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Midnight at the Oasis: His Majesty's Mistake
Jane Porter

Meredith Webber

Olivia Gates


Palm trees, cooling breezes… A ruthless sheikh…HIS MAJESTY'S MISTAKEPrincess Emmeline must gain legitimacy for her unborn child – even if it means posing as dangerously delicious Makin Al Koury’s PA. How will the sheikh react once he learns her shameful secret?TO TEMPT A SHEIKHMarooned in a desert oasis with Prince Harres Al Shalaan, Talia can’t resist his sizzling seduction.The sheikh may have rescued her, but he’s her enemy – and falling for him would be a huge mistake!SHEIKH, CHILDREN'S DOCTOR… HUSBANDWhen disaster strikes, children’s doctor Sheikh Azzam and Dr Alex Conroy must face the desert heat and work together. Even more torturous, they must enter a marriage of convenience…







Midnight

COLLECTION









Midnight at the Oasis

His Majesty’s Mistake

Jane Porter

To Tempt a Sheikh

Olivia Gates

Sheikh, Children’s Doctor…Husband

Meredith Webber







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u0ae5f3d5-af5e-595a-bfc0-64fa8c3c8a72)

Title Page (#u36492b53-869b-5328-bb9e-3af2656d1f04)

His Majesty’s Mistake

About the Author (#u1894df02-aea5-576a-81fd-b39879cfd5fc)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

To Tempt a Sheikh

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Sheikh, Children’s Doctor…Husband

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)



His Majesty’s Mistake (#udecbb414-c3b0-5a4e-b308-e1a4c01b5e3b)


JANE PORTER grew up on a diet of romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight and spent many of her high school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane splits her time between rugged Seattle, Washington, and the beautiful beaches of Hawaii, with her sexy surfer and three very active sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com (http://www.janeporter.com).




CHAPTER ONE (#udecbb414-c3b0-5a4e-b308-e1a4c01b5e3b)


ALEJANDRO had to be here.

Had to be.

Because if he wasn’t at Mynt Lounge, South Beach’s trendiest nightclub, he wasn’t in South Beach any longer. She’d checked the other clubs first and she knew Alejandro. He only did cool. He only did chic. It was Mynt Lounge or nothing. And it had to be here because she had to see him.

Ignoring the dozens of young American women queuing outside in stiletto heels and skirts so short they barely covered their assets, Princess Emmeline d’Arcy of Brabant stepped from her cab onto the curb and tucked a long gleaming strand of hair behind her ear. She would make Alejandro listen to reason. She’d make him see her position and surely he’d change his mind once he understood what was at stake.

Her name.

Her reputation.

And even more importantly, the future and security of their child.

Her stomach rose in protest and she willed the nausea to pass. She wouldn’t get sick here, not when everything was riding on the next five minutes.

Air bottled in her lungs, shoulders squared, Princess Emmeline d’Arcy of the European commonwealth Brabant headed straight for the entrance, bypassing the line that snaked around the building and down the side street.

Alejandro would honor the promise he’d made her. He’d be a man and keep his word. He had to.

As Emmeline approached the front door, the club bouncer dropped the red velvet rope for her, giving her instant admission into the exclusive club. He didn’t know Emmeline personally. He had no idea she was a European royal. But it was clear to everyone present that she was someone important. A VIP. And Mynt Lounge was all about celebrities, models and VIPs. It had, reputedly, the tightest door policy in all of South Beach.

Inside the darkened club, giant stars and metallic balls hung from the ceiling as futuristic go-go girls danced on the bar in nonexistent costumes and white thigh-high boots. A wall of purple lights flashed behind the DJ and other lights shifted, painting the writhing crowd on the dance floor purple, white and gold, leaving corners shadowy.

The princess paused, her long black lashes dropping as she scanned the interior looking for Alejandro, praying he’d be here. Praying he hadn’t left South Beach yet for tomorrow’s polo tournament in Greenwich. His horses had already gone, but he usually followed later.

A cocktail waitress approached and Emmeline shook her head. She wasn’t here to party. She was here to make sure Alejandro did the right thing. He’d made love to her. She’d gotten pregnant. He’d vowed to take care of her. And now he’d better do it.

She wanted a ring, a wedding date and legitimacy for their unborn child.

He owed that much to her.

It had never been her plan to leave Europe, but she’d learned to love Alejandro’s Argentina. They could live outside Buenos Aires on his estancia and have babies and raise horses.

It was a different future than the one her family had planned for her. She was to have been Queen of Raguva, married to King Zale Patek, and her family would be upset. For one thing, Alejandro wasn’t a member of the aristocracy, and for another, he had a bit of a reputation, but once they were married, surely her mother and father would accept him. Alejandro was wealthy. He could provide for them. And she believed in her heart that he would provide, once he understood she had nowhere to go, no other options. European princesses didn’t become single mothers.

While she’d never wanted to marry King Zale Patek, she did respect him. She couldn’t say the same for Alejandro, and she’d slept with him.

Stupid. Stupid to sleep with someone you didn’t love, hoping that maybe he did love you, and would want you and protect you … rescue you … as if you were Rapunzel locked high in the ivory tower.

Emmeline shuddered, horrified. But what was done was done and now she had to be smart. Keep it together.

Swallowing convulsively, Emmeline smoothed the peacock-blue satin fabric of her cocktail dress over her hips. She could feel the jut of her hipbones beneath her trembling hands. She’d never been this thin before, but she couldn’t keep anything down. She was sick morning, noon and night, but she prayed that once she hit the second trimester the nausea would subside.

From the VIP section in the back she heard a roar of masculine laughter. Alejandro. So he was here.

Her stomach fell, a wild tumble, even as her limbs stiffened, body tight, humming with anxiety.

He’d been ignoring her, avoiding her calls, but surely once he saw her, he’d remember how much he’d said he adored her. For five years he’d chased her, pursuing her relentlessly, pledging eternal love. She’d resisted his advances for years, too, but then in a weak moment earlier in the spring, she’d succumbed, giving him her virginity.

It hadn’t been the passionate experience she’d hoped for. Alejandro had been impatient, even irritated. She’d been surprised by the emptiness and roughness of the lovemaking but told herself that it’d be better the next time, that as she grew to love him, she’d learn how to relax. She’d learn how to respond. She’d heard that sex was so different when you were emotionally close and she hoped that it was true.

But there hadn’t been a next time. And now she was pregnant.

Ridiculous. Horrifying. Especially as she was engaged to another man. It was an arranged marriage, one that had been planned years ago for her when she was still in her teens, and the wedding was scheduled for just ten days from now. Obviously she couldn’t marry King Patek pregnant with Alejandro’s baby. So Alejandro needed to man up. Do the right thing, and accept his responsibility in this catastrophe.

Shoulders thrown back, head high, Emmeline entered the darkened VIP room, her narrowed gaze scanning the low plush couches filled with lounging guests. She spotted Alejandro right away. He was hard to miss in his billowy white shirt that showed off his dark hair, tan skin and handsome Latin profile to perfection. He wasn’t alone. He had a stunning young brunette in a shocking red mini-dress on his lap.

Penelope Luca, Emmeline thought, recognizing the young model who had recently become the new It girl. But Penelope wasn’t merely sitting on Alejandro’s lap. Alejandro’s hand was up underneath the young model’s short red skirt, his lips were nuzzling her neck.

For a moment Emmeline couldn’t move or breathe. For a moment she stood transfixed by the sight of Alejandro pleasuring Penelope.

And then humiliation screamed through her.

This was the man who’d promised to love her forever? This was the man who wanted her, Emmeline d’Arcy, above all others? This was the man she’d sacrificed her future for?

“Alejandro.” Her voice was low, clear and sharp. It cut through the pounding music, hum of voices and shrill laughter. Heads turned toward Emmeline. She was dimly aware that everyone was looking at her but she only had eyes for Alejandro.

He looked up at her from beneath his lashes, his lips still affixed to the girl’s neck, his expression mocking.

He didn’t care.

Emmeline’s legs shook. The room seemed to spin.

He didn’t care, she thought again, horror mounting. He didn’t care if she saw him with Penelope. He didn’t care how Emmeline felt. Because he didn’t care for her. He’d never cared, either.

It hit her that it had all been a game for him … to bed a princess. The challenge. The chase. The conquest. She’d merely been a beautiful royal scalp to decorate his belt. And now that he’d possessed her, taken her innocence, he’d discarded her. As if she were nothing. No one.

Fury and pain blinded her. Fury with herself, pain for her child. She’d been stupid, so stupid, and she had no one to blame but herself. But wasn’t that her problem? Hadn’t that been her Achilles’ heel her entire life? Needing love? Craving validation?

Her weakness sickened her, shamed her. Nausea hit her in waves.

“Alejandro,” she repeated his name, her voice dropping, breaking, fire licking her limbs, daggers slicing her heart. “I will not be ignored!”

But he did ignore her. He didn’t even bother to look at her again.

Her legs shook. Her eyes burned. How dare he mock her this way. She marched closer, temper blazing. “You’re a liar and a cheat. A pathetic excuse for a man—”

“Stop.” A deep, hard male voice spoke from behind her, interrupting her, even as a hand settled on her shoulder.

She struggled to shake the hand off, not finished with Alejandro yet. “You will take responsibility,” she insisted, trembling with rage.

“I said, enough,” Sheikh Makin Al-Koury repeated tersely, head dropped, mouth close to Hannah’s ear. He was angry, very angry, and he told himself it was because his assistant had gone missing in action, and that he resented having to chase her down like a recalcitrant puppy, but it was more than that.

