care you don’t get bewitched by the moonlight, my friend,” the Duque de Alzacar called. “I’d hate to be soon attending one of these events for you...”
Sharif ignored him. Holding up a hand to tell his bodyguards to remain behind, in the shadows of the villa, he went down to the thicket of trees. Where was she? Had he lost her?
Had he dreamed her?
He saw a flash of movement and exhaled. She had moved farther down the shore. He followed silently in his white robes, stalking her like one of the lions that had existed in his Makhtari homeland centuries before.
She moved so sensually. He heard her softly whispered voice. Sharif’s eyes narrowed to see whom she was speaking with, but there was no one. Half expecting her to disappear, he came out into the clearing beside her, feeling suddenly clumsy as he stepped on a branch.
At the sound, the woman whirled to face him. They stared at each other.
She wasn’t dressed in white, as he’d first thought, but in a pale pink dress, the color of spring’s first blush. Her skin was creamy and smooth, plump cheeks the colour of faint roses, standing out starkly against her long black hair. She was barely over twenty, he guessed, and of middle height. Her features were too strong to be conventionally beautiful, with her sharp nose, slash of dark eyebrows and the determined set to her chin; but her full mouth was tender, and her eyes were deep brown, big and wistful and wise. And they were full of tears.
Looking directly into her face, Sharif caught his breath.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
Sharif blinked. Then frowned. “You don’t know who I am?”
She shook her head. “Should I?”
Now Sharif knew the woman had to be from another place or time. Everyone knew the playboy sheikh who’d swathed his way through continents of the world’s most glamorous women, the Emir of Makhtar who often spent millions of euros on a single evening out with his entourage, who always had six bodyguards close at hand and who was rumored to have a bedroom in his royal palace made entirely out of diamonds—false—and that he’d once offered to buy Manchester United on a drunken whim—true.
Did she truly not know who he was? Or was it a pretense, a way for her to play hard to get? He shrugged but watched her closely as he said, “I’m a wedding guest.”
“Oh.” She exhaled. “Me, too.”
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m not.”
He watched as a single tear escaped her lashes to trail down her cheek in the moonlight. “No?”
She wiped her cheek fiercely. “No.”
He tilted his head, frowning. “Are you in love with the bridegroom? Is that why you’re crying?”
“No!”
“Many women were. Half of the women of London, it is said, wept when they heard Cesare Falconeri was to wed his housekeeper...”
“I’m Emma’s friend!”
He tilted his head. “So you’re crying because you’re planning to betray her, and seduce him after the honeymoon is done?”
She stared at him as if he was crazy. “What kind of women do you hang out with? I would never—I could never—” She shook her head, and wiped her eyes again. “I’m happy for them! They’re meant for each other!”
“Ah,” Sharif said, bored by such trite, polite statements. “So it is not him. You weep over some other man.”
She grit her teeth. “No...”
“Then what is it?”
“What it is—is none of your business!”
Sharif stepped toward her, just two of them hidden behind a copse of trees on the shore of the lake. They were almost close enough to touch. He heard her intake of breath as she took an involuntary step back. Good. So she was aware of him then, as he was of her, no matter her feisty words.
Her eyes held infinite depths, he thought, like a night filled with stars and shadows. He felt strangely dazzled. He’d never seen eyes so full of warmth and buried secrets. Secrets he wanted to learn. Warmth he wanted to feel against his skin.
It was also possible he was just desperate to be distracted from his own thoughts. If so, this woman offered a very pleasurable distraction indeed.
Lifting his eyebrow, Sharif gave her the smile no woman could resist—at least, none ever had—deliberately unleashing the full power of his attention on her. “Tell me why you’re crying, signorina,” he said softly. “Tell me why you left the wedding party and came down to the shore alone.”
Her lips parted, then closed. She looked away. “I told you. I’m not crying.”
“Just as you also told me you have no idea who I am.”
“Correct.”
If she was lying about the one, Sharif decided, she was likely lying about the other. Good to know where he stood. He slowly looked up and down her body. The pale pink dress fit her like a glove. She was so curvaceous. So...different.
She blushed beneath his gaze, becoming more impossibly desirable than ever. Sharif suddenly realized it wasn’t just his desire to forgot about weddings and marriage that made him want her. He’d been bored for a long, long time. He craved different. He craved this woman.
And so, he would have her.
Why not?
Whether she knew who he was or not, whether she was truly ignorant of his identity or merely putting on an act in an attempt to gain his attention, this woman was nothing truly magical or rare, no matter what his body was telling him. She was different from his usual type, yes. But beyond that, she was nothing more than a beautiful stranger. And he knew exactly how to deal with a beautiful stranger.
“The night is growing cold.” Sharif’s voice was a low purr as he held out his arm. “Come back to the villa. We will continue this conversation over champagne. Over dinner.”
“W-with you?” she stammered, looking startled. She didn’t move.
He cast a quick glance to her left hand. “You are not married. Are you engaged?”
She shook her head.
“I didn’t think so,” he said.
She lifted her head sharply. “You can tell?”
He bared his teeth in a sensual smile. “You are just not the married type.”
To his surprise, she looked furious. More than furious. She looked as if he’d just served her a mortal insult.
“And why is that?” she said coldly.
Because of what he was planning to do to her tonight. Because of the
