The Sheikh's Last Seduction. Jennie Lucas

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,