It was her, Hannah, dressed like … looking like … sex. Sex in high heels.

Impossible. Hannah wasn’t sexy. Hannah wasn’t hot, but here she was in a cocktail dress so snug that it looked painted on her slim body, the turquoise satin fabric clinging to her small, firm breasts and outlining her high, round ass.

The fact that he noticed her ass blew his mind. He’d never even looked at her body before, didn’t even know she had a body, and yet here she was in a tight shimmering dress with kohl-rimmed eyes, her long dark hair tumbling free over her shoulders.

The thick tousled hair cascading down her back drew his eye again to her ass, and desire flared, his body hardening instantly.

Makin gritted his teeth, disgusted that he was responding to his assistant like an immature schoolboy. For God’s sake. She’d worked for him for nearly five years. What was wrong with him?

She tried to jerk away from him, and his palm slid across the warm satin of her bare shoulder. She felt as hot and erotic as she looked, and he hardened all over again, her smooth soft skin heating his.

Stunned that she was being manhandled, Emmeline d’Arcy turned her head sharply to get a look behind her but all she could see was shoulders—endless shoulders—above a very broad chest covered in an elegant charcoal dress shirt.

“Unhand me,” she choked, angling her head back to get a better look at him, but she couldn’t see his face, not without turning all the way around. Her vision was limited to his chin and jaw. And it wasn’t an easy jaw. He was all hard lines—strong, angular jaw, square chin, the fierce set of firm lips. The only hint of softness she could see was the glimpse of dark bronze skin at his throat where his collar was open.

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” he said harshly, his English lightly accented, his voice strangely familiar.

But why was his voice familiar? Did she know him? More importantly, did he know her? Was he one of her father’s men? Had her father, King William, sent someone from his security, or King Patek?

She craned her head to get a better look, but he was so tall, and the club so very dark. “Let me go,” she repeated, unwilling to be managed by even her father’s men.

“Once we’re outside,” he answered, applying pressure to her shoulder.

She shuddered at the warmth of his skin against hers.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not until I’ve spoken with Mr. Ibanez—”

“This is neither the time or place,” he said, cutting her short. His hand moved from her shoulder to her wrist, his fingers clamping vise-like around her fragile bones.

He had a tight grip, and she shivered as heat spread through her. “Release me,” she demanded, tugging at her wrist. “Immediately.”

“Not a chance, Hannah,” he answered calmly, and yet his tone was so hard and determined that it rumbled through her, penetrating deep to rattle her bones.

Hannah.

He thought she was Hannah.

Her heart faltered. A cold shivery sensation slid down her spine as she put the pieces together. His deep, familiar voice. His extraordinary height. His ridiculous strength.

Sheikh Makin Al-Koury, Hannah’s boss. Emmeline stiffened, realizing she was in trouble—she’d spent the past four days impersonating his personal assistant.

And then he was dragging her from the club, through the crowded dance floor and out the front door.

Emmeline’s head spun as they stepped outside, away from the blinding lights and gyrating bodies on the bar and dance floor. The heavy nightclub door swung closed behind them, silencing the thumping music.

It was only then that he released her and turning, she looked straight up into Sheikh Al-Koury’s face. He wasn’t happy. No, make that he was livid.

“Hello,” she said, voice cracking.

One of his strong black eyebrows lifted. “Hello?” he repeated incredulously. “Is that all you have to say?”

She licked her lips but her mouth remained too dry and her lips caught on her teeth.

Five days ago it had seemed like a brilliant idea to beg Hannah, the American who looked so much like her, to change places with her for a few hours so Emmeline could escape her security detail at the hotel and confront Alejandro. Hannah had become a blonde and Emmeline a brunette. They’d changed hairstyles, wardrobes and lifestyles. It was to have been for a few hours, but that had been days ago and since then everything had become so very complicated as Hannah was now in Raguva, on the Dalmatian Coast, masquerading as Princess Emmeline, while Emmeline was still here in Florida, pretending to be Hannah.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she stuttered now, staring up into Sheikh Makin Al-Koury’s face, trapped in his light eyes. His eyes were gray, the lightest gray, almost silver, and his expression so fierce her legs went weak.

“Saving you from making a complete ass of yourself,” he answered grimly. He had a face that was too hard to be considered classically handsome—square jaw, strong chin, high slash of cheekbones, with a long straight nose. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Desperation sharpened her voice. “I have to go back in. I must speak with him—”

“He didn’t seem interested,” Sheikh Al-Koury interrupted as if bored.

Heat rushed through her, heat and shame, because Sheikh Al-Koury was right. Alejandro hadn’t been the least bit interested, not with the stunning Penelope on his lap, but that didn’t change her goal. It just meant she had to work harder to make Alejandro see reason. “You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

“Alejandro Ibanez,” he retorted. “Now get into the car—”

“I can’t!”

“You must.”

“You don’t understand.” Panic filled her, tears burning her eyes. She could not, would not, be a single mother. She’d be cut off from her family. She’d be out on the streets. And yes, she’d been named an honorary chair for a dozen different charities, but in reality, she had no skills to speak of. If Alejandro didn’t help them, how would she and the child survive? “I must speak with him. It’s urgent.”

“That may be, but there are paparazzi everywhere and your Mr. Ibanez appeared … unavailable … for a proper discussion. Please get into the car.”

It was only then that Emmeline realized that camera flashes were popping right and left. Not because of her—the media thought she was ordinary Hannah Smith—but because Sheikh Al-Koury was one of the world’s most powerful men. His country, Kadar, produced more oil than any other country or kingdom in the Middle East. Western powers tripped over themselves to befriend him. And Emmeline’s lookalike, Hannah Smith, had been his assistant for years.

“I’ll take a cab back to my hotel,” she said huskily, nausea washing through her in waves.

Sheikh Al-Koury smiled at her, firm lips quirking as if amused, and yet she knew he couldn’t be, not when his silver gaze glittered like frost. “I’m afraid you misunderstood me.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her face. “It wasn’t a request, Hannah. I’m not negotiating. Get in the car.”

For a moment she couldn’t breathe, feeling smashed, squashed. He was smiling, though, but that was because he intended to win. Powerful men always did.

Clinging to the last shred of her dignity, she lifted her chin, moved past the paparazzi, and stepped gracefully into the car, her turquoise satin dress swishing across the leather as she slid across the seat to the far side.

Emmeline sucked in a breath of silent protest as Makin settled next to her, far too close. She crossed one leg over the other, trying to make herself smaller. He was too big and physical. He exuded energy, intensity and it made her heart race so fast she felt dizzy.

Emmeline waited until the driver had pulled from the curb to give the name of her hotel. “I’m staying at the Breakers,” she said, hands compulsively smoothing the creases marring the satin of her skirt. “You can drop me off there.”

Sheikh Al-Koury didn’t even glance at her. “I won’t be dropping you anywhere. We’re heading to the airport. I’ll have the hotel pack up your things and send them to the airport to meet our plane.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. “Plane?”

“We’re going to Kadar.”

Her pulse quickened yet again, her hands curling into fists. She wouldn’t panic. Not yet. “Kadar?”

His gaze met hers and held. “Yes, Kadar, my country, my home. I’m hosting a huge conference in Kasbah Raha in a few days. Two dozen dignitaries are attending with their spouses. That was your idea. Remember?”

Emmeline pressed the fists down against her thighs. She knew nothing about organizing conferences or hosting international polo tournaments or any of the other dozen things Hannah did as Sheikh Al-Koury’s assistant, but she couldn’t admit that, not when Hannah was in Raguva pretending to be her. And if Texas-born Hannah could masquerade as a European princess, surely Emmeline could pass herself off as a secretary? How hard could it be?

“Of course,” she answered firmly, feigning a confidence she did not feel. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Again a strong black eyebrow lifted, his hard, harsh features hawk-like in the darkened limousine. “Because you’ve called in sick to work four days straight even as you’ve been spotted living it up all over town.”

“I’ve hardly been living it up. I can’t keep anything down, and I’ve only left my hotel room when absolutely necessary.”

“Like tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Because you had to see Mr. Ibanez.”

Just hearing Alejandro’s name sent a shock wave through her, because Alejandro hadn’t just rejected her, he’d rejected the baby, too. She exhaled in a rush, devastated. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Nausea rushed through her. “That’s personal.”




CHAPTER TWO (#udecbb414-c3b0-5a4e-b308-e1a4c01b5e3b)


PERSONAL, Makin Al-Koury, His Royal Highness, Prince of Kadar, silently repeated, staring at Hannah from beneath his lashes, stunned that his sensible secretary had fallen for a man who had a woman in every city, as well as a wife and five children back at home.

“So what did he tell you?” Makin said coolly. “That he loved you? That he couldn’t live without you? What did he say to get you into bed?”

Her porcelain cheeks turned pink and she pushed the heavy weight of her rich brown hair off her pale shoulder. “That’s none of your business.”

So Alejandro Ibanez had seduced her.

Makin bit down, his jaws clamped tightly together. He loathed very few people but Ibanez was at the top of the list. Moving in similar polo circles, Makin had witnessed Ibanez in action and the Argentine’s tactic for getting women to sleep with him was simple—he seduced them emotionally and then bedded them swiftly. He’d convince a woman that she was special—unique—and that he couldn’t imagine living without her. And women fell for it. Hook, line and sinker.

And apparently, Hannah had, too.

