Reaching for his hand, she pressed the heavy diamond necklace against his palm. He looked down.
“It was a gift,” he said.
Past his ear, she saw movement on the edge of the garden, his bodyguards hovering at a distance. It almost made her laugh. “Your minders are here.” With a deep breath, she reached up and touched his rough cheek. “I wish all kinds of beautiful things for you, Sharif.” She tried to smile. “There’s lots of magic to believe in. The kind people make for themselves.”
But as Irene looked at his stricken black eyes, her throat suddenly closed tight. Without another word, she turned and ran toward the villa. Above her, the fireworks’ grand finale exploded across the sky in exquisite bursts of color, like flowers blooming to life then just as swiftly fading away.
She’d passed the test. She’d won.
Irene barely reached her bedroom before her knees collapsed beneath her. Sliding to the floor in a splash of red silk, she covered her face with her hands, and cried.
HE’D LOST. FAILED.
Sharif could hardly believe it.
I wish all kinds of beautiful things for you.
Remembering her lovely, anguished voice, he muttered a curse. He stalked through the crowd watching the last fireworks, stomping back toward the villa. Two bodyguards fell in behind him as always. One spoke to him in urgent Makhtari Arabic.
“Your Highness, you should know that—”
“Later,” he bit out. His whole body felt tight. For the love of heaven, couldn’t they leave him alone, even now? Stomping up the stairs, Sharif paused, looking down the dark hallway toward Irene’s room. But what was the point?
There’s lots of magic to believe in. The kind people make for themselves.
Furiously, Sharif turned toward his own suite. He could hardly believe that it was ending like this. That after hours of flirting with her, dancing with her, it had still ended with him going back to his bedroom alone.
For the last thirty hours, Irene had been the center of his battle strategy, the intense focus of his every thought. He’d used all his best techniques, the ones that never failed. He’d charmed her, listened to her, given her his complete attention—and not just for an hour, but for the entire day. More. He’d told her the truth when he said he’d never tried so hard before. He’d forced himself to seduce her slowly, an inch at a time, luring her as a horse trainer would tame a skittish colt.
And this was the result?
He looked down in disgust at the extravagant diamond necklace clenched in his fist. Women could never resist him. So how had she?
I’ve waited my whole life for the man I will love.
Sharif took a shuddering, incredulous breath. He’d never met a woman like this. She was crazy. But that was also why she’d drawn his interest, that light inside her. The fierce purity.
I don’t fail, he’d boasted to her once. Well. He rubbed the back of his head. She’d certainly proved the truth of that.
What did he care? he told himself harshly. What was one woman to him, more or less?
He just had never failed before. Not in any arena of his life. When he tried something, he always succeeded.
Until now. And he suddenly felt something for Irene he hadn’t felt for any woman in a long time.
Respect. No. More than respect. Envy.
Which didn’t make any sense at all. After all, he wasn’t bound by any antiquated, ridiculous rules about sex. He could have it whenever he wanted.
Well, except now. With her.
More irritated than ever, he stomped down his empty hallway. Four bodyguards were waiting near his door, glancing at each other, all of them looking nervous.
“Your Highness,” one of them tried.
It took all of Sharif’s self-control not to shout in the man’s face. “Later,” he growled, and pushed past them into his room, nearly slamming the door behind him. Your minders, Irene had called them. The symbols of a duty that in this moment chafed him almost beyond bearing. For God’s sake, couldn’t they leave him in peace, even for a moment?
In the dark bedroom, he tossed the ten-million-dollar diamond necklace carelessly across his desk, hearing it clatter and fall.
Then he heard something else.
“Your Highness,” a kittenish voice gasped in the darkness. “I’ve been waiting for you!”
Irene? But even as the thought flashed through his mind, he knew it wasn’t her. And if it wasn’t Irene... Coldly, he switched on the bedside light.
To his shock, he saw the beautiful blonde Gilly, his sister’s companion, who’d come from a respectable family with such excellent references.
“You sounded tired over the phone...” she purred, sitting up. She was naked, and smiling at him like a cat with a bowl of cream.
Sharif felt suddenly, crashingly weary. “How did you get past the bodyguards?”
“Oh. That.” She giggled. “I told them there was an emergency with Aziza and I had to speak with you privately as soon as you left the party.”
So that explained why they’d wanted to talk to him. His weariness faded, turned to anger. “And my sister?”
“She’s fine,” she said hastily, correctly interpreting his glare. “Well, except for counting down the days until her wedding.”
“Counting down?”
“You know—with dread.”
His jaw became granite. “Her engagement wasn’t my idea.”
“Yes, well...” Gilly waved her hand airily. “I’m sure it will all work out.”
Turning away from her, Sharif sat on the chair by the fireplace and pulled off his shoes, one by one. He’d hired her as Aziza’s companion only because, after years spent with an elderly governess, his young sister had begged him for someone closer to her own age. She’d been thrilled when Gilly Lanvin had moved into the palace, with her sophisticated ways and intense love of fashion. But the result for his sister had been nothing short of disastrous.
When Aziza, at barely nineteen, had been sent expensive gifts and flowers by the aging sultan of a neighboring country, Gilly had turned her head with fairy-tale dreams of being a queen. His sister had begged and pleaded with Sharif to allow her to accept the proposal. Finally, with some reluctance, he had. It was a good match politically, and if his sister truly was so sure...
Except Aziza’s certainty had now melted away as the wedding approached, and she realized she was about to become the wife of a man forty years older than herself, a man she barely knew beyond his excellent taste in Louis Vuitton handbags and Van Cleef & Arpels earring sets. She was desperate to get out of it now, but it was too late. Sharif had signed the betrothal. Some choices, he thought grimly, you just had to live with. He knew that better than anyone.
“...I knew you were hoping I would surprise you. I could tell.” He realized Gilly was still talking, crooning in a really annoying singsong voice. “If you’ll just come over here, Your Highness—Sharif—I’ll rub you down, make you feel so good—”
“Get out,” he said flatly.
She gasped.