The Sheikh's Last Seduction. Jennie Lucas
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Como in their wedding invitation. First-class. She smiled wistfully. Now, that had been an experience. The flight attendant had waited on her hand and foot, as if she were someone important. Crazy.
The truth was, she didn’t need first-class. She just needed to believe that someday she might have what Emma had, and what Dorothy Abbott had once had: a husband she could love, respect and trust. A happy, respectable life, raising children in a snug, warm home.
She slowly walked up the hill with the other guests. The shadowy terrace was long, filled with three large communal tables placed end to end down the middle, decked out with flowers and glowing candles and colored lights dangling from above. Irene shivered in the November air, in spite of four heat lamps at the corners of the terrace, all going full blast.
She looked at the happy couple holding their fat, adorable baby, trying to ignore how her heart was aching. She was happy for Emma, she truly was. But she wondered at times if she would ever have the same.
Swallowing hard, Irene turned away. And walked right into a hard wall of muscle.
She gasped, her high-heeled shoes sliding beneath her. She started to fall to the stone floor, but a strong hand reached out to grab her wrist.
“Thank you...” Then she saw the face of the wall that had caught her: the handsome, arrogant sheikh, in the white robes with that darkly handsome face and piercing eyes.
“Oh,” she scowled. “It’s you.”
He said nothing in reply, just lifted her to her feet. She felt the warmth and heat of his palm against her skin. It did strange things to her. He looked down at her in the moonlight on the villa’s veranda as wedding guests laughed and ambled beneath the fairy lights dangling from the trellis beneath the deep violet Italian sky.
She ripped her arm away. “Thank you,” she repeated, in a hostile tone directly at odds with the courtesy of the words.
But he did not immediately turn and leave as she’d hoped. Instead, he stared down at her, his eyes as black as the cord wrapped around his white headdress.
“You accused me of being rude, signorina,” he said in a low voice. “I was not.”
Unconsciously, Irene rubbed her wrist, as if he had burned it with his touch. “You insulted me.”
“When I invited you to spend the night with me?” He sounded almost bewildered. “How was that an insult?”
“Are you kidding? What else could it be?”
He looked bemused. “Women generally take it as a compliment...”
Irene flinched. Women. Of course he’d used the line a million times, on a million interchangeable women!
“How lovely for you,” she said coldly, “that ten words can usually make any woman fall into bed with you. Sorry I’m not following your agenda.”
His lips had parted slightly. His brow was furrowed as he stared down at her. “Have we met before?” he said faintly. “Do you have some reason to despise me?”
“We’ve never met before, if that’s what you’re asking. But yes,” she said grimly, “I have a reason.”
“Which is?”
“Look, I have no idea who you are or why you decided to make me your target, but I know your type.”
“My—type?”
“Do you really want me to spell it out? It might hurt your feelings. But then—” she tilted her head “—fortunately I don’t think you have any.”
“Try me,” he said flatly.
“I could say that you’re a heartless playboy who accused me, within five seconds of meeting me, of planning to seduce my friend’s new husband. Saying I was waiting for a lover and oh, lucky me, you’re the very man for the job! How dare you pretend you can see into my soul, and poke at my heart in a rude and selfish way? Those are the things I could say, but I won’t, because it’s Emma’s wedding and she deserves a perfect day. I don’t want to cause a scene. Because I was taught that if you can’t say something nice to someone, to say nothing at all.” Dorothy Abbott had taught her that over oatmeal cookies and peppermint tea. She glared at him. “Some people,” she said sweetly, “have good manners. If you’ll excuse me.”
She started to turn, but he held on to her wrist. She glared at his hand, then at his face. He abruptly let her go.
“Of course, signorina,” the handsome sheikh said, holding up both his hands. “You are right. I was rude. Please allow me to apologize.” His lips twisted. “The better I know you, the more I realize the great mistake I made. Of course you do not want a lover. No sane man would ever want to be your lover. It would be like seducing a cactus.” He gave her a short half bow with a sweep of his robes. “Please forgive me, signorina. And do not allow me to keep you from your eternally desirable solitude.”
In a single smooth movement, he turned away from her. Irene stared after him, open-mouthed, as he disappeared into the crowd.
She closed her mouth with a snap.
Ooh! Helplessly, she stomped her foot. Eternally desirable solitude! The big jerk!
But at least now he was no longer looking at her—near her—touching her, it was easier to think straight. She was relieved to no longer be under the intense scrutiny of his black eyes, his gaze that seemed to see straight through her soul.
She’d wanted to get rid of him, and she’d succeeded. She did know his type. Well—not exactly. A wealthy sheikh in full robes, with bodyguards hovering, was rare in Colorado. Even her mother and older sister had never managed to bring home someone that exotic. But she knew the playboy type. She hadn’t judged him unfairly. She hadn’t.
But still—she thought of those dark eyes. Of the way her heart had pounded in the moonlight when she’d first seen him standing in front of her on the lake, the very instant after she’d wished with such reckless, passionate yearning that someone would love her. Of the sizzle that had coursed through her body when he’d touched her—just from the touch of his hand on her wrist!
It was good she’d managed to scare him off. No sane man would ever want to be your lover. Yup. She’d scared him off thoroughly.
Good, she told herself. Better to be alone, better to be a virgin forever, than have her heart trampled into nothing.
She wanted more.
After her first day of kindergarten, when Dorothy had comforted her and Bill had gone to the school to set the bullies straight, Irene had started spending her afternoons with the retired couple. She’d tried to pretend the Abbotts’ tiny, warm house was her real home. When she was older, trying to ignore the cruel taunts of the girls and blatant come-ons of the boys in high school, Irene had once asked Dorothy how she and Bill had found each other. Dorothy had smiled.
“We got married at eighteen, both virgins, nervous and broke. Everyone thought we were too young.” She’d laughed, and taken another sip of peppermint tea. “But we knew what we wanted. Waiting made it special, a commitment between us. I know these days, people think sex is no big deal, a moment of cheap pleasure, easily forgotten. But to us, it was sacred. A promise without words. And we never regretted the choice.”
Hearing the story when she was eighteen herself, Irene had vowed to wait for true love, too. She’d watched her sister and mother have so many cheap, forgettable affairs until there was no promise left in it, very little pleasure and certainly no joy. She wanted a different life. Her love would last.
She’d nearly gone astray with Carter, but never again. No way. No how. And if there was one thing she knew down to her bones, it was that a man like the sheikh—exotically handsome and rich and full of himself—would never truly love her, not even for an hour, much less a lifetime. She’d been right to scare him off.
But still, as Irene looked for her assigned place at the long wooden table, she was