He’d known all week that something was wrong with Hannah. His secretary was practical and punctual, organized and calm. She didn’t call in sick. She didn’t show up late. She didn’t make excuses. She was professional. Dedicated. Disciplined. The woman across the seat from him was none of the above.

For the past four days he’d tried to understand what had happened to his efficient secretary.

He’d pursued her as she pursued Alejandro Ibanez, and it wasn’t until tonight, when he saw her in the club, that he understood.

She’d fallen in love with Alejandro and the Argentine had callously, carelessly used her before tossing her away, breaking her heart just as he’d broken that of every other woman who came his way.

Makin’s chest felt tight and hot, and yet he wasn’t a sensitive man, nor was he emotionally close to his employees. He was their boss. They worked for him. He expected them to do their job. End of story.

“Your personal life is impacting your professional life, which is impacting mine,” he answered, offering her a small pleasant smile even though he felt far from pleasant on the inside.

Her lips compressed even as her eyes flashed at him. “I’m not allowed to be sick?”

“Not if you aren’t truly sick,” he said flatly. “In that case, you’d be taking personal days, not sick leave.”

Although pale, she sat tall, chin tilted, channeling an elegance, even an arrogance, he’d never seen in her before. “I wasn’t well,” she said imperiously, her back so tall and straight she appeared almost regal. “I’m still not well. But you can think what you want.”

His eyebrow lifted a fraction at her attitude, even as something in him responded to the challenge. Hannah had never spoken to him like this before and he grew warm, overly warm. His trousers suddenly felt too tight, and his gaze dropped to her legs. They were endless. Slim, long, bare, crossed high at her knee—

He stopped himself short. He was not going to go there. This was Hannah.

“I don’t appreciate the attitude,” he ground out. “If you’d like to keep your job, I’d drop it now.”

She had the grace to blush. “I’m not giving you attitude. I’m merely defending myself.” She paused, considered him from beneath her extravagant black lashes. “Or am I not allowed to do that?”

“There you go again.”

“What?”

“Insolent, brash, defiant—”

“I’m confused. Am I an employee or a slave?”

For a moment he was silent, stunned by her audacity. What had happened to his perfect secretary? “Excuse me?” he finally said, his tone so deep and furious that she should have been silenced, but tonight Hannah seemed oblivious to any rebuke.

“Sheikh Al-Koury, certainly I’m allowed to have a voice.”

“A voice, yes, provided it’s not impudent.”

“Impudent?” Her laugh was brittle. “I’m not a disobedient child. I’m twenty-five and—”

“Completely out of line.” He leaned toward her, but she didn’t shrink back. Instead she lifted her chin, staring boldly into his eyes. He felt another raw rush of emotion, his temper battling with something else…curiosity…desire… none of which, of course, was acceptable.

But there it was. This was a new Hannah and she was turning everything inside-out, including him.

And he didn’t like it. Not a bit.

“You disappoint me,” he said brusquely. “I expected more from you.”

She tensed, pale jaw tightening, emotion flickering over her face, shadowing her eyes.

For a moment she looked fierce and proud and rather bruised.

A fighter without arms.

A warrior taken captive.

Joan of Arc at the stake.

He felt the strangest knotting in his chest. It was an emotion he hadn’t felt before, and it was hot, sharp, uncomfortable. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to feel it. She worked for him, not the other way around. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it’s over. I’ve chased you from Palm Beach to South Beach but I’m not chasing anymore. Nor am I negotiating. It’s my way, Hannah, or this is where it ends, and you can begin looking for a new job tomorrow.”

He saw her chest rise and fall as she took a swift breath, but she didn’t speak. Instead she held the air bottled in her lungs as she stared at him, a defiant light burning in her intensely blue eyes.

How could he have ever thought Hannah so calm and controlled? Because there was nothing calm or controlled about her now. No, nothing calm in those mysterious lavender-blue eyes at all. She was all emotion, hot, brilliant emotion that crackled in her and through her as though she were made of electricity itself.

Who was this woman? Did he even know her?

He frowned, his brow furrowing with frustration as his gaze swept over her from head to toe. At work she was always so buttoned-up around him, so perfectly proper, but then, she hadn’t dressed for him tonight, she’d dressed for Alejandro, her lover.

The thought of her with Ibanez made his chest tighten again, as something in him cracked, shifted free, escaping from his infamous control to spread through him, hot, hard, possessive. For reasons he didn’t fully comprehend, he couldn’t stand the idea of Ibanez with her, touching her.

She was too good for Ibanez. She deserved so much better.

His gaze rested on her, and it was impossible to look away. Her satin dress was a perfect foil for her creamy skin and the rich chestnut hair that tumbled down her back. The low square neckline accentuated her long neck and exquisite features. He’d known that Hannah was attractive, but he’d never realized she was beautiful.

Incandescent.

Which didn’t make sense. None of this really made sense because Hannah wasn’t the sort of woman to glow. She was solidly stable, grounded, focused on work to the exclusion of all else. She rarely wore makeup and knew nothing about fashion, and yet tonight she appeared so delicate and luminous that he was tempted to brush his fingertips across her cheek to see what she wore to make her appear radiant.

The tip of her tongue appeared to wet her soft, full lower lip. His groin hardened as her pink tongue slid across and then touched the bow-shaped upper lip. For a moment he envied the lip and then he suppressed that carnal thought, too, but his body had a mind of its own and blood rushed to his shaft, heating and hardening him, making him throb.

“You’re threatening to fire me, Sheikh Al-Koury?” Her incredulous tone provoked him almost as much as that provocative tongue slipping across her lips.

“You should know by now I never threaten, nor do I engage my employees in meaningless conversation. If I’m speaking to you it’s because I’m conveying something important, something you need to know.” He was hanging on to his temper by a thread. “And you should know that I’ve reached the end of my patience with you—”

“Not to be rude, Sheikh Al-Koury,” she interrupted, before making a soft groaning sound. “But how far away is the airport? I think I’m going to be sick.”

For Emmeline, the rest of the short drive to the executive airport passed in a blur of motion and misery. She remembered little but the limo pulling between large gates and then onto empty tarmac next to an impressively long white jet.

She was rushed up the stairs, aided by a flight attendant, and then escorted into a bedroom and through a door to a small bathroom.

The flight attendant flipped on the bathroom lights and then closed the door behind her, leaving Emmeline alone.

Thank God for small mercies.

Perspiration beading her brow, Emmeline crouched before the toilet. Her hands trembled on the pristine white porcelain as she leaned forward, her stomach emptying violently into the toilet bowl.

The acid that burned her throat was nothing compared to the acid eating away in her heart. This was all her fault … she had no one else to blame. She’d been weak and foolish and insecure. She’d reached out to the wrong man in a moment of need, and to make matters worse, she’d approached Hannah, dragging her into this.

Remorse filled her. Remorse and regret. Why wasn’t she stronger? Why was she so needy? But then, when hadn’t she craved love?

Gritting her teeth, she knew she couldn’t blame her parents. They’d done their best. They’d tried. The fault was clearly hers. Apparently even at an early age she’d been clingy, always wanting to be held, needing constant reassurance and affection. Even as a little girl she’d been ashamed that she’d needed so much more than her parents could give.

Good princesses didn’t have needs.

Good princesses didn’t cause trouble.

Emmeline did both.

Emmeline’s stomach churned and heaved all over again, and she lurched over the toilet, sick once more.

Tears stung her eyes. How could anyone call this morning sickness when she was ill morning, noon and night? She flushed the toilet again.

A quiet knocked sounded on the door. “Hannah?”

It was Makin Al-Koury. Emmeline’s stomach performed a wild free fall which didn’t help her nausea in the slightest. “Yes?”

“May I come in?”

No. But she couldn’t say it. She was supposed to work for him. That meant she answered to him. Emmeline’s eyes stung. “Yes.”

The door softly opened and a shadow fell across the floor.

Blinking back tears, Emmeline glanced up as Makin filled the doorway. Tall and broad-shouldered, his expression was grim. There was no sympathy in his light gray eyes, no gentleness in the set of his jaw or the press of his firm mouth. But then, there’d been no gentleness earlier when he’d yanked her through the nightclub, pulling her onto the street, his hand gripped tightly around her wrist.

Even now, with her knees pressed to the cold tiled floor, she could feel the unyielding grip of his hand on her wrist, the heat of his skin against hers.

He’d been furious as his limousine traveled from the nightclub to the airport, and from his expression as he towered above her, he still was.

“Can I get you something?” he asked, his deep voice a raw rasp of sound in the small space.

She shook her head. “No. Thank you.”

“You are sick.”

She nodded, fighting fresh tears. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her brow creased, eyebrows knitting. “I did.”

His jaw tightened. He looked away, across the small bath, his lips flattening, making him look even more displeased. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“No.”

“Why not? You said you can’t keep anything down. You should have tests run, or see if the doctor could prescribe something that would help.”

“It won’t help—”

“Why not?”

She winced at the impatience and roughness in his voice. For a moment his mask slipped and she glimpsed something almost savage in his expression. “Because…”

Her voice faded as she got lost in his light eyes, and it crossed her mind that he might be the world’s richest sheikh, but he wasn’t entirely modern. Beneath his elegant, tailored suit and polished veneer was a man of the desert.

Because Sheikh Al-Koury wouldn’t employ a pregnant, unwed woman, not even if she were American. It was a cultural issue, a matter of honor and respect. Emmeline might not be able to type quickly or place conference calls or create spreadsheets, but she’d spent enough time in the United Arab Emirates and Morocco to be familiar with the concept of hshuma, or shame. And an unwed pregnant woman would bring shame on all close to her, including her employer.

