by Jennie Lucas
No one.
If only, Irene thought, I could be the one to spend my life at his side. We’re so different. But maybe we could have been happy just the same. The thought made a lump rise in her throat. But there was only one thing she could do. She held out her hand.
“Yes, Sharif,” she said. “I’ll stay till the end.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHARIF STARED DOWN through the window of his private office, watching Irene and his sister walk together through the palace garden below.
Irene looked up, as if she felt his gaze. He lifted his hand in greeting. But she abruptly turned away, her sensual body swaying like music as she disappeared with his sister through the garden. He dropped his hand.
Did she know?
Had she guessed?
Grimly, Sharif set his jaw. Every time he saw her, it was harder to hide. He honestly wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it from her.
For three months now, Irene had been living in his palace. For three months, she’d slept in the bedroom across from his. He’d spoken with her, laughed with her. Seen how the rest of the palace staff had come to respect and even love her.
Three months of torture. Of having her join him at dinner, of looking across the table and seeing the sweep of Irene’s dark eyelashes trembling against her creamy skin, to see the parting of her full pink lips as she ate and drank and smiled.
Three months of wishing that she, and no other, could be his queen. His wife.
Sharif’s jaw set as he looked out the window toward the vast sweep of the sparkling gulf. His whole body electrified every time he thought of how it had felt to kiss her in the water that last night in Dubai. He wanted her in his arms. In his bed.
Cold comfort to tell himself that at least no one knew his feelings. He wished he didn’t know them himself.
Because Sharif could no longer pretend to himself that what he felt for Irene was lust. He respected her too much for that. It wasn’t just friendship, either, no matter how he tried to pretend otherwise. The truth of the matter had hit him hard across the jaw last week, when she’d suddenly burst into laughter at something he’d said—he could no longer even remember what it was—but he’d looked into her sparkling, shining brown eyes, and felt something explode in his chest.
He was in love with her.
In love.
Love wasn’t just a myth. It wasn’t an illusion. It filled him with light and wonder in a way he’d never felt before. The ache in his heart that expanded until he could think of nothing else. He’d known in that moment that he would do anything for Irene’s happiness. Kill for her. Die for her.
He was supposed to be reading through some dry legal documents, in preparation for a phone discussion that afternoon with the Sultan of Zaharqin about a joint oil venture, to be funded both privately and with each nation’s sovereign fund. Instead, Sharif had found himself just standing here by the window, on the off chance he might see Irene walking in the garden. And now he had, and now she was gone, his knees were weak and he felt like someone had stabbed his heart with a dagger.
He was in love with Irene.
And he could never have her. Not in marriage. Not without marriage. He couldn’t have her in any way.
In one week, his sister would be wed. All he had to do was stay away from Irene for the rest of the week, and he could be done with this torture. He wouldn’t have Irene stay another day after that, no matter how he’d once practically begged her. The moment the wedding was done, he would send her away. He’d go back to how he’d felt before.
Numb.
His hand tightened on the window.
“Your Highness, Miss Taylor is asking to see you.”
He whirled around to see Hassan, his chief of staff, in the doorway of his office.
“Send her in,” he said abruptly, then silently jeered at himself. So much for willpower and staying away from her.
Hassan briefly bowed his head, but as he turned to go, he hesitated, then turned back. “If I might ask your advice, Your Highness...would you think it inappropriate if I were to ask Miss Taylor to accompany me to the party after your sister’s wedding—”
“You are forbidden.” The hard words came out of Sharif’s mouth before he even realized what he was saying. Hassan’s eyes widened with shock.
“I see,” he said slowly. “Is there some reason that you—”
Sharif tried to be calm. To be cool. But a visceral fury went through him that he could not control and he whirled a fierce, black glare on his trusted friend that would have decimated a lesser man.
Hassan blinked.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “So that’s the way of it. Does she—”
“No,” Sharif said tightly. “She doesn’t know and she never will. Once my sister is wed, Miss Taylor will return home. That’s the end of it.”
“I see.” He paused. “The staff love her, sire. Though she was not born in Makhtar, it’s clear she loves this country. Your people would joyfully serve her, I think, if you were ever to decide that she—”
“My engagement to Kalila Al-Bahar will be announced next week,” Sharif said flatly.
“Oh.” Hassan stared at him. He didn’t have to say how the palace staff felt about Kalila. After two disastrous visits in the past, Sharif already knew.
“No one must ever know my true feelings for Miss Taylor,” he said quietly. “Least of all her. She cannot know. It is bad enough that I do.”
“I am sorry,” Hassan said. He hesitated. “Shall I still...send her in now?”
Sharif looked at him and shook his head. “It’s all over your face.” His lip curled. “Go out the back. I will let her in.”
Once alone, Sharif took a deep breath. He realized his hands were trembling, so he took a moment to clear the emotion from his heart, from his mind, from his expression. Then he went to open the door.
