Miranda Lee - Modern Romance - The Best of the Year

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“What are you doing?”

Sitting up furiously, she turned on the light on her bedside stand. Sharif was sitting on the edge of her bed in a dark shirt and trousers.

“I told you never to kiss me again!” she accused.

“You,” he replied pointedly, “kissed me.”

“Don’t be—” Irene paused at the sudden humiliating memory of pulling him down against her on the bed, of pressing her lips to his. Oh, dear heaven, was it possible that she, while lost in her dream, could have—

Irene shook her head furiously. “You shouldn’t be in my bedroom!”

“That’s not what you seemed to think a moment ago.”

“I thought I was dreaming,” she retorted, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

His dark eyebrow lifted. “Dreaming of me, were you?”

Her cheeks flamed with heat. “It’s the middle of the night! What are you doing in here? Get out!”

Sharif rose from her bed, absolutely calm, as if what had just happened hadn’t affected him at all—even while it had left her overwhelmed, humiliated, intoxicated and furious. Stupid dreams! She hated them all!

He took a deep breath.

“I need your help,” he said quietly. “I need you to come with me. Right now.”

She stared at him. “Have you lost your mind? It’s—” she twisted her head to look at the elegant, nineteenth-century antique bedside clock “—three in the morning! I’m not going anywhere with—”

“My sister has run away.”

Irene cut off her angry words. She looked at his face in the dimly lit room.

“Run away? Are you sure?” She narrowed her eyes. “This better not be some kind of joke—”

“Do you think I would joke about my sister?”

She looked at him.

“No.” She sighed as all the anger went out of her, making her deflate like a balloon. Pushing her blankets aside, she stood up. Amusement flickered in his eyes as he looked at her long flannel nightgown, which went up to her neck and down to her wrists.

“Is something funny?” she demanded.

He cleared his throat. “Not a thing.”

Sheesh, did no one wear old-fashioned nightgowns anymore? Apparently none of Sharif’s lovers. Whatever. Irene liked it. A deliberate choice from all the tight knit camisoles and hot pants her mom and older sister used to lounge around in, on the off chance a current boyfriend might stop by the house for a booty call.

Irene lifted her chin, silently daring him to say something about her choice in sleepwear so she could bite off his head. Wisely, he didn’t.

“Aziza took no bodyguards. Only her old nurse is with her. It might be innocent. It might not be. Either way, I need you to help me find her. Quickly. Before any of the servants notice. Because once they do...”

Biting her lip, Irene nodded. Although many employees in a large household were loyal to death and would die before they said anything, others would find the gossip too delicious a currency to resist telling at least a friend or two. From there, rumors would spread like wildfire. “But why would she run away?”

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.