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.
“Is she hurt?” he said tersely. “Does she need me?”
“Nooo...” the woman admitted with clear reluctance. “I was just wondering...when you’ll be back to the palace.”
“Miss Lanvin,” he snapped. “These calls have to stop. You are companion to my sister. Nothing more. It would be inconvenient for me to replace you so soon before her wedding. Do not make me do so.”
“Oh, no, Your Highness. I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I just thought you might be lonely. I just thought—”
He clicked off the phone before he was forced to endure hearing what she’d thought. He needed to replace her. He’d known it since she’d first started making eyes at him two months ago. But Aziza liked her. So he’d hoped to just ignore it until Aziza’s wedding, when a companion would no longer be required and he could send the woman back to Beverly Hills on the next flight.
Three months. Just three months and his sister would be married, and it would no longer be his problem. He stalked into the gleaming white marble bathroom and removed the rest of his clothes, then stepped into a steaming hot shower. He turned his mind back to the delicious Miss Taylor. He let his imagination run wild, picturing her in this shower with him, naked, as he soaped up those full lush curves of her body, hearing her gasp as he pressed her against the shower wall and took her deep and hard, as her wide-spread hands pressed against the steamed glass...
Oh, yes. Tomorrow night. Sooner, if he was at the top of his skill.
Climbing naked into his large bed, he slept very well that night, dreaming of everything he intended to do to Irene Taylor, in this very suite, before the next day was through.
He woke to see the sun shining gold through the tall windows. Yawning, he stretched in the huge bed, feeling the Egyptian-cotton sheets beneath his skin. Smiling to himself, he brushed his teeth, shaved, dressed with care. Not the traditional Makhtari dress today. Instead, he reached into the closet for a crisp white shirt and suit tailored for him in London. Unlike many men of his position, he preferred having no valet, something that had caused a minor scandal in his palace. But there were some things a man just liked to do for himself. He ran his hands impatiently through his black hair and smiled at himself in the mirror.
He would have her tonight.
Sharif went downstairs to join the other guests in the breakfast room. Soon, they were joined by the blushing bride and groom, who looked very happy and not a little tired. But there was no sign of Irene. He waited. Even when the other guests piled into the arranged limos, to take them all into town for the civil ceremony, he waited, waving off Falconeri.
“I’m not quite done with my coffee,” he’d said by way of explanation. The man gave him a strange look, as if he thought it wasn’t an entirely satisfying reason for a guest to miss a wedding. But they all left.
The villa became quiet, except for the low hum of servants preparing the next meal, and his own bodyguards conversing quietly on the edges of the cavernous, brightly painted breakfast room. Five minutes later, he heard high heels clicking rapidly across the marble foyer and sighed in anticipation.
He looked up from his Arabic-language newspaper with a ready smile as Irene burst into the doorway.
“Am I too late?” she cried.
“You just missed them,” he replied. “They left five minutes ago.”
Irene looked even more beautiful than last night, he thought. She was dressed in black pumps and a 1950s-style day dress that accented her hourglass figure—Valentino? Oscar de la Renta?—topped with a soft pink cardigan and pearls. A smudge of deep pink lipstick was her only makeup, accenting the slight bruise of violet beneath her huge dark eyes that suggested a sleepless night. Perhaps she hadn’t found the sensual dreams of them making love quite so comforting and pleasant as he had.
“Dang it!” She hung her shoulders. “I can’t believe I overslept. On Emma’s special day. I am the worst friend ever!”
“She has three special days,” he said sharply. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It doesn’t matter.”
“I can’t believe I was so careless.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I must have turned off my alarm. I was just so tired, I didn’t fall asleep until dawn...”
“Oh?” He tilted his head suggestively. “I’m sorry to hear that. Something keep you awake?”
She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed. “Never mind.” She reached for the silver coffeepot and a china cup edged with a pattern of twenty-four-carat gold. As she poured the steaming hot coffee, followed by tons of cream and sugar, she glanced at his paper.
“What are you reading?”
“Today’s newspaper from my home country.”
“Today’s? How did you get it?”
“It was delivered to me by plane.”
“Can’t you get it online?”
“I like paper.”
“So you had a whole plane fly all the way here just because you—”
“Yes,” he said. “Just because.”
“Ridiculous,” she grumbled. Sitting on the very edge of the farthest chair, she sipped her coffee, glaring at him over the rim of her cup. “You expecting some kind of war today?”
“War?” Finishing the last of his espresso, Sharif calmly set the cup back in the saucer.
She looked pointedly at the four bodyguards, all now still as statues in the four corners of the room. “You brought your army along for breakfast?”
“I am Emir of Makhtar,” he said, as if it explained everything.
She snorted. “Are you afraid you’ll be attacked?” She looked at the cheerful yellow walls, the tall windows overlooking Lake Como, the high ceilings with their early-nineteenth-century frescoes. Her lips lifted. “Clearly this could be dangerous.”
He shrugged. “Standard procedure.”
“Having four hulking babysitters always hovering around sounds like my idea of hell. Although at least it’s easy to get rid of your lovers the morning after.”
“Are you looking to start a fight with me, Miss Taylor?”
“You said you were going to call me Irene. And yes, I’m looking to start a fight. It’s your fault I overslept.
