Modern Romance - The Best of the Year. Miranda Lee

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.