“It’s just stress,” she said. “I’m just … overly upset. But I’ll pull myself together. I promise.”

He looked at her so long and hard that the fine hair on Emmeline’s nape lifted and her belly flip-flopped with nerves. “Then pull yourself together. I’m counting on you. And if you can’t do your job anymore, tell me now so I can find someone who can.”

“But I can.”

He said nothing for several moments, his gaze resting on her face. “Why Ibanez?” he asked at last. “Why him of all people?”

She hunched her shoulders. “He said he loved me.”

His jaw hardened, mouth compressing, expression incredulous. “And you believed him?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

Sheikh Al-Koury choked back a rough growl of protest. “I can’t believe you fell for his lines. He says those lines to everyone. But you’re not everyone. You’re smart. You’re educated. You should know better.”

“I didn’t.”

“Couldn’t you detect a false note in his flattery? Couldn’t you see he’s fake? That his lines were too slick, that he’s as insincere as they come?”

“No.” She drew a swift breath, making a hiccup of sound. “But I wish I had.”

Makin battled his temper as he stared down at Hannah where she knelt on the floor, her shoulders sagging, her long chestnut hair a thick tangle down her thin back.

Someone else, someone soft, might be moved by her fragile beauty, but he refused to allow himself to feel anything for her, not now, not after she’d become a temptress. A seductress. A problem.

He didn’t allow his personal and professional life to overlap. Sex, desire, lust … they didn’t belong in the workplace. Ever.

“I respected you.” His deep voice sounded harsh even to his own ears, but he’d never minced words with her before and wasn’t about to start now. “And I’m not sure I do anymore.”

She flinched, visibly stung, and his gut tightened, an uncomfortable cramp of sensation, and then it was gone, pushed away with the same ferocious intensity he’d applied to the rest of life.

He didn’t cater to anyone—male or female. It went against his belief system. Makin had been his parents’ only child and they’d been a very close, tight-knit family. His father, a powerful Bedouin ruler and Kadar’s royal prince, was nearly twenty years older than Makin’s French mother, Yvette.

When he was growing up, his parents had rarely discussed the past, being too focused on the present, but Makin had pieced enough details together to get a picture of his parents’ courtship. They’d met when his mother was just twenty and a film student in Paris. She was beautiful and bright and full of big plans, but within weeks of meeting Tahnoon Al-Koury, she’d accepted his marriage proposal and exchanged her dreams for his, marrying him in a quiet ceremony in Paris before returning to Kadar with her new husband.

Makin had only met his maternal grandparents once, and that was at his father’s funeral. His mother refused to speak to them so it’d been left to Makin to introduce himself to his French grandparents. They weren’t the terrible people he’d imagined, just ignorant. They couldn’t understand that their daughter could love an Arab, much less an Arab confined to a wheelchair.

Makin had grown up with his father in a wheelchair and it was neither terrible nor tragic, at least not until the end. His father was beyond brilliant. Tahnoon was devoted to his family, worshipped his wife and battled to maintain as much independence as he could, despite the degenerative nature of his disease.

Makin was twenty when his father died. But in the years Makin had with him, he never heard his father complain or make excuses, even though Tahnoon lived with tremendous pain and suffered endless indignities. No, his father was a proud, fierce man and he’d taught Makin—not by words, but by example—that life required strength, courage and hard work.

“You don’t respect me because I wanted to be loved?” Hannah asked huskily, forcing his attention from the past to the present.

He glanced down, straight into her eyes, and felt that same uncomfortable twinge and steeled himself against the sensation. “I don’t respect you wanting to be loved by him.” He paused, wanting her to understand. “Ibanez is beneath you. He’s self-centered and vulgar and the women who chase him are fools.”

“That’s harsh.”

“But true. He’s always at the heart of a scandal. He prefers married women or women recently engaged like that ridiculous Princess Emmeline—”

“Ridiculous Princess Emmeline?” she interrupted. “Do you know her?”

“I know of her—”

“So you can’t say she’s ridiculous—”

“Oh, I can. I know her family well, and I attended her sixteenth birthday in Brabant years ago. She’s engaged to King Zale Patek, and I pity him. She’s turned him into a joke by chasing after Ibanez all year despite her engagement to Patek. No one respects her. The princess has the morals of an alley cat.”

“That’s a horrid thing to say.”

“I’m honest. Perhaps if others had been more honest with Her Royal Highness, she might have turned out differently.” He shrugged dismissively. “But I don’t care about her. I care about you and your ability to perform your job with clarity and efficiency. Don’t let Ibanez waste another moment of your time. Nor my time, for that matter. Everything about him bores me.” His gaze held hers. “Are we clear?”

“Yes,” she said huskily.

“Then pull yourself together and take a seat in the main cabin so we can depart.”

Using the vanity kit provided in the bathroom, Emmeline washed her face, brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair. The thick dark hair still looked strange to her. Emmeline missed her golden-blond color. Missed her wardrobe. Missed her life.

This is how Hannah must have felt when thrust into Emmeline’s life.

Lost. Confused. Angry. And Emmeline knew she was the one who’d put Hannah in that position. Changing places with Hannah had been Emmeline’s idea. There was no benefit for Hannah. Nothing to be gained by masquerading as a princess. It was Emmeline who’d benefited. She’d been able to slip away from her attendants to seek out Alejandro and tell him about the pregnancy. Only in the end, when she had confronted him, it hadn’t mattered. He’d still rejected her.

Emmeline sucked in a slow breath, sickeningly aware that her selfishness and foolishness had impacted so many people. Hannah. King Patek. Sheikh Al-Koury.

What she had to do was fix things. Not just for her, but for everyone.

Once tidy and outwardly calm, she took the seat the flight attendant led her to, a seat not far from Makin’s, although he was at work typing away on his laptop.

Emmeline tried to block him from her peripheral vision as the jet taxied down the runway, unnerved by the sheer size and shape of him.

He was tall, solid, muscular. As he typed, his arms flexed and she could see the distinct shape of his thick bicep press against the taut cotton of his shirt. His fine wool trousers silhouetted the hard cut of his quadriceps. Even his hands were strong, his fingers moving easily, confidently, across the laptop keyboard.

She watched his hands for a moment, fascinated by them. His skin was tan and his fingers were long and well-shaped. They reminded her of the hands on Greek statues—beautiful, classic, sculptural. She wondered what his touch would be like, and how his hands would move on a woman’s body. Would his touch be light and gentle, or heavy and rough? She wondered how he held a woman, and if he curved her to him or held himself aloof, using her like a piece of equipment.

Emmeline had never wondered about such things before, but her night with Alejandro had changed all that. It changed the way she viewed men and women, made her realize that sex had been romanticized in books and movies and the media.

Sex wasn’t warm or fun or intimate. It hadn’t been beautiful or something pleasurable.

She’d found it a soulless, empty act. It’d been Alejandro taking her body—no more, no less than that.

Emmeline knew now her expectations had been so silly, so girlish and immature. Why hadn’t she realized that Alejandro would pump away at her until he climaxed and roll off to shower and dress and leave?

Her eyes stung, hot, hot and gritty. Even seven weeks later she felt betrayed by her need for love and affection, and how she’d turned to Alejandro to give her that affection.

She’d imagined that sex would fill the hollow emptiness inside of her, but it had only made it worse.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she pulled the soft blanket even higher on her chest as her late grandmother’s voice echoed in her head, “Don’t cast pearls before swine.” But that’s what Emmeline had done out of desperation that no one would ever love her.

Emmeline shivered beneath the blanket, horrified all over again by her poor choices.

“Would you like me to turn the heat up?” Makin asked.

She opened her eyes and saw he was watching her. She didn’t know how long he’d been watching. “I’m fine,” she said unsteadily.

“I can get you another blanket.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated.

“You’re shivering.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. He was watching her closely, then. “Just my thoughts.”

“Ibanez isn’t worth your time. He’s a liar, a cheat, a scoundrel. You deserve a prince of a man. Nothing less.”

How ironic. Hannah deserved a prince of a man, but she, Emmeline, deserved only scorn.

Emmeline swallowed around the thick lump in her throat, wishing that she could be the smart, capable Hannah he admired instead of the useless spoiled princess he despised.

His disdain for her wounded. It shouldn’t. He didn’t know her, and she shouldn’t let one person’s opinion matter, but it did. He’d touched a nerve. A powerful nerve. It was as if he’d somehow seen through her elegant, polished exterior to the real Emmeline, the private Emmeline who felt so unworthy and impossible to love.

She’d always wondered why she felt so insecure, so alone, and then, on her sixteenth birthday, a half hour before her big party, she’d learned that her parents weren’t her birth parents after all. She’d been adopted. Her birth mother had been a young unmarried woman from Brabant, but no one knew who her birth father was.

She’d gone to her birthday party absolutely shell-shocked. She didn’t know why her adoptive father, King William, had felt compelled to break the news before her party but it had spoiled the night for her. Instead of dancing and celebrating with her guests, she’d found herself wondering about the mother who’d given her up, and if she looked like her, and if her mother ever thought of her.

It had been nine years since that revelation, and yet Emmeline still wondered about her birth parents. Could the fact that she’d been adopted have anything to do with her sense of emptiness and fear of abandonment? Could she have missed that mother who gave birth to her?

“What did you hope to accomplish tonight at the Mynt?” Makin suddenly asked.

She drew the blanket even closer to her chest, trying to capture more warmth. “He said he loved me—”

“Yes, I know,” he interrupted impatiently. “You already told me that.”

