the white of her modest dress only served to set off her creamy skin. Her thick black hair looked exotic, her brown eyes mysterious and deep as midnight. She looked like a woman any man would willingly die for.
Her expression darkened as she looked left and right. “Where is your sister?”
Sister? He struggled to remember. Oh yes. “Aziza...” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I regret my sister is not feeling well. She will be unable to join us tonight.”
Irene glared at him suspiciously.
“Not my idea, I assure you,” he said. “But if my sister is not hungry, I certainly am.” The understatement of the year. “Come. I’m sure my chef is growing antsy, as his dinner has certainly been ready for a while now.”
“Oh.” For the first time, Irene looked uncomfortable. “I am sorry. I didn’t think of that.” She bit her lip. “But just the two of us—I mean, it doesn’t really seem appropriate to—”
“To what? To eat?”
“Alone. Just the two of us.”
“What would you like me to do to avoid gossip? Invite someone else to join us? Perhaps my chief of staff?” he said coldly.
Her eyes brightened. “Good idea.”
He scowled. “Unfortunately he has other duties. He’s already gone home to his family.”
“To his girlfriend?”
“His mother. You take a great deal of interest in him for someone you just met.”
She shrugged. “He’s just the only person I’ve met. Other than the three different people I had to ask for directions to find the dining room, that is.”
So that was why she was late. He’d thought she’d done it on purpose, to taunt him. He relaxed as the servants brought out plates of food, stews of chicken and meat, rice, vegetables and traditional Makhtari flatbread. The air around them suddenly smelled of spice, of cardamom and saffron. She sniffed appreciatively.
“Tell me more about your country,” she said, digging into her dinner. “It is my home now, at least for the next few months.” She took another bite of chicken and sighed with pleasure. “You said it wasn’t always like this.”
“No.” He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell her. “If you are going to be companion to my sister, you’ll be expected to know,” he said finally. “When my father died, the country fell into civil war.”
The color drained from her face. She set down her fork. “Oh, no.”
“My father had held everything together. With him suddenly gone, none of the great families could agree on anything. Except that they didn’t want a fifteen-year-old boy on the throne.”
“How bad did it get?” she said quietly.
Gripping his silverware, he looked down at his plate.
“Half this city burned,” he said. “By the time I arrived back here from boarding school, this palace was ash. One day, I was a boy studying astronomy and calculus and history. The next, my father was dead, my mother prostrate with grief and rage, my home destroyed. And my country in flames.”
Silence fell in the shadows of the dining room.
Slowly, Sharif lifted his gaze to hers. He saw tears streaming down Irene’s stricken, beautiful face. Strange, when he felt nothing. He’d stopped feeling anything a long time ago.
“What did you do?” she choked out.
“What I had to.”
“You were only fifteen.”
“I grew up quickly. My mother’s brother, and my father’s former adviser, the vizier, were both trying to claim themselves as regent until my eighteenth year. They were destroying Makhtar in their battle. Even at fifteen, I could see that.” Feeling that he wanted to finish the topic as quickly as possible, he set down the goblet. “So I made the deal I had to make to save my country. Then I brought Aziza to live with us. She was a baby, a newborn.”
“She wasn’t living with you before?”
“She was with her mother.”
Irene frowned. “But your mother was with you.”
“Aziza is my half sister. The day I lost my father, she became doubly an orphan. She
Her expression darkened as she looked left and right. “Where is your sister?”
Sister? He struggled to remember. Oh yes. “Aziza...” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I regret my sister is not feeling well. She will be unable to join us tonight.”
Irene glared at him suspiciously.
“Not my idea, I assure you,” he said. “But if my sister is not hungry, I certainly am.” The understatement of the year. “Come. I’m sure my chef is growing antsy, as his dinner has certainly been ready for a while now.”
“Oh.” For the first time, Irene looked uncomfortable. “I am sorry. I didn’t think of that.” She bit her lip. “But just the two of us—I mean, it doesn’t really seem appropriate to—”
“To what? To eat?”
“Alone. Just the two of us.”
“What would you like me to do to avoid gossip? Invite someone else to join us? Perhaps my chief of staff?” he said coldly.
Her eyes brightened. “Good idea.”
He scowled. “Unfortunately he has other duties. He’s already gone home to his family.”
“To his girlfriend?”
“His mother. You take a great deal of interest in him for someone you just met.”
She shrugged. “He’s just the only person I’ve met. Other than the three different people I had to ask for directions to find the dining room, that is.”
So that was why she was late. He’d thought she’d done it on purpose, to taunt him. He relaxed as the servants brought out plates of food, stews of chicken and meat, rice, vegetables and traditional Makhtari flatbread. The air around them suddenly smelled of spice, of cardamom and saffron. She sniffed appreciatively.
“Tell me more about your country,” she said, digging into her dinner. “It is my home now, at least for the next few months.” She took another bite of chicken and sighed with pleasure. “You said it wasn’t always like this.”
“No.” He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell her. “If you are going to be companion to my sister, you’ll be expected to know,” he said finally. “When my father died, the country fell into civil war.”
The color drained from her face. She set down her fork. “Oh, no.”
“My father had held everything together. With him suddenly gone, none of the great families could agree on anything. Except that they didn’t want a fifteen-year-old boy on the throne.”
“How bad did it get?” she said quietly.
Gripping his silverware, he looked down at his plate.
“Half this city burned,” he said. “By the time I arrived back here from boarding school, this palace was ash. One day, I was a boy studying astronomy and calculus and history. The next, my father was dead, my mother prostrate with grief and rage, my home destroyed. And my country in flames.”
Silence fell in the shadows of the dining room.
Slowly, Sharif lifted his gaze to hers. He saw tears streaming down Irene’s stricken, beautiful face. Strange, when he felt nothing. He’d stopped feeling anything a long time ago.
“What did you do?” she choked out.
“What I had to.”
“You were only fifteen.”
“I grew up quickly. My mother’s brother, and my father’s former adviser, the vizier, were both trying to claim themselves as regent until my eighteenth year. They were destroying Makhtar in their battle. Even at fifteen, I could see that.” Feeling that he wanted to finish the topic as quickly as possible, he set down the goblet. “So I made the deal I had to make to save my country. Then I brought Aziza to live with us. She was a baby, a newborn.”
“She wasn’t living with you before?”
“She was with her mother.”
Irene frowned. “But your mother was with you.”
“Aziza is my half sister. The day I lost my father, she became doubly an orphan. She
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