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“I won’t keep you from waiting for your husband,” he said softly. “Whoever he may be.” He took a deep breath. “But I wonder if there’s something you would do for me.”
“What?”
Sharif’s jaw went hard, and he looked away. It took him several moments to speak, and when he did, his voice was strained.
“I wonder if...after Aziza is wed, and your job is done...if you’d stay a few extra days. Just until my engagement is announced. Just until—” His voice cut off. He looked at her. “Would you stay with me, Irene, not for money, not as my employee, but just as my friend? Until it’s over?”
Beneath his low, rough voice, she heard a hint of isolation, even despair. He was asking for a friend to stand beside him, to wait until the day he was forced to sign his life away. She suddenly realized that being emir, ruler of all but equal of none, must be a strangely lonely experience, in spite of all the servants and palaces and wealth. He was surrounded by people who expected him to be strong. He had to appear powerful at all times. Whom could he ever allow to see any vulnerability or weakness or regret? Who would ever protect him?
No one.
If only, Irene thought, I could be the one to spend my life at his side. We’re so different. But maybe we could have been happy just the same. The thought made a lump rise in her throat. But there was only one thing she could do. She held out her hand.
“Yes, Sharif,” she said. “I’ll stay till the end.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHARIF STARED DOWN through the window of his private office, watching Irene and his sister walk together through the palace garden below.
Irene looked up, as if she felt his gaze. He lifted his hand in greeting. But she abruptly turned away, her sensual body swaying like music as she disappeared with his sister through the garden. He dropped his hand.
Did she know?
Had she guessed?
Grimly, Sharif set his jaw. Every time he saw her, it was harder to hide. He honestly wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it from her.
For three months now, Irene had been living in his palace. For three months, she’d slept in the bedroom across from his. He’d spoken with her, laughed with her. Seen how the rest of the palace staff had come to respect and even love her.
Three months of torture. Of having her join him at dinner, of looking across the table and seeing the sweep of Irene’s dark eyelashes trembling against her creamy skin, to see the parting of her full pink lips as she ate and drank and smiled.
Three months of wishing that she, and no other, could be his queen. His wife.
Sharif’s jaw set as he looked out the window toward the vast sweep of the sparkling gulf. His whole body electrified every time he thought of how it had felt to kiss her in the water that last night in Dubai. He wanted her in his arms. In his bed.
Cold comfort to tell himself that at least no one knew his feelings. He wished he didn’t know them himself.
Because Sharif could no longer pretend to himself that what he felt for Irene was lust. He respected her too much for that. It wasn’t just friendship, either, no matter how he tried to pretend otherwise. The truth of the matter had hit him hard across the jaw last week, when she’d suddenly burst into laughter at something he’d said—he could no longer even remember what it was—but he’d looked into her sparkling, shining brown eyes, and felt something explode in his chest.
He was in love with her.
In love.
Love wasn’t just a myth. It wasn’t an illusion. It filled him with light and wonder in a way he’d never felt before. The ache in his heart that expanded until he could think of nothing else. He’d known in that moment that he would do anything for Irene’s happiness. Kill for her. Die for her.
He was supposed to be reading through some dry legal documents, in preparation for a phone discussion that afternoon with the Sultan of Zaharqin about a joint oil venture, to be funded both privately and with each nation’s sovereign fund. Instead, Sharif had found himself just standing here by the window, on the off chance he might see Irene walking in the garden. And now he had, and now she was gone, his knees were weak and he felt like someone had stabbed his heart with a dagger.
He was in love with Irene.
And he could never have her. Not in marriage. Not without marriage. He couldn’t have her in any way.
In one week, his sister would be wed. All he had to do was stay away from Irene for the rest of the week, and he could be done with this torture. He wouldn’t have Irene stay another day after that, no matter how he’d once practically begged her. The moment the wedding was done, he would send her away. He’d go back to how he’d felt before.
