in her arms. “Sorry, but I couldn’t possibly. I promised to hold the baby and...”
Unfortunately at that moment Sam’s mother brushed past them to scoop her sleeping baby up in her arms. “It’s time to put this sleepy boy to bed,” Emma said, holding him snug against her beaded white gown. She threw the sheikh a troubled glance and said in a low voice to Irene, “Be careful.”
“You don’t need to worry,” Irene said. Really, couldn’t her friend see that she could look out for herself? She wasn’t totally naive.
“Good,” Emma murmured, then turned and said brightly to the sheikh, “Excuse me.”
Irene looked at him, wondering how much of the whispered conversation he’d heard. One glance told her he’d heard everything. He gave her an amused smile, then lifted a dark eyebrow.
“It’s just a dance,” he drawled. He tilted his head. “Surely you’re not afraid of me.”
“Not even slightly,” she lied.
“In that case...” Holding out his hand with the courtly formality of an eighteenth-century prince waiting for his lady, he waited.
Irene stared at his outstretched hand. She hesitated, remembering how her body had reacted the last time they’d touched, the way he’d made her tremble with just a touch on her wrist. But as he’d said, this time he was just asking for a dance, not a hot, torrid affair. They were surrounded by chaperones here.
One dance, and she’d show them both that she wasn’t afraid. She could control her body’s response to him. One dance, and he’d stop being so intrigued by her refusals and leave her safely alone for the rest of the weekend. He’d move on to some other, more responsive woman.
Slowly, Irene placed her hand in his. She gave an involuntary shudder when she felt the electricity as their fingers intertwined, and she felt the heat of his skin pressing against her own.
His handsome face was inscrutable as he led her out onto the terrace’s impromptu dance floor. Above them, dappled moonlight turned wisteria vines into braided threads of silver, like magic.
He held her against his body, leading her, swaying her against him as they moved to the music. He looked at her, and Irene felt her body break out in a sweat even as a cool breeze trailed off the moonlit lake against her overheated skin.
“So, Miss Taylor,” he murmured, “tell me the real reason you were pushing me away—along with every other man here.”
She swallowed, then looked at him. “I will tell you. If you tell me something first.”
“Yes?”
“Why you have continued to pursue me anyway.” She looked at the women watching them enviously from the edge of the dance floor. “Those other women are far more beautiful than I. They clearly want to be in your arms. Why ask me to dance, instead of them? Especially when it seemed likely I would say no?”
He swirled her around to the music, then stopped. “I knew you wouldn’t say no.”
“How?”
“I told you. I never fail to get what I want. I wanted to dance with you. And I knew you wanted the same.”
“So arrogant,” she breathed.
“It’s not arrogant if it’s true.”
Irene’s heart was pounding. “I only agreed to dance with you so you’d see that there’s nothing special about me, and leave me in peace.”
His lips lifted at the corners. “If that was your intention, then I am afraid you have failed.”
“I’m boring,” she whispered. “Invisible and dull.”
His hands brushed against her back as they danced.
“You’re wrong. You are the most intriguing woman here. From the moment I saw you on the edge of the lake, I felt drawn to your strange combination of experience—and innocence.” Leaning down, he bent his lips to her ear. She felt the roughness of his cheek brush against hers, inhaled the musky scent of his cologne, felt the warmth of his breath against her skin. “I want to discover all your secrets, Miss Taylor.”
He pulled back. She stared up at him, her eyes wide. She tried to speak, found she couldn’t. His dark eyes crinkled in smug masculine amusement.
He twirled her to the music, and when she was again in his arms, he said, “I answered your question. Now answer mine. Why have you been pushing every man away who talks to you at this wedding? Do you have something against them personally, or just dislike billionaires on principle?”
“Billionaires?”
“The German automobile tycoon has been married three times, but still considered very eligible by all the gold diggers in Europe. Then, of course, my Spanish friend, the Duque de Alzacar, the second-richest man in Spain.”
“Duke? Are you kidding? I thought he was a musician!”
“Would it have changed your answer to him if you’d known?”
“No. I’m just surprised. He’s a good guitar player. Rich men usually don’t try so hard. They expect other people to entertain them. They don’t care who else gets their heart bruised trying to win their attention, their love—”
She broke off her words, but it was too late. Aghast, Irene met his darkly knowing glance.
“Go on,” he purred. “Tell me more about what rich men do.”
She looked away. “You’re just not my sort, that’s all,” she muttered. “None of you.”
The sheikh looked around the beautiful moonlit terrace. His voice was incredulous. “A German billionaire, a Spanish duke, a Makhtari emir? We are none of us your type?”
“No.”
He gave a low, disbelieving laugh. “You must have a very specific type. The three of us are so different.”
She shook her head. “You’re exactly the same.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Your eminence... I’m sorry, what am I supposed to call you?”
“Normally the term ‘Your Highness’ is the correct form. But since I suspect you are about to insult me, please call me Sharif.”
She snorted a laugh. “Sharif.”
“And I will call you Irene.”
It was musical the way he said it, with his husky low voice and slight inflection of an accent. She had never heard her name pronounced quite that way before. He made it sound—sensual. Controlling a shiver, she took a deep breath. As he moved her across the stone floor, they were surrounded by eight other couples dancing. The bride and groom were no longer to be seen, the wine was flowing and the lights in the wisteria above them sparkled in the dark night, swaying in the soft breeze off the lake.
“Explain,” he said darkly, “how I am exactly like every other man.”
She got the feeling he wasn’t used to being compared to anyone, even tycoons or dukes. “Not every man. Just, well—” she looked around them “—just all the men here.”
Sharif set his jaw, looking annoyed. “Because I asked you to dance?”
“No—well, yes. The thing is,” she said awkwardly, “you’re all arrogant playboys. You expect women to fall instantly into bed with you. And you’re full of yourselves because you’re usually right.”
“So I am conceited.”
“It’s not your fault. Well, not entirely your fault,” she amended, since she wanted to be truthful. “You’re just selfish and coldhearted about getting what you want. But when you throw out these lines, these false promises of love, women are naive enough to fall for