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 made 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
