance?”
“No—well, yes. The thing is,” she said awkwardly, “you’re all arrogant playboys. You expect women to fall instantly into bed with you. And you’re full of yourselves because you’re usually right.”
“So I am conceited.”
“It’s not your fault. Well, not entirely your fault,” she amended, since she wanted to be truthful. “You’re just selfish and coldhearted about getting what you want. But when you throw out these lines, these false promises of love, women are naive enough to fall for them.”
“False promises. So now I am a liar, as well as conceited.”
“I am trying to say this gently. But you did ask me.”
“Yes. I did.” He pulled her closer against his body. She felt his warmth and strength beneath his white robes, saw the black intensity of his gaze. “We were introduced five minutes ago, but you think you know me.”
“Annoying, isn’t it? Just like you did with me.”
Sharif stopped on the dance floor, looking at her. “I have never given any woman a false promise of love. Never.”
Irene suddenly felt how much taller he was, how broad-shouldered and powerful. He towered over her in every way, and he had a dangerous glint to his eye that might have frightened a lesser woman. But not her. “Perhaps you haven’t actually spoken the promise in words, but I bet you insinuate. With your attention. With your gaze. With your touch. You’re doing it now.”
His hands tightened on her as he pulled her snugly against his body. His hot, dark eyes searched hers as he said huskily, “And what do I insinuate?”
She lifted her troubled gaze.
“That you could love me,” she whispered. “Not just tonight, but forever.”
For an instant, neither of them moved.
Then she moved her body two inches away from him, a safe distance any high school chaperone would approve of, with their arms barely touching.
“That’s why I wouldn’t dance with the others,” she said. “Why I’m not interested in you or any man like you. Because I know all your sexy charm—it’s just a lie.”
Sharif stared at her. Then his eyebrow lifted as he gave her a sudden wicked smile.
“So you think I’m sexy and charming.”
She looked up at him. “You know I do.”
Their eyes locked. Desire shot in waves down her body, filling her with heat. Making her tremble. She felt the electricity between them, felt the warmth and power of his body. Her knees were weak.
Most playboys never change. You know that, don’t you?
She hadn’t needed Emma’s warning. She’d learned it well. From the wretched lessons of her childhood. From Carter. She’d learned it up close and personal.
She abruptly let Sharif go.
“But you’re wasting your time with me.” She glanced back at the beautiful women watching him with longing eyes, as if they could hardly wait to throw themselves body and soul onto the fire. Irene’s lip curled as she nodded in their direction. “Go try your luck with one of them.”
Turning on her heel, she left without a backward glance. Praying he wouldn’t see how her body shook as she walked away.
* * *
He’d underestimated her.
Sharif’s jaw was tight as he stalked off the dance floor alone. He walked through the crowd of watching women, some of whom tried to talk to him as he passed.
“Your Highness, what a surprise...”
“Hello, we met once at a party, if you remember...”
“I’d be happy to dance with you, Your Highness, even if she won’t...”
Grimly, he kept walking, without bothering to reply. Perhaps he was rude, after all, just as Irene had accused. But these skinny women, with their glossy red lips and hollow cheekbones, were suddenly invisible to him. It wasn’t their fault. All other women were invisible to him now because he was interested in only one.
The one who wasn’t afraid to tell him the truth. Who wasn’t afraid to insult him. And who found it so easy to walk away.
Miss Irene Taylor. Of Colorado, the wild, mountainous center of the United States he knew only from skiing once in Aspen.
There’s nothing special about me.
He shook his head incredulously. How could she honestly believe that?
He wanted her.
He would have her.
But how?
“Having a good time?”
Sharif stopped. It took him a moment to focus on Cesare Falconeri, the bridegroom, standing in front of him in a tux. “Your wedding has been most exciting,” he replied. “In fact, the most interesting I’ve ever attended.”
“Grazie. Emma will be pleased to hear it.” The man gave him a sudden grin. “And this is just the start. Tomorrow, we have the civil ceremony in town, followed by all kinds of fun for the rest of the day, including the ball at night.” He clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “So save some energy, Your Highness.”
