Modern Romance - The Best of the Year. Miranda Lee

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