Irene looked beautiful, he thought, like everything any man could ever want. She was wearing a simple sheath dress in pale pink, the same color she’d been wearing the moonlit November night they’d met. Her hair was twisted into a thick topknot. Her only makeup was red lipstick. Even her new dark-rimmed glasses made her look, in his current demented state, like a sexy librarian.
“You’re wearing glasses,” was all he could manage in the way of intelligent conversation.
“I know,” she said mournfully. “I lost a contact lens this morning. I’ve ordered a new pair, but they won’t get delivered until later today.”
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
She looked at him, then her expression hardened. “You have to call off this wedding.”
How did she know how ardently he’d been wishing that same thing? How had she guessed? In a harsh voice he said, “I cannot. It has been a long-held promise...”
“Not that long,” she pointed out, frowning. “Just six months, Aziza said.”
Six months? It had been nearly twenty years. It had...
He realized Irene was speaking about his sister’s marriage, not his. He’d very nearly blurted out something that would have told her everything. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his brain. “Aziza wanted you to speak with me? That’s why you rushed away when you saw me at the window?”
“She begged me.” Irene’s cheeks turned a tantalizing shade of pink. “She felt that...you might listen—to me.”
Sharif exhaled. His sister was no fool, though sometimes she liked to pretend to be one. If she already knew the influence that Irene had over him, how long would it be before everyone knew—including Irene herself?
“We’ve been through this already,” he said.
“She’s realized all those gifts you bought her in Dubai are meaningless, compared to throwing her life away! She should be in college, Sharif. She’s a brig
ht girl. She should have the chance to—”
“The wedding is in a week. It’s too late.” Sharif folded his arms, glaring at her. “So if there’s nothing else...”
She sighed. “I need to go anyway, or else I’ll be late for—”
She bit down hard on her lip.
“Late to where?” he demanded.
Her cheeks had turned a deeper red. “Nothing. Never mind.”
Clearly she was hiding something. He had the sudden flash of Hassan’s eager face. “Where are you going?”
“I hardly think it matters to—”
“This is my kingdom. You are the chaperone of my sister.” Sharif was conscious he was behaving like a brute, but he couldn’t stop himself from thundering, “I have full right to know—”
“All right, all right,” Irene said irritably. “You don’t need to go Total Emir on me. If you must know—” the blush deepened “—I have an appointment for—hammam.”
“Hammam?” he repeated in a strangled voice. Against his will, he had the image of Irene totally naked in a steam bath, her body getting slowly rubbed down in the heat, drenched with pails of water, her pink skin invigorated, lightly whipped and wrapped with towels.
“I’ve heard of nothing else since I came here.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Apparently it’s like having a spa day and a massage and a facial all rolled into one. I promised Aziza I’d go. Since I’ll be leaving next week, I’m running out of time.”
Her last words hung between them. Running out of time. The silence stretched awkwardly, filled with things neither would say.
“Well, I’m off,” she said, trying to smile. “Although the thought of getting naked in front of strangers makes me blush.”
Naked. Heat pulsed through Sharif’s body. All he could think about was how he wished he could be the lucky bath attendant who would touch her, stroke her, caress her naked skin.
He wished he could be free to make love to her.
No. It was more than that.
He wished he could be free to love her.
Turning to go, Irene stopped at the door and looked back at him one last time, her big brown eyes deep and imploring.
“Give Aziza the freedom that you cannot have for yourself, Sharif,” she said. “Set her free.”
His soul shuddered to the core as he looked at those feverishly bright brown eyes.
“I will think about it,” he heard himself say.
Irene blinked in shock. “What?”
He needed her to leave the room, now, before he lost the last thread of his self-control and did something that would ruin someone’s life. Possibly many lives. “Just go.”
The roughness of his voice made her look sharply at him. She searched his face, then swallowed, stepping back. He wondered what she had seen. Then he knew.
She’d seen the truth on his face, that he was barely holding back from claiming her as his own, against his honor, and damn the consequences.
“I’ll go,” she stammered, and fled.
Sharif walked around his large polished wood desk. He leaned his arm against the window, then pressed his forehead against the glass. Give Aziza the freedom that you cannot have for yourself.
He closed his eyes, remembering when he’d first met his sister. She’d been a tiny, squalling baby placed unsteadily in his teenage arms. She’d been helpless, so small and sad, an unloved orphan. He’d vowed to protect her with his life. He’d vowed he would always love her and take care of her.
You’ve lived your life for the last nineteen years, Sharif. He heard his little sister’s tearful voice. What about me? When is my time to live?
His eyes slowly opened.
He couldn’t do it. He was already making the sacrifice of his heart. He couldn’t allow his young sister to do the same. She’d made a mistake when she’d agreed to the engagement. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow her momentary error to become a permanent one.
He would protect her. As he always had.
Turning, he picked up his phone from his desk. He dialed the private number of the Sultan of Zaharqin.