The rest of the weekend. As Cesare walked away, Sharif relaxed, took a deep breath. He still had two days. He felt rebounding confidence. Yes. What was he worried about? He had the rest of the weekend to seduce her. She’d already given so much of her true emotion away—too much. He knew she wanted him. She was fighting her own desire. That never worked for long. Willpower always gave out eventually.
Sharif would win. As long as he had the stamina for a long, drawn-out siege. He thought of her.
He definitely had the stamina.
But how to go about it?
All day tomorrow. A ball lasting far into the night. By the end of it, she would be in his bed. Simple as that.
He would seduce her, bed her, satiate himself with her, and they would part on mutually respectful terms the following morning, after the final breakfast. He dismissed Irene’s concern about his playboy nature out of hand. Perhaps she’d be right to fear some kind of emotional fallout if they had some kind of continuing connection. But they did not move in the same circles, so it was highly unlikely. This Italian villa—he looked up at the Falconeri mansion—was a weekend party out of place and time. It would be a pleasant memory for both of them, nothing more. One night together would hardly be enough to inspire love, even in a woman as romantic as Irene Taylor. She might be young, but she had an old soul. He’d seen it in her eyes. Heard it in the tremble of her voice as she spoke about the selfishness of playboys. One must have hurt her, once.
Sharif would distract her from the pain of that memory, as she would distract him from his own pain that lay ahead. He would fill her with pleasure. It would be a night they’d never forget.
She’d won the battle tonight, but he would win the war.
Sharif felt oddly exhilarated as he returned to the villa. One by one, his six bodyguards fell wordlessly into step behind him, then peeled off to their assigned rooms as he returned to his suite, two of them standing guard in the hallway outside his door.
Alone in the lavish bedroom, he smiled to himself as he removed his white keffiyeh and black rope of the agal. He ran his hands through his short dark hair. His head felt sweaty—and no wonder, since every inch of his body had felt overheated since he’d met the delectable Miss Taylor. He started toward the en suite bathroom for a shower, when he heard the ring of his cell phone.
He glanced at who was calling, and his jaw went tense with irritation. He had no choice but to answer.
“Has something happened with Aziza?” he demanded by way of greeting.
“Well...” Gilly Lanvin, the twentysomething socialite he’d hired as his young sister’s companion, drew out the word as long as she could, clearly scrambling to think of a way to keep him on the phone.
“Is she hurt?” he said tersely. “Does she need me?”
“Nooo...” the woman admitted with clear reluctance. “I was just wondering...when you’ll be back to the palace.”
“Miss Lanvin,” he snapped. “These calls have to stop. You are companion to my sister. Nothing more. It would be inconvenient for me to replace you so soon before her wedding. Do not make me do so.”
“Oh, no, Your Highness. I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I just thought you might be lonely. I just thought—”
He clicked off the phone before he was forced to endure hearing what she’d thought. He needed to replace her. He’d known it since she’d first started making eyes at him two months ago. But Aziza liked her. So he’d hoped to just ignore it until Aziza’s wedding, when a companion would no longer be required and he could send the woman back to Beverly Hills on the next flight.
Three months. Just three months and his sister would be married, and it would no longer be his problem. He stalked into the gleaming white marble bathroom and removed the rest of his clothes, then stepped into a steaming hot shower. He turned his mind back to the delicious Miss Taylor. He let his imagination run wild, picturing her in this shower with him, naked, as he soaped up those full lush curves of her body, hearing her gasp as he pressed her against the shower wall and took her deep and hard, as her wide-spread hands pressed against the steamed glass...
Oh, yes. Tomorrow night. Sooner, if he was at the top of his skill.
Climbing naked into his large bed, he slept very well that night, dreaming of everything he intended to do to Irene Taylor, in this very suite, before the next day was through.
