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Her cheeks had turned a deeper red. “Nothing. Never mind.”
Clearly she was hiding something. He had the sudden flash of Hassan’s eager face. “Where are you going?”
“I hardly think it matters to—”
“This is my kingdom. You are the chaperone of my sister.” Sharif was conscious he was behaving like a brute, but he couldn’t stop himself from thundering, “I have full right to know—”
“All right, all right,” Irene said irritably. “You don’t need to go Total Emir on me. If you must know—” the blush deepened “—I have an appointment for—hammam.”
“Hammam?” he repeated in a strangled voice. Against his will, he had the image of Irene totally naked in a steam bath, her body getting slowly rubbed down in the heat, drenched with pails of water, her pink skin invigorated, lightly whipped and wrapped with towels.
“I’ve heard of nothing else since I came here.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Apparently it’s like having a spa day and a massage and a facial all rolled into one. I promised Aziza I’d go. Since I’ll be leaving next week, I’m running out of time.”
Her last words hung between them. Running out of time. The silence stretched awkwardly, filled with things neither would say.
“Well, I’m off,” she said, trying to smile. “Although the thought of getting naked in front of strangers makes me blush.”
Naked. Heat pulsed through Sharif’s body. All he could think about was how he wished he could be the lucky bath attendant who would touch her, stroke her, caress her naked skin.
He wished he could be free to make love to her.
No. It was more than that.
He wished he could be free to love her.
Turning to go, Irene stopped at the door and looked back at him one last time, her big brown eyes deep and imploring.
“Give Aziza the freedom that you cannot have for yourself, Sharif,” she said. “Set her free.”
His soul shuddered to the core as he looked at those feverishly bright brown eyes.
“I will think about it,” he heard himself say.
Irene blinked in shock. “What?”
He needed her to leave the room, now, before he lost the last thread of his self-control and did something that would ruin someone’s life. Possibly many lives. “Just go.”
The roughness of his voice made her look sharply at him. She searched his face, then swallowed, stepping back. He wondered what she had seen. Then he knew.
She’d seen the truth on his face, that he was barely holding back from claiming her as his own, against his honor, and damn the consequences.
“I’ll go,” she stammered, and fled.
Sharif walked around his large polished wood desk. He leaned his arm against the window, then pressed his forehead against the glass. Give Aziza the freedom that you cannot have for yourself.
He closed his eyes, remembering when he’d first met his sister. She’d been a tiny, squalling baby placed unsteadily in his teenage arms. She’d been helpless, so small and sad, an unloved orphan. He’d vowed to protect her with his life. He’d vowed he would always love her and take care of her.
You’ve lived your life for the last nineteen years, Sharif. He heard his little sister’s tearful voice. What about me? When is my time to live?
His eyes slowly opened.
He couldn’t do it. He was already making the sacrifice of his heart. He couldn’t allow his young sister to do the same. She’d made a mistake when she’d agreed to the engagement. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow her momentary error to become a permanent one.
He would protect her. As he always had.
Turning, he picked up his phone from his desk. He dialed the private number of the Sultan of Zaharqin.
When he reached him, the man was cordial at first, even friendly. But when he realized Sharif wasn’t phoning to discuss the potentially huge oil venture, but to cancel the wedding just a few days before the ceremony, the man’s voice turned frosty.
“You realize,” he said, “that some would consider this affront to be an act of war.”
Sharif’s body went tight. He had a flash of memory, of his palace burned to ash, of Makhtar City in smoke, of hungry children crying. No. But he kept his voice steady. His country had changed. He had changed. He was no longer a fifteen-year-old boy. He was now the one in control.
“Makhtar has always been, and always will be, Zaharqin’s greatest friend and ally,” Sharif said. “As I am yours. But the hearts of teenagers are changeable. It is regrettable, but there it is. You remember when you were that age...”
“Yes,” the sultan said stiffly. “I had already taken my first wife.”
