LITMIR.BIZ

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huge jewels as they trailed from her collarbone to the center of her breastbone. It probably cost as much as a car, she thought. A car? A house. A mansion.

      “A loan?” she suggested weakly.

      He shook his head. “A gift.”

      Irene had never seen anything so lavish and exquisite as this necklace, and knew she never would again. Crazy to think she was wearing a million euros around her neck—or more—when she had less than twenty euros in her purse.

      But it wasn’t a gift, whatever Sharif had said. It was payment in advance. No man gave something for nothing. What was the difference between accepting a diamond necklace from a sheikh or getting a hundred bucks from old Benny who pumped gas as the Quick Mart? No difference at all.

      But she found herself still stroking the jewels for another five minutes before she gathered the willpower to reach for the clasp.

      He put his larger hand over hers, stopping her. Their eyes met in the mirror.

      “They’re yours.”

      “I told you. I can’t accept.”

      “I won’t take them back. They were bought for you today in Rome.”

      “Rome?” she cried. “How?” Then she remembered his newspaper. “It’s very wasteful,” she grumbled. “Sending private jets all around the world at the drop of a hat. Buying diamonds for a stranger.”

      “You’re not a stranger. Not anymore.” He shrugged. “If you don’t want the necklace, toss it in the lake. Bury it in the garden. I care not. It’s yours. I won’t take it back.”

      “But—”

      “I’m bored with this subject. Let’s find something fun to do.” He gave her a lazy smile. “Perhaps go congratulate the bride and groom on their civil ceremony?”

      Guilt flashed through her as she recalled how she’d barely spoken three words with Emma all day. “Good idea,” she mumbled.

      But for all the rest of the long afternoon, she found herself unable to take off the necklace, or to part company with Sharif, who was continually at her side, whispered shocking things to try to make her laugh, and then laughing himself when she whispered her own shocking things in return.

      The beautiful, chic supermodel types goggled at them for the rest of the afternoon, and through dinner, too, as if they couldn’t imagine what the handsome, powerful Emir of Makhtar could find so fascinating about Irene. Oh, if only they knew. She was insulting him, mostly.

      She allowed herself a small, private giggle with her after-dessert coffee. Then her eye caught Emma’s worried face across the table.

      Irene’s smile fell. Looking away, she scowled. Emma should know she didn’t need to worry. She knew what she was doing.

      Didn’t she?

      After dinner, alone in her own room for the first time that day, Irene looked down in awe at the beautiful gown Emma had loaned her for the ball that night. It was strapless red silk, with a sweetheart neckline and a very full skirt. The perfect gown for a night that would be the culminating event of the wedding celebration. Tomorrow would be nothing but hangovers and staggered breakfasts, as guests scattered for the airport, for the train, back to their real lives. But tonight—tonight.

      Tonight there would be fireworks.

      Trembling, Irene looked at herself in the mirror, wearing only a red strapless lace bra and panties—and the necklace. Lifting her long dark hair off her neck, Irene bit her lip, turning her head to the left and right.

      She’d wear it just a few hours more. Then she’d give it back to Sharif, she promised herself, and no harm done.

      Irene brushed her long dark hair, then piled the heavy weight on top of her head in an elegant topknot. She put on black eyeliner and red lipstick. Pulled on the strapless scarlet ball gown. Zipped it up behind her.

      Looked in the mirror.

      A woman she didn’t recognize looked back at her.

      Beautiful.

      Exotic.

      Rich.

      An illusion, she thought. Just for tonight. Tomorrow she’d turn back into a pumpkin. She’d face the hollow choice of asking a friend for a job, against her pride and principles, or else going back to Paris to pack her things to return to Colorado, a penniless failure. She’d go back with nothing but the dream that someday, if she worked hard enough and followed all the rules, she’d be good enough. She’d find a good man to love her as she wanted to be loved. She took a deep breath.

      But just for tonight, she would forget all that. She’d pretend she was someone else, just like the other women at the villa, wealthy and beautiful and without a care in the world.

      Going out into the hall, Irene ducked back when she saw Emma and Cesare, both of them dressed for the ball, coming out of the next doorway. Emma was giving her husband an impish smile as she ran her hand down the front of his tuxedo. Cesare looked at her with a low growl, then gave her a passionate kiss, pulling her right back into their bedroom—next door.

      Well, that was one mystery solved. Sharif wasn’t the one who’d kept her awake last night with all the noise. Smiling to herself, Irene counted to ten to give Emma and Cesare time to close their bedroom door before she went back into the hall.

      She felt strangely nervous as she went down the sweeping stairs to the ballroom. Her hands were trembling for some reason she couldn’t imagine. She touched the diamond necklace again, as if it was some kind of good-luck charm.

      Just for tonight, she repeated to herself. No harm done.

      The gilded ballroom was packed with people. Already, the hum of excited conversation and the music of the orchestra filled the huge room all the way to the high ceilings and the enormous crystal chandeliers. Unlike most of the weekend, which had involved an intimate number of twenty or so guests, tonight’s event had brought celebrities and royalty and tycoons and politicians and billionaires, not just from Europe but also from South America and Asia and Africa. There had to be at least five hundred people, or maybe eight hundred. She had a hard time counting, and anyway, she didn’t really care, because even though she wouldn’t admit it to herself, there was only one person she was really looking for—

      “Irene.” His low voice behind her caused a thrill of pleasure to rush through her body. “You dazzle me.”

      Turning with a smile, she got her first look at Sharif in a tuxedo and her heart lifted to her throat. How could he look even more devastatingly handsome? How was it even possible?

      Taking her hand in his, Sharif bent and kissed her skin. At the touch of his lips on her hand, the hint of his hot breath, a flush of heat covered her body. Her eyes were wide as he straightened. He smiled at her, then held out his arm.

      “Shall we show them how it’s done?”

      This time, there was absolutely no hesitation before she took his arm. They walked into the ballroom together. Irene was conscious of many pairs of eyes on them as they danced and danced and drank champagne and toasted the happy couple and danced some more. All night, they never left each other’s side. They spoke about everything and nothing, and as she smiled up at him, he looked down at her, caressing her with his eyes.

      Every word, every moment, seemed filled with magic and a delicious sort of tension, as if the very night were holding its breath. Irene felt dizzy, drunk with happiness. Against her will, she found herself wondering what it would be like to be in Sharif’s arms, not just for these few hours, not just for this one night, but for tomorrow as well, and the day after that.

      As they swayed to the music on the dance floor, he gave her a sensual smile, brushing an errant tendril of dark hair from her face. Just feeling the soft brush of his fingertips, even though they were in the middle of the ballroom with hundreds of couples around them, made her almost forget to dance. She stumbled, but he caught her smoothly,

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