He woke to see the sun shining gold through the tall windows. Yawning, he stretched in the huge bed, feeling the Egyptian-cotton sheets beneath his skin. Smiling to himself, he brushed his teeth, shaved, dressed with care. Not the traditional Makhtari dress today. Instead, he reached into the closet for a crisp white shirt and suit tailored for him in London. Unlike many men of his position, he preferred having no valet, something that had caused a minor scandal in his palace. But there were some things a man just liked to do for himself. He ran his hands impatiently through his black hair and smiled at himself in the mirror.
He would have her tonight.
Sharif went downstairs to join the other guests in the breakfast room. Soon, they were joined by the blushing bride and groom, who looked very happy and not a little tired. But there was no sign of Irene. He waited. Even when the other guests piled into the arranged limos, to take them all into town for the civil ceremony, he waited, waving off Falconeri.
“I’m not quite done with my coffee,” he’d said by way of explanation. The man gave him a strange look, as if he thought it wasn’t an entirely satisfying reason for a guest to miss a wedding. But they all left.
The villa became quiet, except for the low hum of servants preparing the next meal, and his own bodyguards conversing quietly on the edges of the cavernous, brightly painted breakfast room. Five minutes later, he heard high heels clicking rapidly across the marble foyer and sighed in anticipation.
He looked up from his Arabic-language newspaper with a ready smile as Irene burst into the doorway.
“Am I too late?” she cried.
“You just missed them,” he replied. “They left five minutes ago.”
Irene looked even more beautiful than last night, he thought. She was dressed in black pumps and a 1950s-style day dress that accented her hourglass figure—Valentino? Oscar de la Renta?—topped with a soft pink cardigan and pearls. A smudge of deep pink lipstick was her only makeup, accenting the slight bruise of violet beneath her huge dark eyes that suggested a sleepless night. Perhaps she hadn’t found the sensual dreams of them making love quite so comforting and pleasant as he had.
“Dang it!” She hung her shoulders. “I can’t believe I overslept. On Emma’s special day. I am the worst friend ever!”
“She has three special days,” he said sharply. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It doesn’t matter.”
“I can’t believe I was so careless.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I must have turned off my alarm. I was just so tired, I didn’t fall asleep until dawn...”
“Oh?” He tilted his head suggestively. “I’m sorry to hear that. Something keep you awake?”
She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed. “Never mind.” She reached for the silver coffeepot and a china cup edged with a pattern of twenty-four-carat gold. As she poured the steaming hot coffee, followed by tons of cream and sugar, she glanced at his paper.
“What are you reading?”
“Today’s newspaper from my home country.”
“Today’s? How did you get it?”
“It was delivered to me by plane.”
“Can’t you get it online?”
“I like paper.”
“So you had a whole plane fly all the way here just because you—”
“Yes,” he said. “Just because.”
“Ridiculous,” she grumbled. Sitting on the very edge of the farthest chair, she sipped her coffee, glaring at him over the rim of her cup. “You expecting some kind of war today?”
“War?” Finishing the last of his espresso, Sharif calmly set the cup back in the saucer.
She looked pointedly at the four bodyguards, all now still as statues in the four corners of the room. “You brought your army along for breakfast?”
“I am Emir of Makhtar,” he said, as if it explained everything.
She snorted. “Are you afraid you’ll be attacked?” She looked at the cheerful yellow walls, the tall windows overlooking Lake Como, the high ceilings with their early-nineteenth-century frescoes. Her lips lifted. “Clearly this could be dangerous.”
He shrugged. “Standard procedure.”
“Having four hulking babysitters always hovering around sounds like my idea of hell. Although at least it’s easy to get rid of your lovers the morning after.”
“Are you looking to start a fight with me, Miss Taylor?”
“You said you were going to call me Irene. And yes, I’m looking to start a fight. It’s your fault I overslept. You’re the one who kept me up all night.”
He hadn’t expected her to admit it so easily. “Dreaming of me?”
“Dreaming?” She looked at him as if he was crazy. “It wasn’t a dream I heard all night, banging and moaning in the room next door. It was really quite...athletic, the length and stamina of it all. I’m glad you so eagerly took my advice and found another woman more willing to service you.”