“—and I thought if he saw me tonight, he’d remember how he felt about me,” she pressed on as though he hadn’t spoken. “I thought he’d remember he’d asked me to marry him.”

“He asked you to marry him?” he repeated, incredulous.

Her chin tilted defiantly. Why did he find that so impossible to believe? “Yes.”

For a long moment Makin said nothing, absolutely nothing. He just sat there, looking at her as if he felt sorry for her. Just when Emmeline didn’t think she could take his pitying silence another moment, he spoke. “Alejandro’s already married. Not just married, but a father to five children. The oldest is twelve. The youngest just nine months old.”

“Impossible.”

“Have I ever lied to you about anything?”

She couldn’t answer and, jaw flexing, he looked away, dropping his gaze to the bright screen of his laptop computer.

Blanket pressed to her collarbone, Emmeline’s stomach heaved. Alejandro, already married? Father to five? Things just kept getting worse.




CHAPTER THREE (#udecbb414-c3b0-5a4e-b308-e1a4c01b5e3b)


HOURS later, Emmeline was woken by the vibration of the jet’s landing gear unfolding, wheels in position in preparation for touching down. Half asleep, she glanced out the window but could see nothing below but pale gold … or was it beige? Maybe a little of both. No buildings, no lights, no roads, no sign of life. Just sand.

Emmeline groggily sat taller. Far in the distance she could see a spot of gray color. Or was it green? She didn’t know what it was but it couldn’t be a city, and there was no sprawling airport, either, and yet here they were making a sharp, steep descent as if they were about to land.

Just moments later, they touched down, the landing so smooth it was but a bump of sound and then the swift application of brakes. They hurtled along the black asphalt runway bordered on both sides by a vast reddish-gold desert. In the distance, in the same direction she’d spotted the gray-green patch, she could see a ragged range of mountains, but even those were copper and gold in the morning light.

She didn’t know why, but she’d expected a city. Most of the royal princes she knew in Dubai and the UAE lived in cosmopolitan cities—glamorous centers filled with fashion boutiques and deluxe hotels and five-star restaurants. Sheikhs today were modern and wealthier than the rest of the world, including their European counterparts. They could afford life’s every luxury, and they owned jets, yachts, rare cars, polo fields and strings of expensive ponies.

That was the world Emmeline had expected Sheikh Al-Koury to take her to. A sprawling urban city. But instead there was just sand. Sand and more sand. A virtual sea of sand in every direction, all the way to the rough-hewn mountains.

Emmeline had thought she could just put Hannah on a plane and get her here. But she wasn’t going to be able to sneak Hannah into the desert and change places with her without anyone knowing. They were in such a deserted spot that all incoming aircraft would immediately be noticed.

“You look disappointed.” Makin’s deep voice came from across the aisle.

Emmeline’s pulse quickened, and his deep husky timbre flooded her with memories—his appearance at the nightclub last night. His harsh opinion of Alejandro. His overwhelming physical presence.

“Why would I be disappointed?” she answered, with a casual arch of her eyebrow.

His silver gaze collided with hers and held. His features were granite-hard, his strong black eyebrows a slash above intense gray eyes. There was a light in his eyes, too, and a curve to his upper lip as if he weren’t pleased with what he saw, either.

Her pulse jumped, racing wildly. He was still intense, still overwhelming, and nausea threatened to get the best of her.

“You’ve never liked the desert and Kasbah Raha,” he said softly, his upper lip curling yet again. “You prefer life in Nadir with all the hustle and bustle.”

So they truly were in the middle of nowhere. Which meant getting Hannah into Raha undetected would be as nearly impossible as Emmeline getting out.

“That may be so,” she answered, hoping he didn’t hear the wobble in her voice, “but I love how the morning sun burnishes the sand, turning everything copper and gold.”

“How refreshing. You usually dread your time in the desert, saying Raha reminds you too much of your ranch in Texas.”

Emmeline valiantly tried to play along. “But I love the ranch. It’s where I grew up.”

“Maybe. But in Nadir you have friends, your own apartment in the palace, and numerous social activities, and when you’re here, you’re very much alone. Or alone with me.”

The “alone with him” part sent a tremor of anxiety through her. She couldn’t imagine spending another hour alone with him, much less days. She had to get Hannah here. Immediately.

His eyes suddenly gleamed, his full sensual mouth lifting in a mocking smile, and she could have sworn he knew exactly what she was thinking. She blushed, cheeks heating, skin prickling, even as she told herself it was impossible. He wasn’t a mind reader. He couldn’t possibly know how much he unsettled her.

And yet his gray eyes with those bright silver flecks were so direct, so perceptive she felt a quiver race through her, a quiver of dread and anticipation. He was so different from anyone she knew. So much more.

Makin’s long legs stretched carelessly into the aisle and his broad shoulders filled his chair. He was at least six feet two. While Alejandro was handsome, Makin Al-Koury exuded power.

“Fortunately, this time here you’ll be too busy assisting and entertaining my guests to feel isolated,” he added. “I trust that everything’s in place for their arrival?”

“Of course.” She smiled to hide the fact that she didn’t have a clue. But she’d soon find someone on his staff who would fill her in.

“Good. Because last night I seriously questioned your ability to pull this weekend off. But you slept most of the flight and appear more rested.”

“I am,” she answered, thinking that it was he who looked utterly fresh despite the fact that they’d been traveling for so long.

“Did you take something to help you sleep?”

“No. Why?”

“You aren’t usually able to fall asleep on flights.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that as she’d learned to sleep on planes at a very young age. She’d grown up traveling. There were always royal functions and goodwill tours and appearances, first with her family and then on her own.

She’d been a shy little girl, and even a timid teenager, but the media never knew that. All they saw was her face and how photogenic she was. By the time she was fifteen, the paparazzi had singled her out, crowning her as the great beauty of her generation. Since then she’d lived in the spotlight, with camera lenses constantly focused on her and journalists’ pens poised to praise or critique, and she never knew which until the article was published.

“I think I was too worn out not to sleep,” she said, and it was true. All she wanted to do lately was sleep, and apparently that was another side effect of pregnancy. “And you? Did you get any rest?”

“Less than I wanted,” he said, lashes dropping over his eyes, concealing his expression. “It was hard to sleep. I was—am—worried about you.”

She heard something in his deep voice that made her insides flip-flop.

Genuine emotion. True concern.

He might hate Emmeline but he adored Hannah.

Emmeline felt a sharp stab of envy. What she wouldn’t give to be the brilliant, efficient Hannah—a woman worthy of love and respect.

Awash in hot emotion, Emmeline looked away, out the jet’s oval window. They’d finally come to a full stop in this vast desert. Uniformed personnel appeared on the tarmac. A fleet of shining black vehicles waited just off to the side of the runway, sunlight glinting off the windows and polished surfaces. Even though it was early, heat shimmered in iridescent waves off the black tarmac and surrounding sand.

This vast hot shimmering desert was Sheikh Al-Koury’s world and now that she was here, Emmeline sensed her life would never be the same.

Makin stretched his legs out in the back seat of his custom car, a large, powerful sedan with tinted windows and reinforced panels to make it virtually bulletproof.

There hadn’t been an uprising in Kadar in over three hundred years, and it was unlikely there would be in the next three hundred, but trouble could come from outside his country. The fact that he controlled so much oil had put a target on his back years ago. Fortunately, he wasn’t a worrier, nor overly preoccupied with his own mortality. Instead he chose to live his life as his father had—without fear.

Makin relaxed a little, glad to be home.

His family had palaces all over Kadar but the rustic tribal kasbah in Raha had always been his favorite. Even the name Kasbah Raha—Palace of Rest—symbolized peace. Peace and calm. And it was. Here in the desert he was able to think clearly and focus without the noise and chaos of modern city life to distract him.

“Let’s go over today’s schedule,” he said to Hannah, as his driver accelerated, leaving the tarmac and the sleek white jet behind. She was sitting to his left, pale but composed. He was glad to see her so calm. It gave him hope that all the personal drama was now behind them. “Which of my guests arrive first? And when?”

He waited for Hannah to reach for her briefcase or her phone but she did nothing. Had nothing. Instead she looked at him, her expression slightly baffled. “I don’t … know.”

He hesitated, thinking she was joking, not that she normally teased about things like that. But after a beat and a moment of awkward silence, he realized she was serious.

His jaw tightened, lips compressing as he understood that Hannah’s personal problems were far from over.

Makin’s frown deepened, eyebrows flattening above his eyes. “It’s your job to know.”

She took a quick breath. “It seems I’ve lost my calendar.”

“But your calendar is backed up on your laptop. Where is your laptop computer?”

Her shoulders lifted and fell. “I don’t know.”

Makin had to turn away, look at something else other than Hannah. Her helplessness was getting to him. He didn’t want to be angry with her, but he found everything about her provoking right now.

He focused on the desert beyond the car’s tinted window, soothed by the familiar landscape. To someone else the desert might look monotonous with miles of red-gold sand in every direction, but he knew this desert like the back of his hand and it centered him now.

“You’ve lost your computer?” he asked finally, gaze fixed on the undulating dunes in the distance.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I think I must have left it somewhere when I wasn’t … well.”

“In South Beach?”

“Before that.”

He turned his head sharply toward her. Her lavender-blue eyes appeared enormous in her pale face.

“It must have been Palm Beach,” she added softly, fingers lacing together. “Just after the polo tournament. I had it for the tournament, but then it was gone.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I should have. I’m sorry.”

