The Sheikh's Last Seduction Read online

  Biting her lip, she again indicated the sleeping baby. “Sorry. Emma left me in charge. I’d have only stepped on your feet anyway.” She added hastily, “Thanks, though!”

  “Another time, perhaps,” the Spaniard murmured, and moved on without any apparent heartbreak to one of the wealthy-supermodel types she’d seen the sheikh talking to earlier. Irene looked down at the warm, sleeping baby in her lap. At least she didn’t need to worry that anyone had paid little Sam to pretend to like her.

  “It must be exhausting,” a man’s sardonic voice observed behind her, “that the ruder you become, the more you have to beat potential lovers off with a stick.”

  Irene felt a shock of electricity through her body. She turned her head to see the sheikh standing behind her, his black eyes gleaming. She hid the uncontrollable leap of her heart.

  “You would know,” she murmured, looking at him sideways beneath her lashes. “Isn’t that how it usually works for you? You tell women that they mean nothing to you, that they’re just the next mark on your bedpost, and they are so enamored of this thought that they fall at your feet and beg you, Take me, take me now?”

  His dark eyes held a bright gleam as he took another step toward her.

  “Say those five words to me, Miss Taylor,” he said softly, “and see what happens.”

  A tremble electrified her body, from her earlobes down her spine to the hollows of her feet. She licked her lips and tossed her head.

  “That’s one thing I’ll never say to you. Not in a million years.”

  “I could make you say it, I think,” he said softly. “If I really tried.”

  He looked down at her with eyes black and hot as smoldering coals, and her throat went dry. She felt her body turning into putty, her brain into mush.

  “Don’t bother trying,” she managed to croak. “You’ll fail.”

  He tilted his head. “I don’t fail.”

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  As they stared at each other, the air thickened between them. Something sizzled, something primal. The people around them became blurs of color, mere noise. Held in his dark gaze, Irene felt time stand still.

  Then her heart started to beat again. “You used my name. How did you know? Did you ask about me?”

  He lifted a dark eyebrow. “I was curious.”

  “I know about you now, too. The famous playboy emir.”

  He tilted his head toward her, as if confiding a secret. “I know something about you, too, Miss Taylor.”

  “What’s that?”

  With a slow, sensual smile, the billionaire emir held out his hand.

  “The reason you refused to dance with those other men,” he said huskily, “is because you want to dance with me.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE INTENSITY AND focus of his gaze held her down like a butterfly with a pin, leaving her helpless and trembling. Irene’s heart pounded in her chest.

  “I want to dance with you, Miss Taylor.” The sheikh looked down at her. “I want it very much.”

  Her throat was dry, her mind scrambling. She exhaled when she remembered Sam sleeping in her arms. “Sorry, but I couldn’t possibly. I promised to hold the baby and...”

  Unfortunately at that moment Sam’s mother brushed past them to scoop her sleeping baby up in her arms. “It’s time to put this sleepy boy to bed,” Emma said, holding him snug against her beaded white gown. She threw the sheikh a troubled glance and said in a low voice to Irene, “Be careful.”

  “You don’t need to worry,” Irene said. Really, couldn’t her friend see that she could look out for herself? She wasn’t totally naive.

  “Good,” Emma murmured, then turned and said brightly to the sheikh, “Excuse me.”

  Irene looked at him, wondering how much of the whispered conversation he’d heard. One glance told her he’d heard everything. He gave her an amused smile, then lifted a dark eyebrow.

  “It’s just a dance,” he drawled. He tilted his head. “Surely you’re not afraid of me.”

  “Not even slightly,” she lied.

  “In that case...” Holding out his hand with the courtly formality of an eighteenth-century prince waiting for his lady, he waited.

  Irene stared at his outstretched hand. She hesitated, remembering how her body had reacted the last time they’d touched, the way he’d made her tremble with just a touch on her wrist. But as he’d said, this time he was just asking for a dance, not a hot, torrid affair. They were surrounded by chaperones here.

  One dance, and she’d show them both that she wasn’t afraid. She could control her body’s response to him. One dance, and he’d stop being so intrigued by her refusals and leave her safely alone for the rest of the weekend. He’d move on to some other, more responsive woman.

  Slowly, Irene placed her hand in his. She gave an involuntary shudder when she felt the electricity as their fingers intertwined, and she felt the heat of his skin pressing against her own.

  His handsome face was inscrutable as he led her out onto the terrace’s impromptu dance floor. Above them, dappled moonlight turned wisteria vines into braided threads of silver, like magic.

