by Jennie Lucas
“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. “But—”
“Get. Out.”
Rising to his feet, he opened the door and spoke coldly to his bodyguards in the hall. “Miss Lanvin is returning to Beverly Hills. Get her last paycheck and put her on the next plane.”
The bodyguards glanced at each other as if they knew they all had a good chance of being fired.
“Now,” Sharif said tightly.
The next second, the bodyguards were at his bed, and as one of them lifted the naked, whining woman from the mattress, another efficiently covered her with a thick white terry-cloth bathrobe from the en suite bathroom. Within thirty seconds, they were carrying her down the hall and down the stairs and permanently out of his life—and Aziza’s.
So the bodyguards were of some use after all. Sharif leaned back against his door, almost smiling to himself as he thought of using this point against Irene. Then his smile faded as he realized it was unlikely he’d ever talk to her again. The thought made him hurt a little inside. Why? Simply because he was too proud to accept failure? Surely he couldn’t be so childish as that?
Pulling off his tuxedo and silk boxer shorts, he stepped into the shower.
Irene wanted to wait for love and marriage. So be it. Even if he didn’t agree with her idealistic sentiment, he could respect it. He had no choice but to respect it.
His own life and ideals were different. When he married, love would have nothing to do with it. In fact, once he and his future wife had a child to be heir and another as requisite spare, he fully expected he’d avoid her for the rest of his life.
Climbing naked into bed, he gave a suspicious sniff. He could still smell Gilly’s flowery perfume on the sheets. It irritated him. He was tempted to call the villa’s housekeeping staff and have them change the sheets, but that seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Not to mention likely to cause a scandal. He could just imagine what Irene would say if she heard. Some scathing remark about the promiscuous nature of selfish, coldhearted playboys.
Getting up, he opened the large oak wardrobe, found some clean sheets and changed the bed himself. He’d never done such a thing before, as from birth all of his needs had been attended to by servants. He’d mostly been raised by an American nanny and Makhtari tutors who taught him history and languages, along with fencing and fighting and riding. Even at boarding school, someone else had changed his sheets. So cleaning up after himself, even in this small way, was new. His fingers were clumsy as he did it.
Finally, Sharif stood back from the bed, surveying his work with satisfaction. Just because he’d never done something before didn’t mean he couldn’t learn the skills. Again, he wished he could show Irene. Again, he reminded himself he’d never see her again.
There’s lots of magic to believe in. The kind people make for themselves. Her dark eyelashes had trembled against her pale cheeks.
Climbing into bed, he closed his eyes into a hard, dreamless sleep. He woke early, with the sound of his phone ringing.
It was his chief of staff, back at the palace. He was needed in Makhtar. His European vacation was over. No more pleasure. No more distraction. All that awaited him at home was cold hard duty and a young sister in tears at the mess she’d made of her own life. He’d have to find her a new companion to hold her hand for the remaining three months until her wedding.
Rising from the bed, Sharif yawned, rubbing the back of his head. He reached his arms upward, stretching his naked body before he dropped to the floor and did a few quick push-ups, just to wake up and get some of the adrenaline out of his bloodstream.
Find Aziza a companion? The situation seemed hopeless. He needed a woman who was both young, for Aziza’s sake, and old, for his. He needed someone he could trust, someone who wouldn’t jump into Sharif’s bed, someone who would be professional enough to put Aziza’s needs before everything else. Someone who...
Sharif’s spine snapped back as his eyes went wide. He picked up his phone again. He read through business emails, made a few additional calls. Without hurry, he dressed in his traditional Makhtari garb and, leaving others to pack his suitcases, he went down to the breakfast room, bodyguards falling into line behind him.
He walked straight through the pale yellow room, ignoring all the women who tried to catch his eye. He offered an absentminded “good morning” to the host and hostess, then saw the person he’d been looking for. Pushing past all the rest, he went straight to Irene, who was sitting at the table with a plate loaded with pastries and scrambled eggs as she poured a great deal of cream into her coffee. He stopped right in front of her.
“I want you to come work for me,” he said. “At my palace in Makhtar.”
* * *
Irene’s eyes still felt scratchy from a night of crying. She’d prayed she’d never have to face Sharif again. Foolish hope.
It had taken her hours to fall asleep, hours of running worried circles in her mind about the choice she’d make today. Would she take her first-class flight back to Paris, where she had only a few days left of paid rent, and then the open-ended economy ticket back to Colorado, to the rickety house on the wrong side of the tracks? Would she go back in penniless humiliation to the place where Carter had told her she’d never be remotely good enough for a man like him?