She looked so nervous and desperate that he bit back his criticism and took a deep breath instead. She’d just had her heart broken. She wasn’t herself. Surely, he could try to be patient with her. At least for today.

He fought to keep his voice even. “Everything should be backed up on your desktop. When we get to the palace, you can go to your office and print off your calendar and update me later this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He drew another breath as he considered her pale, tense face and rigid posture. Her shoulders were set, her spine elongated, her chin tilted. It was strange. Everything about her was strange. Hannah had never sat like this before. So tall and still, as if she’d become someone else. Someone frozen.

Which reminded him of last night on the airplane. His brow furrowed. “You talked in your sleep last night,” he said. “Endlessly.”

Her eyes met his and her lips parted but she made no sound.

“In French,” he continued. “Your accent was impeccable. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a native speaker.”

“You’re fluent in French?”

“Of course. My mother was French.”

She flushed, her cheeks turning dark pink. “Did I say anything that would embarrass me?”

“Just that you are in terrible trouble.” He waited, allowing his words to fall and settle before continuing. “What have you done, Hannah? What are you afraid of?”

A tiny pulse leapt at her throat and the pink in her cheeks faded just as quickly as it had bloomed there. “Nothing.”

She answered quickly, too quickly, and they both knew it.

Makin suppressed his annoyance. Who did she think she was fooling? Didn’t she realize he knew her? He knew her perhaps better than anyone. They’d worked so closely together over the years that he quite often knew what she would say before she said it. He knew her gestures and expressions and even her hesitation before she gave him her opinion.

But even then, they’d never been friends. Their relationship was strictly professional. He knew her work habits, not her life story. And he had to believe that if she’d gotten herself into trouble, she had the wherewithal to get herself out of it.

She was strong. Smart. Self-sufficient. She’d be fine.

Well, maybe in the long term, he amended. Right now Hannah looked far from fine.

She’d turned white, and he saw her swallow hard, once and again. She looked as if she was battling for control. “Do you need us to pull over?” he asked. “Are you—”

“Yes! Yes, please.”

Makin spoke sharply to the driver and moments later they were parked on the side of the narrow road. She stumbled away from the car, her high heels sinking into the soft sand.

He wasn’t sure if he should go after her—which is all he’d spent the last week doing—or give her some space to allow her to maintain some dignity.

Space won, and Makin and his driver stood next to the car in the event that their assistance was needed.

Even though it was still relatively early in the day, it was hot in the direct sun, with the morning temperature hovering just under a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It was a very dry heat, he thought, sliding on his sunglasses, unlike Florida with its sweltering humidity.

Florida was fine, but this was his desert. This was where he belonged. They were just a few kilometers from Kasbah Raha now, and he was impatient to reach the palace.

He spent several months each year at Raha, and they were usually his favorite months.

Every day in Raha he’d wake, exercise, shower, have a light meal and then go to his office to work. He’d break for a late lunch and then work again, often late into the night. He enjoyed everything about his work and stayed at his desk because that’s where he wanted to be.

He wasn’t all work though. He had a mistress in Nadir whom he saw several times a week when there. Hannah knew about Madeline, of course, but it wasn’t something he’d ever discuss with her. Just as Hannah had never discussed her love life with him.

Makin’s cell phone suddenly rang, sounding too loud in the quiet desert. Withdrawing the phone from his trouser pocket, he saw it was his chief of security from the palace in Nadir.

Makin answered in Arabic.

As he listened, he went cold, thinking the timing couldn’t be worse. Hannah was already struggling. This would devastate her.

Makin asked his chief of security to keep him informed and then hung up. As he pocketed his phone, Hannah appeared, her graceful hands smoothing her creased turquoise cocktail dress. As she walked toward him, she gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about that.”

He didn’t smile back. “You’re still sick.”

“Low blood sugar. Haven’t eaten yet today.”

Nor had anything to drink, he realized, remembering now that she’d no coffee, tea or juice on the flight, either.

Makin spoke to his driver in Arabic, and the chauffeur immediately went to the back of the gleaming car, opened the trunk, and withdrew two bottles of water. He gave both to the sheikh and Makin unscrewed the cap of one, and handed the open bottle to Hannah.

“It’s cold,” she said surprised, even as she took a long drink from the plastic bottle.

“I have a small refrigerator built into the trunk. Keeps things cool on long trips.”

“That’s smart. It’s really hot here.” She lifted the bottle to her lips, drank again, her hand trembling slightly.

Makin didn’t miss the tremble of her hand. Or the purple shadows beneath her eyes. She was exhausted. She needed to eat. Rest. Recover.

She didn’t need more bad news.

She didn’t need another stress.

He couldn’t keep the news from her, nor would he, but he didn’t have to tell her now. There was nothing she could do. Nothing any of them could do.

He’d wait until they reached the palace to tell her about the call. Wait until she’d had a chance to shower and change and get something into her stomach because right now she looked on the verge of collapse.

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the car.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f1916aac-fb89-5353-8917-ad965f58f2f3)


EMMELINE slowly rolled the cold water bottle between her hands, pretending to study the arid landscape, when in truth she was avoiding Makin’s gaze.

She knew he was looking at her. Ever since they’d stopped alongside the road, he seemed quieter, grimmer, if such a thing were possible.

Earlier, by the side of the road, she’d thought she heard his phone ring but she’d only stepped around the car for a minute or two, so if he had talked to someone, it had been a short call.

Her sixth sense told her the call had something to do with her.

Maybe it was paranoia, but she had a cold, sinking sensation in her gut that told her he’d begun to put two and two together and things weren’t adding up.

Had he figured out the truth? That she wasn’t the real Hannah Smith?

Still worried, Emmeline saw a shimmer of green appear on the horizon. The shimmer of green gradually took shape, becoming trees and orchards as the desert gave way to a fertile oasis.

Fed by an underground stream that came from the mountains, the oasis became a city of red clay walls and narrow roads.

The sheikh’s driver turned off the narrow highway onto an even narrower road shaded by tall date palms, the massive green-and-yellow fronds providing protection from the dazzling desert heat.

As the car approached the enormous gates ahead, they swung open, giving entrance into the walled city.

“Home,” Makin said with quiet satisfaction as they traveled down yet another long drive bordered by majestic date palms, the heavy fronds like feathered plumes against the clear blue sky.

More gates opened and closed, revealing a sprawling building washed in the palest pink. But as the car continued to travel, Emmeline discovered the palace wasn’t just one building, but a series of beautifully shaped buildings connected by trellises, patios, courtyards and gardens. No two were the same. Some had turrets and towers, others were domed, although each had the same smooth clay walls lushly covered in dark purple and white bougainvillea.

The car stopped before the tallest building, three stories tall with intricate gold-plated doors and massive gold, blue and white columns flanking the entrance.

Staff in billowy white pants and white jackets lined the entrance, smiling broadly and bowing low as Sheikh Al-Koury stepped from the car.

Having grown up in a palace, Emmeline was familiar with pomp, protocol and ceremony. Daily she’d witnessed the display of respect all were required to show the royal family, and yet there was something different about the sheikh’s staff.

They greeted him with warmth and a genuine sense of pleasure in his return. They cared about him, and she saw from the way he responded to each man, he cared about them.

Makin paused at the ornate entrance, waiting for her, and together they stepped through the tall gold doors, leaving the bright sunlight and dazzling heat behind.

The serene, airy foyer was capped by a high domed ceiling of blue and gold, the cream walls stenciled in sophisticated gold swirls and elegant patterns. Emmeline drew a slow breath, relishing the palace’s tranquility and delicious coolness. “Lovely,” she said.

The sheikh lifted a brow, and glanced enquiringly at her.

She flushed, remembering she was supposed to be Hannah and familiar with everything here. “The coolness,” she said. “Feels so good after the heat.”

He stared down at her a moment, expression peculiar. He seemed to be looking for something in her face, but what, she didn’t know.

And then he nodded, a short nod, as if he’d come to a decision. “I’ll walk you to your room,” he said. “Make sure everything is as it should be.”

Emmeline’s brow puckered at his tone. Something had happened. She was sure of it.

He set off, leaving her to follow, and they crossed the spacious foyer, through one of the many exquisitely carved arches that opened off the entrance, their footsteps echoing on the limestone floor.

He turned down a hallway marked by ornamental columns. Sunlight streamed through high windows. Mosaic murals decorated the ivory walls and large ornate copper lanterns were hung from the high ceiling to provide light in the evening.

They passed through another arch which led outside to a rose-covered arbor. The roses were in full bloom, a soft luscious pink, and the heady scent reminded Emmeline of the formal rose garden at the palace in Brabant. She felt a sudden pang for all that she’d lose once her parents knew she wouldn’t—couldn’t—marry King Patek, and why. They’d be scandalized. They’d insist she’d get an abortion, something she wouldn’t do.

There would be threats.

There would be anger.

Hostility.

Repercussions.

Makin paused before a beautiful door stained a rich mahogany and stepped aside for her to open it.

Hannah’s room, she thought, opening the door to a spacious apartment contained in its own building. The high-ceilinged living room spoke of an understated elegance, the colors warmer here than in the rest of the palace. The living-room walls were pale gold and the furniture was gold with touches of red, ivory and blue. She glimpsed a bedroom off the living room with an attached bathroom. There was even a small kitchen where Hannah could prepare coffee and make simple meals.

“The cook made your favorite bread,” he said, nodding at a fabric-wrapped loaf on the tiled kitchen counter. “The refrigerator also has your yogurts and milk, and everything else you like. If you won’t let Cook send you a tray for lunch, promise me you’ll eat something right away.”