  He 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 of his body. Her knees were weak.

  Most playboys never change. You know that, don’t you?

  She hadn’t needed Emma’s warning. She’d learned it well. From the wretched lessons of her childhood. From Carter. She’d learned it up close and personal.

  She abruptly let Sharif go.

  “But you’re wasting your time with me.” She glanced back at the beautiful women watching him with longing eyes, as if they could hardly wait to throw themselves body and soul onto the fire. Irene’s lip curled as she nodded in their direction. “Go try your luck with one of them.”

  Turning on her heel, she left without a backward glance. Praying he wouldn’t see how her body shook as she walked away.

  * * *

  He’d underestimated her.

  Sharif’s jaw was tight as he stalked off the dance floor alone. He walked through the crowd of watching women, some of whom tried to talk to him as he passed.

  “Your Highness, what a surprise...”

  “Hello, we met once at a party, if you remember...”

  “I’d be happy to dance with you, Your Highness, even if she won’t...”

  Grimly, he kept walking, without bothering to reply. Perhaps he was rude, after all, just as Irene had accused. But these skinny women, with their glossy red lips and hollow cheekbones, were suddenly invisible to him. It wasn’t their fault. All other women were invisible to him now because he was interested in only one.

  The one who wasn’t afraid to tell him the truth. Who wasn’t afraid to insult him. And who found it so easy to walk away.

  Miss Irene Taylor. Of Colorado, the wild, mountainous center of the United States he knew only from skiing once in Aspen.

  There’s nothing special about me.

  He shook his head incredulously. How could she honestly believe that?

  He wanted her.

  He would have her.

  But how?

  “Having a good time?”

  Sharif stopped. It took him a moment to focus on Cesare Falconeri, the bridegroom, standing in front of him in a tux. “Your wedding has been most exciting,” he replied. “In fact, the most interesting I’ve ever attended.”

  “Grazie. Emma will be pleased to hear it.” The man gave him a sudden grin. “And this is just the start. Tomorrow, we have the civil ceremony in town, followed by all kinds of fun for the rest of the day, including the ball at night.” He clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “So save some energy, Your Highness.”

  The rest of the weekend. As Cesare walked away, Sharif relaxed, took a deep breath. He still had two days. He felt rebounding confidence. Yes. What was he worried about? He had the rest of the weekend to seduce her. She’d already given so much of her true emotion away—too much. He knew she wanted him. She was fighting her own desire. That never worked for long. Willpower always gave out eventually.

  Sharif would win. As long as he had the stamina for a long, drawn-out siege. He thought of her.

  He definitely had the stamina.

  But how to go about it?

  All day tomorrow. A ball lasting far into the night. By the end of it, she would be in his bed. Simple as that.

  He would seduce her, bed her, satia
te himself with her, and they would part on mutually respectful terms the following morning, after the final breakfast. He dismissed Irene’s concern about his playboy nature out of hand. Perhaps she’d be right to fear some kind of emotional fallout if they had some kind of continuing connection. But they did not move in the same circles, so it was highly unlikely. This Italian villa—he looked up at the Falconeri mansion—was a weekend party out of place and time. It would be a pleasant memory for both of them, nothing more. One night together would hardly be enough to inspire love, even in a woman as romantic as Irene Taylor. She might be young, but she had an old soul. He’d seen it in her eyes. Heard it in the tremble of her voice as she spoke about the selfishness of playboys. One must have hurt her, once.

  Sharif would distract her from the pain of that memory, as she would distract him from his own pain that lay ahead. He would fill her with pleasure. It would be a night they’d never forget.

  She’d won the battle tonight, but he would win the war.

  Sharif felt oddly exhilarated as he returned to the villa. One by one, his six bodyguards fell wordlessly into step behind him, then peeled off to their assigned rooms as he returned to his suite, two of them standing guard in the hallway outside his door.

  Alone in the lavish bedroom, he smiled to himself as he removed his white keffiyeh and black rope of the agal. He ran his hands through his short dark hair. His head felt sweaty—and no wonder, since every inch of his body had felt overheated since he’d met the delectable Miss Taylor. He started toward the en suite bathroom for a shower, when he heard the ring of his cell phone.

  He glanced at who was calling, and his jaw went tense with irritation. He had no choice but to answer.

  “Has something happened with Aziza?” he demanded by way of greeting.

  “Well...” Gilly Lanvin, the twentysomething socialite he’d hired as his young sister’s companion, drew out the word as long as she could, clearly scrambling to think of a way to keep him on the phone.