“Length?” He looked at her with wickedly glinting eyes. He rubbed his jaw. “Stamina?”
Her cheeks flamed a delectable red. “Forget it.”
“I’m flattered you immediately assumed it was me.”
“Of course it was you,” she snapped. “I don’t appreciate how you kept me up all night. Now I’ve missed Emma’s civil ceremony because of you. Next time tell your bed partner to keep her opinion of your acrobatics to herself.”
“I appreciate the compliment, but it wasn’t me.”
“Sure,” she said scornfully.
Sharif looked at her.
“It. Wasn’t. Me.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then her expression changed. “Oh.” If anything, she seemed to get even more embarrassed. “Sorry.” She wiped her eyes fiercely, tried to laugh. “I really seem to be messing everything up today.”
“You are really so upset about missing the civil ceremony?”
She blinked back tears. “I don’t miss things like this. I don’t. I’m the one that people count on. What if she needs me to take care of the baby during the ceremony? What if she’s upset because I’m not there? What if...”
“With all those guests around them, she probably didn’t even notice your absence.”
“I let her down.”
“You slept in. It happens.”
“Not to me.” She rubbed her hand over her eyes. “I’ll never forgive myself for this.”
“Why?” he asked gently. “Why are you the only one who has to be perfect?”
“Because if I’m not, then...”
“Then?”
“Then I’m no better than...”
“Who?”
Her china cup clattered against the saucer. Snapping her mouth closed, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I failed.” She looked away. “It’s getting to be a habit.”
The last thing Sharif wanted was to endure another wedding, especially one in some dreary Italian registry office. But looking at the misery on her beautiful, plump-cheeked face, he rose from the table. Tossing down his napkin, he went to her. “My car is parked in the barn. My driver is here...”
Irene looked up with an intake of breath. “You’d take me?”
“I’m willing to take you anywhere. Anytime.” He lifted an eyebrow wickedly. “I thought that was clear.”
She blushed but said stubbornly, “Their wedding...”
“Personally, I think attending one wedding is enough. I have no particular need to see it all replayed out, this time in a civil office. But if it truly matters so much to you...”
“It does!”
“Then I will take you. When you’re ready.” He hid a private smile.
Chugging down the rest of her sweet creamy coffee, she stood up. “I’m ready now.” Warmth and gratitude shone in her brown eyes as she clapped her hands happily, like a child. “I take back every awful thing I said about you!”
Impulsively, she threw her arms around him. He felt her against him, right through the fabric of his suit, to his skin, all the way to blood and bone. His body stirred.
Stiffening, Irene pulled back, her eyes wide. He looked down at her.
“Feel free to kiss me,” he said lazily, “if you feel you truly must.”
Her expression sharpened, and she pushed away. “On second thought, everything I said about you still stands.” She looked with self-consciousness to the right and left at the bodyguards. “When can we leave?”
“Now.” Lifting his hand in the smallest signal, he caused the four unsmiling bodyguards to fall in behind them, and they left the villa.
“This feels ridiculous,” Irene whispered, holding his arm as she walked close to him. “Don’t you feel like...like a prisoner getting escorted to your cell?”
At her words, the trapped feeling rose inside him, the one he’d been trying so hard to avoid, for a reason that had nothing to do with the bodyguards. The thing that had trapped him for twenty years, that was soon to lock him down forever, the thing he’d come to this wedding to try to come to terms with.
“I’m accustomed to it,” he said tightly.
She shook her head. “I understand that as a powerful man you need bodyguards, but it just seems like it would be impossible to have any private life, any life at all really, when you have such a thick wall between you and the rest of the...”
Her voice trailed off. Sharif smiled at the dumbfounded look on her face as she stared at his black stretch Rolls-Royce, complete with diplomatic flags, inside the large, modern barn. A uniformed driver leaped to attention, opening the door for them. Sharif indicated for her to go first, something that made his bodyguards look at each other behind their aviator sunglasses. Well, let them wonder about the breach in protocol. Sharif didn’t care. He climbed in beside her.