She nodded. “I promise.”

“Good.” He hesitated, still standing just inside the doorway, clearly uncomfortable. “I need to tell you something. May we sit?”

She glanced at his face but his expression was shuttered, his silver gaze hard.

Emmeline walked to the low couch upholstered in a delicate silk the color of fresh butter, and moved some of the loose embroidered and jeweled pillows aside so she could sit down. He followed but didn’t sit. He stood before her, arms crossed over his chest, his gray linen shirt pulled taut at the shoulders.

He was without a doubt a very handsome man. He radiated power and control, but right now he was scaring her with his fierce expression.

“There’s been an accident,” he said abruptly. “Last night on the way to the airport, Alejandro lost control of the car and crashed. Penelope died on the scene. Alejandro’s in hospital.”

It was the last thing Emmeline had expected him to say. She struggled to process what he’d just told her. Her mouth opened and closed without making a sound. She tried again. Failed.

“He was in surgery all night,” Makin continued. “There was a lot of internal bleeding. His condition is extremely critical.”

Reeling from shock, Emmeline clasped her hands tightly together, too stunned to speak.

Penelope was dead. Alejandro might not survive surgery. And yet both had been so beautiful and alive just hours ago.

Impossible.

Eyes burning, she gazed blindly out the glass doors to the garden beyond. Behind the walled garden the red mountains rose high, reminding her of the red dress Penelope had worn last night. And just like that, the desert was gone and all Emmeline could see was Penelope’s vivid red dress against the billowing fabric of Alejandro’s white shirt.

Her throat squeezed closed. Hot acid tears filmed her eyes. “Alejandro was … driving?” she asked huskily, finally finding her voice.

“He was at the wheel, yes.”

“And Penelope?”

“Was thrown from the car on impact.”

Emmeline closed her eyes, able to see it all and hating the movie reel of pictures in her head. Stupid, reckless Alejandro. Her heart ached for Penelope who was so young—just nineteen.

A tear fell, hot and wet on Emmeline’s cheek. With a savage motion she brushed it away. She was furious. Furious with Alejandro. Furious that he took lives and wrecked them and threw them all away.

“I’m sorry, Hannah,” Makin said, his deep voice rumbling through her. “I know you imagined yourself in love—”

“Please.” Her voice broke and she lifted a hand to silence him. “Don’t.”

He crouched down before her, his powerful thighs all muscle, and caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. His silver-gray eyes glowed like pewter, hot and dark with emotion. “I know this isn’t an easy time for you, but you’ll survive this. I promise.”

Then he surprised her by gently, carefully, sweeping his thumb across the curve of her cheek, catching the tears that fell. It was such a tender gesture from him, so kind and protective, it almost broke her heart.

She hadn’t been touched so gently and kindly by anyone in years.

She’d never been touched by a man as if she mattered. “Thank you.”

Makin stood. “You’ll be all right,” he repeated.

She wished she had an ounce of his confidence. “Yes.” She wiped her eyes dry. “You’re right. I’ll shower and change and get to work.” She rose, too, took several steps away to put distance between them. “What time shall I meet you?”

“I don’t think you should try to do anything this afternoon.”

“I know there must be stacks of mail—”

“And hundreds of emails, as well as dozens of phone messages all waiting for your attention, but they can wait a little longer,” he said firmly. “I want you to take the rest of the day for yourself. Eat, sleep, read, go for a swim. Do whatever you need to do so that you can get back to work. I need your help, Hannah, but you’re absolutely useless to me right now.”

She felt her cheeks grow hot. “I’m sorry. I hate being a problem.”

He gave her a peculiar look before his broad shoulders shifted. “Rest. Feel better. That would be the biggest help.” Then he walked away, leaving her in the living room as if this was where she belonged.

But as the door closed behind him, she knew this wasn’t where she belonged. It was where Hannah belonged.

These rooms, the food in the kitchen, the clothes in the closet … they were all Hannah’s. Hannah needed her life back.

Emmeline glanced down at herself, feeling grimy and disheveled in her creased cocktail dress, and while she longed for a shower—and food—she had something more important to do first.

She had to reach Hannah. She’d put in calls yesterday but they’d all gone straight to voice mail. Hannah had texted her back, asking when Emmeline planned to arrive. Hannah was expecting Emmeline to show up in Raguva any moment to change places with her before anyone knew the difference. Which obviously wasn’t going to happen.

Taking her phone from her small evening purse, Emmeline dialed Hannah’s number, praying that she’d actually get through this time instead of reaching Hannah’s voice mail again.

The phone rang and rang again before Hannah answered breathlessly. “Hello?”

Emmeline dragged a dark red embroidered pillow against her chest. “Hannah, it’s me.”

“I know. Are you okay?”

Emmeline squeezed the pillow tighter, her insides starting to churn. “I … I don’t know.”

“Are you coming here?”

“I.” Emmeline hesitated. “I … don’t … know,” she repeated, stumbling a bit, feeling dishonest, because she knew the answer. She could never go to Raguva. Not now.

Tense silence stretched over the line and then Hannah asked tightly, “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Emmeline stared at the tall red mountains visible beyond the palace walls. She felt just as jagged as the mountain peaks. She’d flown all night, was seven weeks pregnant, and thousands of miles from Miami where Alejandro lay in critical condition. “I’m in Kadar.”

Silence stretched over the line. “Kadar?” Hannah repeated wonderingly. “Why?”

Emmeline’s shoulders rose, hunching. “Sheikh Al-Koury thinks I’m you.”

Hannah exhaled hard. “Tell him you’re not! Tell him the truth.”

“I can’t.” Emmeline felt dangerously close to just losing it. It’d been such a difficult few weeks and she’d been so sure that she could turn things around, make it all right. But instead of things improving, they’d taken a dramatic turn for the worse. “I can’t. Not before Sheikh Al-Koury’s conference. It’d ruin everything.”

“But everything’s already ruined,” Hannah cried, her voice rising and then breaking. “You have no idea what’s happened—”

“I’m sorry, Hannah, I really am. But everything’s out of my control.”

“Your control. Your life. It’s always about you, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t mean it that way—”

“But you did mean to send me here in your place and you didn’t intend to come right away. You used me. Manipulated me. But how do you think I feel being trapped here, pretending to—” Hannah broke off abruptly.

The line went dead.

Hannah had hung up.

Emmeline stared at the phone, stunned. But what did she expect? She had done an amazing job of messing up Hannah’s life.

Makin had met briefly with his staff after leaving Hannah’s room and spent fifteen minutes in his office listening to updates from his various department managers before dismissing them all with a wave of his hand.

He couldn’t focus on the updates. His thoughts were elsewhere, back with Hannah in her room.

Telling Hannah about Alejandro’s accident had been far harder than he’d imagined. He hadn’t liked giving her bad news. It didn’t feel right. He’d never felt protective of her before, but he did now.

Maybe it was because she wasn’t well.

Maybe it was knowing she’d had her heart broken.

Maybe it’s because he was suddenly aware of her in a way he hadn’t been before.

Aware of her as a woman. Aware that she was very much a woman. A highly desirable woman. And that was a problem.

Mouth compressing, he rose from behind his desk, left his office and set off to meet the Kasbah’s director of security, who had promised to give him a tour of the guest wings and go over the security measures in place for the safety of their guests.

The tour was interrupted by a phone call with information that Alejandro was out of surgery and in recovery. He hadn’t woken yet, and while the prognosis was still grim, he’d at least survived the nine-hour operation. For Hannah’s sake, he was glad.

Call concluded, he and the security director passed through a high, arched doorway and stepped outside. “Which families will be in that building?” he asked, struggling to get his attention back on his life, his work, his conference. He wasn’t a man who was easily distracted, but he seemed unable to focus on anything other than Hannah right now.

“The Nuris of Baraka, Your Highness. Sultan Malek Nuri and his brother Sheikh Kalen Nuri, along with their wives. Sheikh Tair of Ohua.”

“And in the building to my right?”

“Our Western dignitaries.”

Makin nodded. “Good.” He was relieved to see that not only was security prepared, but the Kasbah looked immaculate.

While all of Makin’s various homes and palaces were beautiful, Kasbah Raha always took his breath away. The Kasbah itself was hundreds of years old, and lovingly preserved by generations of the Al-Koury family, the colors mirroring the desert—the pink of sunrise, the majestic red mountains, the blue of the sky, and the ivory-and-gold sand.

It was remote. And it was the place he worked best. Which is why he’d never brought Madeline to Raha. Raha was for clarity of thought and personal reflection. not desire or lust. He’d never wanted to associate a carnal pleasure such as sex with Raha, either, but suddenly, with Hannah under his roof, he was thinking about very carnal things instead of focusing on the conference.

Hannah.

Just saying her name made his insides tighten.

And that twinge of tension was enough for him to come to a decision.

This wasn’t going to work with her here. He realized they’d only just arrived, but she had to go. The timing was terrible, but there was too much at risk to allow himself to be mired in indecision.




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_68ee7cd4-7496-5ade-b16a-0950ed7abf3b)


STILL flattened from her call to Hannah, Emmeline showered and wrapped herself in her robe that had been unpacked and hung in the closet next to Hannah’s wardrobe.

Curious, Emmeline sorted through Hannah’s clothes. Hannah’s wardrobe wasn’t exactly dowdy, but it was practical. Hannah dressed conservatively in keeping with her job.

