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them all into town for the civil ceremony, he waited, waving off Falconeri.
    “I’m not quite done with my coffee,” he’d said by way of explanation. The man gave him a strange look, as if he thought it wasn’t an entirely satisfying reason for a guest to miss a wedding. But they all left.
    The villa became quiet, except for the low hum of servants preparing the next meal, and his own bodyguards conversing quietly on the edges of the cavernous, brightly painted breakfast room. Five minutes later, he heard high heels clicking rapidly across the marble foyer and sighed in anticipation.
    He looked up from his Arabic-language newspaper with a ready smile as Irene burst into the doorway.
    “Am I too late?” she cried.
    “You just missed them,” he replied. “They left five minutes ago.”
    Irene looked even more beautiful than last night, he thought. She was dressed in black pumps and a 1950s-style day dress that accented her hourglass figure—Valentino? Oscar de la Renta?—topped with a soft pink cardigan and pearls. A smudge of deep pink lipstick was her only makeup, accenting the slight bruise of violet beneath her huge dark eyes that suggested a sleepless night. Perhaps she hadn’t found the sensual dreams of them making love quite so comforting and pleasant as he had.
    “Dang it!” She hung her shoulders. “I can’t believe I overslept. On Emma’s special day. I am the worst friend ever!”
    “She has three special days,” he said sharply. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It doesn’t matter.”
    “I can’t believe I was so careless.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I must have turned off my alarm. I was just so tired, I didn’t fall asleep until dawn...”
    “Oh?” He tilted his head suggestively. “I’m sorry to hear that. Something keep you awake?”
    She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed. “Never mind.” She reached for the silver coffeepot and a china cup edged with a pattern of twenty-four-carat gold. As she poured the steaming hot coffee, followed by tons of cream and sugar, she glanced at his paper.
    “What are you reading?”
    “Today’s newspaper from my home country.”
    “Today’s? How did you get it?”
    “It was delivered to me by plane.”
    “Can’t you get it online?”
    “I like paper.”
    “So you had a whole plane fly all the way here just because you—”
    “Yes,” he said. “Just because.”
    “Ridiculous,” she grumbled. Sitting on the very edge of the farthest chair, she sipped her coffee, glaring at him over the rim of her cup. “You expecting some kind of war today?”
    “War?” Finishing the last of his espresso, Sharif calmly set the cup back in the saucer.
    She looked pointedly at the four bodyguards, all now still as statues in the four corners of the room. “You brought your army along for breakfast?”
    “I am Emir of Makhtar,” he said, as if it explained everything.
    She snorted. “Are you afraid you’ll be attacked?” She looked at the cheerful yellow walls, the tall windows overlooking Lake Como, the high ceilings with their early-nineteenth-century frescoes. Her lips lifted. “Clearly this could be dangerous.”
    He shrugged. “Standard procedure.”
    “Having four hulking babysitters always hovering around sounds like my idea of hell. Although at least it’s easy to get rid of your lovers the morning after.”
    “Are you looking to start a fight with me, Miss Taylor?”
    “You said you were going to call me Irene. And yes, I’m looking to start a fight. It’s your fault I overslept. You’re the one who kept me up all night.”
    He hadn’t expected her to admit it so easily. “Dreaming of me?”
    “Dreaming?” She looked at him as if he was crazy. “It wasn’t a dream I heard all night, banging and moaning in the room next door. It was really quite...athletic, the length and stamina of it all. I’m glad you so eagerly took my advice and found another woman more willing to service