Modern Romance - The Best of the Year. Miranda Lee

Sharif swept forward in his robes, and Irene fell into step behind him.

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

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

      “Friendly?”

      Sharif scowled. “Flirty.”

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

      “No.”

      “Engaged.”

      “No.”

      “A womanizer. A liar. A brute.”

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

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

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

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

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

      She exhaled. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

      “Yes—I mean, no! I mean...”

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

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

      “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “They love you,” she said.

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

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

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

      “Before?”

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

      Irene stepped into the room.

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

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

      Sharif did not enter the room.

      “Dinner is at nine.”

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

      “My sister will be joining us.”

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

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

      She had to get a hold of herself!

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

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

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

      Well. Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      But how could she?

      * * *

      Sharif paced three steps across the dining hall.

      Irene was late. It surprised him.

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

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