The Sheikh's Last Seduction

“I’m sure, Miss Taylor. There can be no doubt.” His black eyes met hers as he said huskily, “I want you.”

CHAPTER FIVE

IRENE HAD NEVER flown on even a small private plane before, let alone the huge 747 that belonged to the royal house of Makhtar. But by the time the plane landed that evening, she was growing shamefully accustomed to the luxury that accompanied Sharif wherever he went. Even the stretch Rolls-Royce, and the attendant entourage of black SUVs for the guards, was starting to seem almost routine.

There was just one thing she couldn’t get used to. One thing that was a shock to her senses, each and every time.

She looked at him beneath her lashes, in the back of the limo. He was busy now, speaking with a young man, his chief of staff, who’d met him at the private airport at the edge of the city. The two men were speaking in rapid Arabic, leaving Irene free to sneak little glances.

Gone was the darkly seductive playboy she remembered. Here, Sharif was the emir. Formal. Serious. And definitely not paying the slightest attention to her. Telling herself she was relieved, she looked out the window, which was tinted against the shock of the hot Makhtari sun.

Makhtar City gleamed from the desert, like a polished, sun-drenched diamond in the sand. It was a new city, still being rapidly built with cranes crisscrossing the blue sky.

She saw prosperous people, families pushing baby strollers on newly built sidewalks to newly built cafés. It had to be almost ninety degrees Fahrenheit, from the blast of heat she’d felt walking across the airport tarmac to the air-conditioned limo. Very different from the chilly morning in the Italian mountains. But Sharif had told her on the plane that this was their winter.

“In November, people finally come out of their houses, as the weather turns pleasant. In summer, it can reach a hundred and twenty degrees. Tourists complain then that swimming in the gulf is like taking a hot bath—no relief whatsoever from the unrelenting heat.” He’d grinned. “Makhtaris know better than to try it.”

It sure didn’t seem like winter to her. The hot sun made her want to rip off her jeans and hoodie in favor of shorts and a tank top. But on the street, both men and women wore clothing that completely covered their arms and legs. They didn’t even look hot, strolling with their families. Irene still felt a little sweaty from her four minutes outside. It was way more humid than Colorado, too. She’d have to get used to it.

Still, there was something about this city, this country, that she immediately liked. It wasn’t just the gleaming new architecture of the buildings, or the obvious wealth she saw everywhere—luxury sports cars filling the newly built avenues, lined with expensive designer shops and gorgeous palm trees.

It was the way she saw families walking together. The way she observed, on the street, young people holding open doors for their elders. Family was even more respected than money. The wisdom and experience of age was respected even more than the beauty and vigor of youth. It felt very different from the neighborhood she’d grown up in. At least the house she’d grown up in.

As a child, she’d wanted so desperately to respect her mother and older sister. She’d wanted a mother who would give her hugs after school, a sister she could emulate and admire. She’d wanted a family who would look out for her.

But by the time she was nine, she’d realized that if she wanted milk in the fridge and the light bills paid, she’d have to take care of it herself. She’d learned how to run a household from watching Dorothy, but sadly there was nothing she could do for her mother and sister beyond that. Any attempt she made to suggest a different career path just made them accuse her of judging them.

Now, for the first time, Irene would really be able to help them. No more just sending them bits and pieces of her salary that didn’t really change anything. With such a huge amount of money as three hundred thousand dollars—or whatever was left after taxes—she could change not just her own fate, but the lives of the people she loved deeply, no matter how many times they’d broken her heart.

“Miss Taylor. You are ready?”

They’d arrived in a large, gated courtyard past the palace gate, filled with palm and date trees surrounding a burbling fountain. Sharif was looking at her quizzically.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

His eyes widened at her meek, impersonal tone. But she knew how grand households worked. One hint that she was anything but his sister’s companion, a single sly suggestion that she was also the emir’s mistress, and by nightfall she’d be despised by the entire palace staff.

A uniformed servant opened the door, and she stepped out.