“But she still could—”
“If she was mature enough to accept a proposal, she’s mature enough to live with it.”
Irene started toward the open car door, then paused just long enough to throw back a glance like a fistful of daggers. “I just hope you’re happy.”
A gust of hot wind blew inside the car through the open door. Sharif inhaled the lingering vanilla scent of her hair, sensual and warm.
Not yet, he thought. A slow-rising smile lifted his lips. But I could be.
* * *
Irene floated on her back in the Persian Gulf, staring up at the starry night, feeling the warm water lap against her skin.
After three full days in Dubai, she’d seen everything, she thought. They’d gone to the top of the Burj Khalifa, they’d had high tea at a six-star hotel, the Burj al-Arab, shaped like an enormously high sailboat floating out in the water of the gulf. Now that there was no risk of scandal—now they had a story of “trousseau shopping” rather than “runaway bride”—Sharif made no effort to hide their presence. Yesterday, they’d taken a private helicopter to Abu Dhabi, where they’d met up with one of Aziza’s friends from boarding school and enjoyed Friday brunch with their family at the British Club.
If the other expat families enjoying mimosas on the patio had been shocked to see the Emir of Makhtar invade their quiet club with his entourage, they, being British, had hidden it well and swiftly returned to the pleasures of the morning and talking with their friends.
So much for the sights. Most of the last three days had been spent on one thing: shopping, shopping and more shopping. Irene had enjoyed it at first. It had been a relief to leave the indoor ski slope, after falling on her face again and again in the man-made snow, feeling as ungainly and clumsy as an ox with Sharif’s amused eyes on her. At least, she told herself he looked amused. Not smoldering. Not as if he was thinking, every time she fell into the snow, every time he took her hand and pulled her up, that he wanted to kiss her senseless.
Her cheeks still burned when she remembered how she’d kissed him back in Makhtar. Stupid dreams! Look at the trouble they got her into!
She’d tried to keep her distance from Sharif, keeping her focus on Aziza, as they went next to a different mall, where she saw a fish aquarium larger than a building, billed as the largest in the world. There were so many shops, people walking through them dressed in every way from tank tops and shorts to black abayas and face-hiding burqas. Although even they, if you looked closely enough, had high heels peeping out from beneath their hems, and carried ten-thousand-dollar handbags carelessly under their arms.
Watching Sharif buy so many things for his sister, Irene suddenly regretted she hadn’t contacted her mother or sister for a year, other than sending them money from her salary. She bought her mother a floral tea set of bone china and a box of baklava from Lebanon, and for her sister a touristy canvas handbag with DUBAI printed on it with big block letters and pink butterflies. She had it all shipped back home. After buying herself a bag of tasty treats from the biggest candy store she’d ever seen, she was done. Today they’d gone to the Gold Souk, but as Aziza and Basimah pawed through jewelry, Irene’s feet had hurt and she couldn’t stop yawning. The other two women had shopping stamina that put Irene to shame.
Even Sharif seemed to have infinite patience. He advised his younger sister on her purchases when asked, but always deferred to her choice. Perhaps he wasn’t a total disaster as an older brother, she thought grudgingly. Even if he was a total disaster for her.
Irene stretched out her body in the warm water, letting all her aches and tensions dissolve, letting her troubles float up to disappear into the soft, humid, starry night. Strange to be alone out here. She’d never imagined that she, Irene Taylor from Lone Pine, Colorado, who’d had her lunch box smashed her first day in kindergarten, and been pelted with insults she hadn’t even understood back then, would someday leave that misery behind and live half a world away, in a glamorous villa filled with royalty.
She sighed with pleasure. Aziza had gone upstairs to take photos of her haul to send to friends. Basimah was having a cozy game of cards with the cook. Sharif had disappeared to make phone calls, presumably about affairs of state in Makhtar.
So Irene had pulled on her modest one-piece black swimsuit, wrapped her body in a towel and sneaked outside.
She’d meant only to swim in the villa’s enormous pool. But as the sun had lowered in the sky, she’d found it impossible to resist the streaks of orange and persimmon light sparkling on the gulf. Would the water really feel as hot as a bathtub?