When he reached him, the man was cordial at first, even friendly. But when he realized Sharif wasn’t phoning to discuss the potentially huge oil venture, but to cancel the wedding just a few days before the ceremony, the man’s voice turned frosty.
“You realize,” he said, “that some would consider this affront to be an act of war.”
Sharif’s body went tight. He had a flash of memory, of his palace burned to ash, of Makhtar City in smoke, of hungry children crying. No. But he kept his voice steady. His country had changed. He had changed. He was no longer a fifteen-year-old boy. He was now the one in control.
“Makhtar has always been, and always will be, Zaharqin’s greatest friend and ally,” Sharif said. “As I am yours. But the hearts of teenagers are changeable. It is regrettable, but there it is. You remember when you were that age...”
“Yes,” the sultan said stiffly. “I had already taken my first wife.”
“It was a different world, when you and I were young,” Sharif said, as if they were the same age.
The man snorted. “You’re right about that. Young people today do not know the meaning of duty. Their whims drift on the wind. I should know. My own children—”
The sultan stopped. Sensing weakness, Sharif said smoothly, “Exactly so. But what does not change is friendship, between rulers and between nations. Or the solid profit from good business.” He paused. “It would be a pity to let plans for our multi-billion-dollar oil venture falter, merely because of this small personal matter...”
“You really expect me to partner with you? After the mortal insult you’ve just offered me? I should be calling my generals and telling them to roll our tanks into your city.”
“You are free to do so, of course. Free to try. Your generals will warn you about our modern, highly trained army and state-of-the-art defenses. But you could try anyway. Such a mess it would be.” He sighed. “A shame to cause the deaths of our most loyal servants and friends, for something so silly as a nineteen-year-old girl deciding she was too young for marriage and motherhood.”
“I will be mocked. They’ll say the nubile young bride left me at the altar. They’ll call me old—me, in my prime! Nothing can compensate for the loss of honor.”
“No one will mock you when they hear my sister has left you not for another man, but to study science and literature in college. Your people will say you are well rid of a bride who would have been distracted by academic pursuits from the proper affairs of her high royal position.” He paused. “But mostly they will say that you cut me raw, eviscerated my insides from my body, with the deal you made in our oil venture.”
“Deal?” The sultan cleared his throat. “What deal?”
It was then that Sharif knew he had him.
“The deal where I take all the financial risk, paying billions of dollars in all the expenses of research, development and transport, and you get all the profit.”
After that, it was easy. The man’s anger faded, lost in greed and the happy thought of the story that would make the rounds, of how the great Emir of Makhtar had been crushed by his good friend in a business deal. They spoke for some time, hashing out the details of the press release. By the end, the sultan was laughing.
“Even my own children have never cost me so much,” he said gleefully. “I wish you joy of her. Please send my best wishes to your sister and thank her, from the bottom of my heart.”
Hanging up the phone, Sharif groaned a little, putting his head in his hands. The cost of this little escapade would be far more than any mere shopping spree or diamond trinket. This one would hurt, and he’d be taking it out of his own private fortune. It might take twenty years for his net worth to recover. If it ever did.
But he could live with that. What he couldn’t live with was Aziza being unhappy and trapped forever in a loveless marriage. Not his baby sister. Not when he’d vowed to protect her.
But if it wasn’t for Irene’s interference...
Sharif sucked in his breath. He had to see Irene. Now. He had to tell her that the wedding was off. She had to be the first to know.
Sharif nearly ran down the hall, but Irene’s room was empty. Then he remembered. Hammam. Turning, he rushed with almost indecorous swiftness to the other side of the palace. The female servants’ eyes went wide as he hurried past them, but no one dared to stop the emir as he strode into the dark, quiet, peaceful hammam of the women’s wing.
He stopped.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He’d never been in here before. The large, hexagon-shaped room was filled with shadows. The high dome soaring overhead was interlaced with patterns of stars, which caused star-shaped beams of sunlight to fall softly into the darkness. Brass lanterns with flickering candles edged the floor, and in the center of the room, a blue pool of water reflected illuminated waves of light on the surrounding dark alcoves.
Only one woman was receiving the pleasures of hammam, the steam baths, wraps, massage. Sharif’s gaze focused on her.
And he suddenly couldn’t breathe.
Irene was lying on a warmed marble slab, facedown with her eyes closed, getting rubbed down by the bath attendant, an older woman who had been hired away from Istanbul long ago. Only a single towel covered Irene’s body. As he watched, that towel slipped and fell to the tile floor.
His mouth had already dropped. But seeing Irene naked, his knees shuddered beneath him. He forgot the reason he’d come here. Or maybe suddenly, for the first time, he truly knew it.
The Turkish bath attendant looked at him in surprise, her eyes wide. He held his finger to his lips, then motioned for her to leave.
She looked disapproving, but what could she do? He was the emir. For the first time in his life, Sharif used his raw power for his own selfish purposes.
