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“Close eyes,” the attendant said, and Irene obeyed. She tried not to think, not to let herself feel the rising heartbreak inside her, but quiet her mind and soul and just let the attendant’s hands massage the aching muscles of her shoulders.
But just as Irene started to relax, the hands were gone. She heard a heavy step, the attendant’s intake of breath. Then the hands returned to rubbing her back, even more intently than before.
She tried not to think about Sharif. It was impossible. In just a week, Irene would leave this country, and never see him again... Never feel his eyes on hers. Never feel the heat of his body as he brushed innocently against her in the hallway. Never feel his hand take hers, or the soft innocent press of his lips against her cheek. Never see his smile, or the wicked gleam of his dark eyes.
Cold water was splashed on her naked body in the semidarkness. She heard the hiss of hot coals. Felt the hard, firm hands slowly kneading into her tense back, going slower, deeper...
Why couldn’t she forget Sharif? Why wasn’t this working?
She couldn’t be falling in love with him. She couldn’t. He was promised to another. And she’d made promises to herself, to her own future, that she intended to keep.
How she wished there had been another choice. But there wasn’t. Soon, another woman—his bride and queen—would take Irene’s place at all those diplomatic dinners.
“Walk with me,” Sharif had said quietly last night, as he often did when they were dining just as a family, without all the fuss and pomp of ceremony. For two hours after dinner, they’d been alone, walking together in the moonlight of the garden. But for the first time, there had been no teasing laughter between them. No laughter of any kind.
“What is the emir’s future bride like?” she’d asked Basimah wistfully that morning.
The older woman had turned red. “Do not ask me about her.”
“But you’ve met her. Aziza said your sister worked in her household once, was even her personal maid.”
“The emir is getting what he deserves, that’s all I’ll say,” Basimah muttered. “Making my poor lamb marry that sultan. If I could do something to prevent his wedding, if I knew something that would prevent it, I still wouldn’t lift a finger. That’s all I’m going to say about his fine bride with her fine fancy feathers. They deserve each other.”
So Irene had been forced to go looking online for pictures of the Makhtari heiress. It didn’t make her feel better. The beautiful future queen of Makhtar was all brilliant eyes and severe cheekbones and pouting red lips, skinny as a rail and always dressed in the highest fashion.
She’d seen pictures of Kalila Al-Bahar at a royal polo match... Skiing in Gstaad... Coming out of a club in London, dressed in a fur... Attending a royal wedding. After graduating from an expensive boarding school in Switzerland, she had skipped college to become a full-time jet-setter. She would fit into Sharif’s world as she, Irene, never could.
The pressure gentled on her back. Rough fingertips slid down her naked skin in a way that was distinctively...sensual. And Irene’s eyes flew open.
Twisting her head, she looked back and saw a dark blur. She couldn’t see a face. But she knew.
“What are you doing here?” she choked out. “You aren’t supposed to be in here!”
Sharif’s voice was low, even silky. “I rule this country. I can go where I please.”
“Not in the women’s bath in the palace!” Sitting up, she tried to twist around in a way that would hide her body. It was impossible. She wanted to cover herself with a towel, but couldn’t find it. She was naked, sitting on a slab of marble, in the hot steam of the hammam, alone with the man she wanted most. The man she couldn’t—mustn’t—have!
“What are you doing here?” she cried again, covering her breasts with her arms.
She felt, rather than saw, his eyes slowly rake over her body.
“I came to...” His voice was hoarse. “To tell you...”
His words trailed off. He abruptly pulled her against him.
“Irene,” he whispered against her lips. She felt his hands grip her upper arms. Felt the heat of the steam room and the rawness of her pink, freshly scrubbed skin. His hands tightened. She heard his ragged intake of breath.
And he savagely lowered his mouth to hers.
This kiss had nothing of tenderness in it. It was searing. Hungry. Demanding. It took possession, hard and deep.
She felt Sharif’s lips on hers, and after her three months of yearning, something snapped inside her. She forgot she was naked—or didn’t care—she just needed him, needed this, or she would die. Wrapping her arms around him, she returned the kiss desperately, kissing him back so hard that it bruised her lips, needing to taste him, to possess him in return.