Irene’s mouth was wide as she looked around the backseat of the limousine in awe. Seeing him, she kept scooting, pressing herself against the far wall.
“Are you so afraid to be near me?”
“Um.” She stopped, looking uncertain. “I was making room.”
“Room?”
“For all the bodyguards.”
His lips curved. “One of them will sit up with the driver. The rest will follow separately.”
“Oh.” She paused. “But there’s plenty of space. This car is ridiculous.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I didn’t say that.” She stretched out her legs in illustration. “You could fit a football team in here. This space is big enough to be used as a house for a family of—five...”
Her voice trailed off as she caught him looking at her bare legs, and realized that her hemline had pulled halfway up her thigh. Exhaling, she quickly sat up straight, yanking down the hem like a prim Victorian lady. He hid his amusement because he knew by the end of the night he would have stroked and kissed every inch she was trying to hide from him now. And she would have stroked and kissed every inch of him. Her defenses would fall and she would succumb to her own desire. The passion he sensed beneath her facade, once unleashed, would burn them both to ash. Let her try to hide from him now all she wanted. It would just make conquest all the sweeter.
“What are you smiling about?” she said suspiciously.
“Nothing,” he said, still smiling. As the limo moved down the ribbon of road, he turned his head to look at the beautiful Italian countryside. Brilliant golden sunlight brushed his face, dappled with the shadows of clouds passing across the blue sky. He was aware of every movement Irene made in the seat beside him, and relished the hot anticipation building inside him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted any woman so much.
In a few minutes, the limo and following SUV pulled up in front of an officious-looking Italian building clinging to the edge of a cliff, tightly between the lake and the main road through town. Without even waiting for the driver to open her door, Irene opened it herself and jumped out. Standing on the sidewalk, she blinked up at the building, then glanced back doubtfully.
“Are you sure this is the place?” she asked Sharif.
“It is the address.”
Hesitantly, she followed him into the building. The bodyguards hung back in the hall as Sharif and Irene found the small, gray, official-looking room where the ceremony for Falconeri and his housekeeper bride had just begun. Quietly, they took the last seats in the back, behind the rest of the guests, and watched the couple marry in the civil ceremony.
Even Sharif had to admit the bride looked radiant, in a simple cream-colored silk suit and netted hat, holding her cooing baby son in her lap. The groom looked even more joyful, if that were possible. The Falconeris were the only bright light in a rather gray room.
“They look so happy,” Irene whispered.
“It’s beautiful,” he agreed sardonically.
She flashed him a glance. “It’s different from the ceremony last night, that’s all.”
He gave a low laugh. “Last night was about romance. This is about marriage. The legal, binding contract.” A hollow feeling rose in his gut. “Trapping them. To each other. Forever.”
Irene’s eyes lifted in surprise. Then she scowled. Leaning over, she whispered in his ear, “Look, your royalness, I get how you’re deeply uninterested in any sort of emotion that doesn’t end up in a one-night stand, but seeing as Cesare is your friend—”
“My business acquaintance,” he corrected.
“Well, Emma is my friend, and this is her wedding. If you have any rude thoughts about marriage in general or theirs in particular, keep them to yourself.”
“I was just agreeing with you,” he protested.
She stared at him, then sighed. “Fine,” she said, looking disgruntled. “This setting isn’t completely romantic.”
Sharif looked at her.
“Unlike you, Miss Taylor,” he said softly. “You, I think, are the last truly romantic woman of a cold modern age.” He tilted his head. “You really believe, don’t you? You believe in the fantasy.”
She looked away, staring fiercely at the happy couple.
“I have to,” she said almost too softly for him to hear. “I couldn’t stand it otherwise. And just look at them. Look at what they have...”
Sharif looked at her. He saw the yearning on her face, the wistful, almost agonized hope.
As the bride and groom spoke the final words that would bind them together forever in the eyes of Italian law, Sharif silently reached for Irene’s hand and took it gently in his own. This time, he wasn’t thinking about seduction. He was trying to offer comfort. To both of them.
And this time, she didn’t pull away.