Or would she ask Emma to find her a job in one of her husband’s luxury hotels around the world—using a friendship for her own financial gain?
In her darkest hour, Irene had bitterly regretted her pride, which had made her spurn Sharif’s lavish gift of the diamond necklace. If she’d kept it, she and her family could have been wealthy—set for life!
But at what cost?
No. She’d done the right thing. He’d ma
de her want him. Dazzled her with romance. But she’d resisted the temptation, and she’d never see him again. So the damage wouldn’t be permanent, either to her heart, or to her soul.
So how could she abandon her principles now, and ask Emma to arrange a job for her?
But how could she not?
Anxious and unsure, feeling exhausted and alone with her heart still aching over the coldhearted way Sharif had tried to seduce her, the way he’d kissed her, Irene had finally gotten out of bed. She’d taken a shower and dressed. No fancy designer clothes this time, but her own plain cotton T-shirt and hoodie and jeans fit for traveling. Going down to the breakfast room, she’d filled her plate with a mountain of food. She’d numbly sat down alone at the table.
Then she’d felt a shiver of awareness behind her. Without turning, she knew who’d just come into the breakfast room. A dark shadow came across the table in front of her.
“I want you to come work for me. At my palace in Makhtar.”
It was the same husky voice that had haunted her dreams. Irene looked up from her plate of food. A shiver went through her body as she met Sharif’s dark eyes, a hard aching tingle across her lips, which he’d bruised every bit as thoroughly as her heart.
He was once again dressed in his full sheikh regalia, with his bodyguards hovering behind him, the full presence of the Emir of Makhtar. And he’d never looked so handsome. The ultimate male figure of every woman’s romantic fantasy. Or at least hers.
Wrong, she told herself fiercely. Her ultimate fantasy was a smart, funny, loyal man who would mow the lawn of their little cottage, read books to their children and love her forever. A man who would notice if a little neighbor child walked past the house, crying after her first day of school. A man who would roll up the sleeves of his old shirt, pull down his cap and go up to the school to make sure it never happened again. Her mother hadn’t done it. She’d never known her father, either. Irene had been an accident, a mistake. Her mother had told her that all her life. Stupid condom didn’t work. Don’t know which one.
But after the first day of kindergarten, Dorothy Abbott had been the mother who’d comforted her, Bill Abbott the father who’d protected her. That was the house Irene wanted to live in. The parents she would someday give her own children.
There would be no accidents. Because until she met the right man, there would be no sex. No matter how she might be tempted.
“Work for you?” Irene repeated. She hated the weak sound of her voice and tossed her head, intending to give a sharper retort along the lines of Immature as you are, your worshipfulness, I don’t think you exactly need a nanny, then she remembered all the eyes upon them. That type of banter was private, between her and Sharif, not between Irene Taylor, the American nanny, and the Emir of Makhtar. The banter was in the past, anyway. It was when Sharif had wanted to seduce her, and when she’d nearly given him the chance.
“I was not aware you had any children, Your Highness,” she said coldly.
A half smile twisted the edges of Sharif’s lips. She had the feeling he knew exactly how she’d felt forced to choke back her real reaction. He’d probably set up this meeting in public for exactly those reasons, damn him.
“I have a younger sister,” he said.
Her lips parted. She tried to keep her expression impassive as she said, “Tell me about the position,” as coolly as if she had already had five job offers today and fifty thousand dollars in the bank.
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “I would be pleased to give you further details, Miss Taylor. Shall we talk outside?”
She nodded. Rising to her feet, she followed him out of the villa, to the very same terrace where they’d first danced. It already seemed so long ago.
The blue skies and warm autumn sun had evaporated. Winter, too long held at bay, had finally arrived full force into northern Italy. The lowering sky was gray, and mist covered the tips of the distant hills across the lake. A cold blast of wind made her shiver in her comfy pink hooded sweatshirt and old jeans.
Irene looked pointedly at the bodyguards who’d followed them outside. With a sigh, Sharif gave them a glance, and they backed up to the villa wall, out of earshot.
“Why are you asking me to work for you?” she hissed. “What kind of trick is this?”
“No trick.” He tilted his head, his eyes dark. “I’ve recently had reason to sack my sister’s current companion.”
“What happened? Let me guess. You fired her for talking back? If that’s the case, there’s no point hiring me. You know that I—”
“She showed up here last night. In my bed.”
