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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, satiate 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.
“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.
