Modern Romance - The Best of the Year. Miranda LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
Sharif’s face looked grimmer still. “Why is irrelevant. What matters is finding her. Quietly. Before the news gets back to her fiancé and the whole wedding is in an uproar.”
“But why,” she persisted, “would your sister run away from her own fiancé? If I were planning to marry, I’d be counting down the days. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me from the man I loved...”
“You are a private citizen. You have freedom that Aziza and I never will.”
“But—”
“You don’t need to understand. Just get dressed and come with me now.”
Was it possible his sister wasn’t keen on this marriage? But looking at Sharif’s hard expression and the impatient set of his shoulders, Irene knew there was no point in asking. She’d ask Aziza herself, once they found her. “Give me three minutes.”
He didn’t move.
“Wait outside!”
“Three minutes,” he warned her, “and I’m coming back in.”
She believed him. As soon as he went out in the hall and closed the door, she flew to her closet, putting on the quickest clothes possible, a casual maxi dress and a jean jacket. She pulled her unruly dark hair into a hasty ponytail and grabbed her purse. Three minutes? She’d done it in two. She opened her door. “Ready.”
He’d been leaning against the wall. He straightened, his face shocked.
Now she was the one to be amused. “Surprised?”
“I’ve never known a woman who could—” He pressed his lips together, then said tersely, “You’re different. That’s all.”
Not totally different, sadly. One of the things that had given her speed was that she didn’t want him back in her bedroom. But even now, against her will, she remembered how it had felt to have his body on top of hers. How it had felt to twine her hands in his hair as she pulled him hard against her and kissed him so deep she never wanted to let go...
“Um.” Her cheeks turned pink. So much for treating him only as an employer. She’d kissed him. Told him she’d been dreaming about him! Trying to pretend the kiss had never happened seemed like the best bet. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
He gave a single abrupt nod, then gestured for her to follow him down the silent hall. Her flip-flops thwacked against the marble floor, so she took them off to pad silently in bare feet.
Once they were out of the palace, he held up his hand harshly. She froze, confused. Then she saw that the gesture wasn’t for her, but for the bodyguards outside. For the first time since she’d known him, he was leaving all the bodyguards behind.
“Are we taking a plane?” she ventured.
Still walking, he shook his head. “It would involve too many people. I don’t want to take that risk until I know what she’s doing. We’ll have to travel in a way that no one will look twice at us. In a way that makes us invisible.”
Irene followed him across the gated courtyard, the only light the moon, the only sound the burble of the unseen fountain. He stopped in front of a building with large sliding doors. He paused, his hands clenched at his sides. She looked up and saw an expression on his face that truly shocked her to the core.
Fear.
She’d never thought Sharif could be afraid of anything. But she tried to imagine how she would feel if her sister had run away. If her mother was missing and unable to be found. The powerless fear that would grip her heart.
“We’ll find her, Sharif,” she whispered, trying to offer comfort. “We will. I’ll help you find her.” She reached for his hand. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
For a moment, he looked down at her hand.
“Thank you,” he said in a low voice. He pulled his hand away, the brief moment of vulnerability gone, the ruthless air of command returned, and he wrenched open the garage door. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“I still can’t believe this is your idea of invisible,” Irene grumbled a few hours later.
Sharif gave her a wicked grin from the driver’s seat of the insanely expensive red sports car. “Just trying to fit in.”
“Fit in,” she snorted. She stretched in the passenger seat, yawning. “You—”
Then she saw the bright skyscrapers in the distance. Her mouth snapped shut as her eyes went wide.
She breathed, “Is that—?”
“Yes,” he said. “Dubai.”
It was still early morning, and though the sun was barely in the sky, already it was growing hot. She’d slept through the first few hours of darkness, and had just a dim memory of a perfectly modern highway across bare, empty desert, and a sky that was inky black with stars.
They’d entered the United Arab Emirates at the Makhtari border, where they were welcomed with deep respect and courtesy that was fit for—well, a king; and yet with discretion that made it clear they understood this was not a state visit. Against her will, Irene had wondered if Sharif had done this trip before, and with whom.
They’d stopped for gas at a station outside Abu Dhabi. She’d gone inside and discovered the station was not that different from the ones at home. Same brand of candy bars, same sodas, same everything—except the labels had Arabic writing on one side and English on the other. Using her credit card, she bought a bag of chewy fruit candy and tucked it in her purse. She also got two coffees and brought them out to Sharif, who’d just finished refueling the flashy red car.
He’d stared at the outstretched paper cup, frowning, as if she were offering him jewels, not an espresso worth ten dirhams. Taking a long drink, he gave a sigh of satisfaction. He looked at her, his eyes deep. “Thank you.”
“It’s no big deal,” she’d said uncomfortably. “It’s just coffee.” She tilted her head. “Aren’t you used to people bringing you stuff?”
“Yes. Servants. Sycophants. But not—” He cut himself off. He looked at the coffee, then shook his head as his lips twisted upward on the edges. “It’s not poisoned, right? As a warning to make sure I never try to kiss you again?”
She snorted, then gave a wistful sigh. “I can’t really blame you for that. I’m the one who kissed you this time.”
His eyes met hers sharply, and for a single insane moment, electricity crackled between them.
No! She would not let herself want what she could not have!
Turning, she opened the passenger door. “Your sister,” she said.
“Yes.” His voice was low. Getting back into the car, he started the engine.
But as they drove north from Abu Dhabi, she’d looked out the window, far too aware of Sharif next to her in the small interior of the sports car. She tried to focus on the gleaming buildings, the desert, the brand-new, immaculate highway with road signs written in Arabic, with English translations beneath.
Now, as they approached Dubai, Irene said, “How do you know she’s here?”
“She was angry at me yesterday. For firing Gilly.”
“Gilly?”
“Her companion who thought it would be amusing to ambush me while she was naked in my bed.”
“Oh.”
“Gilly was not a good influence on Aziza. She convinced her that things—luxury handbags, jewels, royal titles and money—would make her happy.”
Irene leaned her arm against the window of the Ferrari and said sardonically, “I can see why that would bother you.”
He