Her cheeks went pink. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Delivery service. How nice for you.”
“No,” he said sharply. “I don’t sleep with employees. I threw her out. Now my sister needs a trustworthy companion until her wedding three months from now.”
“Wedding? How old is your sister?”
“Nineteen.”
Someone else getting married so young. It made Irene feel suddenly ancient at twenty-three. “Why would you choose me?”
Sharif’s dark eyes met hers.
“Because I feel I can trust you to look out for my sister,” he said quietly. “And I know I won’t find you unexpectedly naked in my bed.”
He sounded so sure of that. He didn’t know what turning down his offer last night had cost her. Irene shivered in her thin cotton hoodie, looking out at the gray lake. She thought of what was waiting for her in Colorado. What was waiting for her in Paris.
“When is the wedding exactly?” she said.
“Late February.”
“And the salary?”
“Ah.” He relaxed, tilting his head as he gave a shrug. “For a trustworthy person of this nature, you understand, no price would be too great.”
“How great is great?”
“Name your price.”
Name your price? That was something people said in movies, not in real life. “You can’t be serious.”
“Try me.”
Irene licked her lips. Recklessly, she thought of a huge amount, more than a whole year’s salary working for her previous families in either New York City or Paris. She opened her mouth to ask for that amount.
Then she snapped it shut.
She mustn’t be hasty. She’d read in a book once that women never valued themselves highly enough—that they were afraid to negotiate salaries out of a fear of being turned down, or even more ridiculously, of not being liked. Well, she didn’t care if Sharif liked her, did she? And he was making it plain she had him over a barrel. If there was ever a time to value herself highly, it was now.
She thought of what it would cost to send her mother to the best rehab facility in Denver. The cost of moving to a brand-new apartment in a brand-new city, of paying rent for the next five years so her sister could go to community college and never again be tempted to go looking for some sugar daddy in a bar. Irene thought of the cost of making sure none of them would ever have to go back to that sad little house by the railroad tracks again. A new life not just for Irene, but for her mother and older sister.
So she took that first number and exploded it, like turning a single-story building into a skyscraper. Taking her heart in her hands, she kept her face expressionless and looked him straight in the eyes. “A hundred thousand dollars.”
“Agreed,” he said, before she’d even finished the last word.
Oh, no! She’d blown it! The fact that he’d agreed so quickly meant she hadn’t asked for nearly enough!
“Per month,” she added quickly.
He gave her an amused smile. “Naturally.”
“Fine,” she said, wishing she’d had the guts to ask for more.
“Fine. I will have my people pack your things.”
“Thanks, but I prefer to pack
my own stuff. I already did it in any case.”
“Of course you did. Independent and responsible as you are.” He smiled again, and his dark eyes seemed to caress her face, causing an answering spark of awareness to light like a match inside her. Match? That match had been lit from the moment he’d found her standing alone at the moonlit lake that first night. It had turned into a simmering fire that was waiting at any moment to explode.
She wouldn’t let it. She’d already passed the test, hadn’t she? She’d resisted her attraction to him and for the sake of the three hundred thousand dollars, more money than she’d ever seen in her lifetime or would ever expect to see again, she would resist it again.
Fortunately, she knew he wouldn’t pursue her romantically again. Obviously, he’d been just trying to amuse himself with a bit of slumming during his friend’s wedding weekend, but they were returning to real life now. To his home country.
Holy cow. Sharif was Emir of Makhtar. He’d made her forget. Once they were in Makhtar, though, she’d likely never see him in the palace, not until the day he paid her. Likely not even then. Paying the help? He had people to handle that sort of thing.
“So when do we leave?” she asked awkwardly.
He smiled. “As soon as we say our goodbyes and get the suitcases in the car.”
Two hours later, they were boarding his enormous private jet.
“So what did Mrs. Falconeri say when you told her you were coming to work for me?” Sharif asked as they crossed the tarmac.
Irene blushed. “I, um, never told her.”
He gave a low laugh that was way too knowing. She changed the subject. “What’s it like? Your home?”
“An oasis on the Persian Gulf. Sparkling new city, palm trees, a bright blue sky, warm, friendly people.”
She looked at him skeptically. “I already agreed to the job. You don’t have to sell the place like a tourist-board representative. I want to know what it’s really like.”
Sharif stopped, looking at her. “It’s the best country in the world. I would do anything for Makhtar. Sacrifice anything.”