Stretching out on the bed, Emmeline felt a sudden rush of affection for her lookalike, thinking Hannah was the kind of friend you’d want in your corner. And she’d been in Emmeline’s corner, too.

Emmeline didn’t remember drifting off to sleep, but hours later the doorbell woke her.

Sitting up, she saw the sun had shifted across the sky and now sat low, hinting at twilight. Pale violet shadows crept across the bedroom and hovered in corners. She headed for the door. One of the palace’s kitchen staff stood outside with a gleaming silver trolley.

“Good evening, Miss Smith,” the palace staffer greeted her. “His Highness thought you’d want to dine tonight in the privacy of your own room.”

A thoughtful gesture on the sheikh’s part, she thought, opening the door wider. The man pushed the trolley through the living room out onto the flagstone patio. Emmeline watched as he arranged the tables and chairs closer to the pool and covered the small round table with a cloth from the cart, then dishes, silverware, goblets, candles and a low floral arrangement.

Then with a brief respectful nod to Emmeline, he left, taking the now-empty cart with him. Once he was gone, Emmeline stepped out onto the patio. The table had been set for two. Two plates, two sets of silverware, two water and two wine goblets.

She wasn’t dining alone tonight.

And just like that, Emmeline’s sense of well-being fled.

The moment Hannah opened the door that evening, Makin knew he’d made a mistake. He should have called her to his office to tell her he was sending her away, summoning her as one would summon an employee, instead of breaking the news over dinner.

He’d thought that talking in private would lessen the blow. But he was wrong. Wrong to speak to her at dinner, in her room.

Worse, she’d dressed for dinner tonight, and she’d never dressed for dinner before.

Why had she put on a frothy cocktail dress? And why those gold high heels that made her legs look silky smooth and endless?

Makin followed her slowly through her gold living room to the garden knowing he was compounding matters, adding insult to injury by staying. One didn’t give employees bad news like this. He should go and wait until the morning. Go and wait until he felt calmer, more settled.

But he didn’t leave. He couldn’t, not when he felt an irresistible pull to stay. Instead of going, he trailed after her through the large sliding glass doors to the garden where a table had been set for two.

Makin’s gaze rested on the table and his unease grew.

She’d dressed to match the table setting, her orange chiffon gown a darker, more vibrant shade than the table’s rich apricot-and-gold jeweled cloth. Tall tapered candles framed the low floral centerpiece of apricot and cream roses.

Yet another mistake. His chief of staff had misunderstood him.

Makin blamed himself for the confusion. He should have been more clear with his kitchen and waiting staff. He’d requested a quiet meal with Hannah so he could speak frankly with her. He’d asked to have the meal served in her room so he could talk without interruption. It had never crossed his mind that his simple request would get turned into this …

This …

Intimate setting for two.

Makin frowned at the gleaming display of silver, crystal wine goblets and fine bone china.

His frown turned grim as the tall tapered candles flickered and danced, throwing shadows and light across the table, accenting the rich jewel tones of the embroidered cloth. More candles flickered in hammered iron wall sconces. Even the pool and fountain were softly lit as a whisper of a breeze rustled through the tall date palms standing sentry around the perimeter of the garden.

Makin had come to Hannah’s apartment hundreds of times over the years, but they’d never dined here before, not alone, not late at night, and certainly never like this.

When they met for dinner, the tone had always been professional, the focus centered on business. She’d attended numerous banquets with him. Had sat across from him at countless perfunctory meals where she took notes and he rattled off instructions. But it had never been this, never the two of them seated across from each other dining by moonlight and candlelight. The lighting changed everything, as did the soft sheen of the embroidered silk tablecloth. The shimmer of fabric, the glow of light created intimacy … sensuality.

She’d never met him in anything but tailored jackets and skirts and demure blouses before, either. And yet she’d dressed tonight. As if this wasn’t just a business dinner. As if this was something more … something personal … as if this was a … date.

Just the thought of being alone with Hannah on a date, in a filmy cocktail dress and high strappy gold heels, made him harden.

It was a good thing he’d made the decision this afternoon to send her to a different office to work with different people. A good thing he’d decided to act swiftly. Relationships were tricky, particularly in the work arena, and he’d always been very careful to keep business and personal separate. But now, with Hannah, the line between work and personal life felt blurred. Around Hannah he’d begun to crave … something. And Makin was not a man to crave anything.

“We need to talk,” he said roughly, gesturing to the table, deciding he wouldn’t wait for dinner to say what he needed to say. He’d just do it right away. Get it over with. He wouldn’t be able to relax until he’d broken the news and she’d accepted his decision.

He watched as Hannah sat down gracefully, obediently, at the table and looked up at him, waiting for him to speak. On one hand she was doing everything right—sitting quietly, waiting patiently—and yet everything felt wrong.

Starting with her orange chiffon cocktail dress. And the gold bangle on her wrist. And the fact that she had left her long thick hair loose about her shoulders.

How could he coldly announce he was sending her away, transferring her to another department, when she was looking so good and lovely?

Especially lovely. The lovely part frustrated him. He felt tricked. Played.

Hannah didn’t wear vivid colors like juicy orange or exotic peacock. She didn’t leave her hair loose or smudge her eyes with eyeliner or stain her lips with soft pink color.

He turned his back on her to face the pool. The rectangular blue pool was illuminated tonight with small spotlights aimed at the elegant fountain so that shadows of dancing water played across the back wall. But even the small spotlights hinted at intimacy.

Makin walked around the edge of the pool, ran a troubled hand across his jaw, unable to remember a time when he’d been this uncomfortable. The night was warm but it wasn’t the temperature making him miserable. It was the knowledge that this was his last night with Hannah, that tomorrow he’d be sending her away.

He knew it was for the best but still.

Makin rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension balled in the muscles between his shoulder blades. Even his white shirt felt too snug against his shoulders and his trousers hot against his skin.

“You’re making me nervous,” she said quietly, her voice soft in the warm night.

He glanced at her, still unable to make sense of this Hannah, or of his ambivalent feelings for her.

For four and a half years they’d worked closely together and as much as he’d valued her and appreciated her skill, he’d never felt the least bit attracted to her. There had never been chemistry. Nor did he want there to be. She was an employee. Intelligent, productive and useful. Three words he used to describe his laptop, too. But you didn’t take a computer to bed.

“Why?” he asked equally quietly, seeing the faint tremble of her soft lower lip, and then the pinch of her teeth as they bit down.

The bite of her teeth into that tender pink lip made him hot, blisteringly hot. It was a physical heat, a heat that made him harden and his temper stir.

This was absurd. Ridiculous. Why was he feeling things now? Why was he responding to her now? For God’s sake, he was her boss. She was dependent on him. One didn’t take advantage of one’s position or power in life. Not ever. That lesson had been drummed into him from a very early age.

And yet his hard, heavy erection was very real, as was his drumming pulse.

He was feeling very angry, very annoyed and very impatient. With her, with him, with all of this.

“Something is obviously wrong,” she said, sitting tall and still, her slender hands folded in her lap.

His body ached. His erection throbbed. His blood felt like hot, spiced wine, and he was on edge, the night suddenly erotic, electric.

He told himself it was the candlelight and the moon—pale gold and three-quarters full. It was the warm breeze in the palms teasing his senses, making him more restless than usual.

But it wasn’t the soft glow of light, or the breeze or the rich, musky scent of roses, but her.

Hannah.

He was absolutely sure he was doing the right thing in sending her to London in the morning. He wouldn’t allow doubts to creep in or cloud his thinking. She’d like the London division. She’d be an asset there. By tomorrow afternoon she’d be installed in her new office, meeting her new team, and knowing Hannah, she’d settle in quickly.

But somehow it seemed wrong to break the news to her like this, now, when she looked so beautiful that she took his breath away.

“That’s a new dress,” he said curtly, his tone almost accusatory.

Bewildered by the sharpness in his voice, her brows pulled together. “No. It’s not new. I’ve had it for a while.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

She ran a light hand across her lap, as if smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the silky chiffon. “I haven’t ever worn it around you before.”

“Why now?”

Her lips pursed and she looked at him strangely. “I can go change if you’d like.” She started to rise. “I didn’t realize the dress would upset you—”

“It hasn’t.”

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not.”

“I’ll put on something else—”

“Sit.” His deep voice rumbled through the garden, sounding too loud as it bounced and echoed off the high garden walls. It’s not her fault, he told himself. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He was the one who’d decided to send her away. She hadn’t asked to go. “Please,” he added more quietly.

She sank back into her chair, her wide lavender-blue gaze wary.

He closed the distance between them, leaned on the back of his chair and struggled to find the right words. The words that would allow him to put her on the plane to Heathrow tomorrow with the least amount of drama possible. He hated drama. Hated tears.

But closer to her wasn’t better. Closer just made him more aware of how very appealing she was.

The pleated orange-chiffon gown left her slim, pale shoulders bare. The dress’s neckline was hidden by a wide gold collar. And with her long dark hair loose and her eyes rimmed in a smoky gray, she looked like an exotic princess from a children’s storybook. He could almost imagine she was waiting for the brave knight, the noble prince, who could sweep her away, give her that storybook ending.

If he were the sort of royal who believed in that sort of thing.

Which he wasn’t. He didn’t. He was too practical. Too driven. Too ambitious. He had a purpose in life. A mission. It wasn’t enough that he be a great leader for his people. His personal mission was bigger than the borders of Kadar. His mission was to help the world.

It sounded grandiose. Perhaps it even made him sound a bit like a prig. But if his father could accomplish what he had with a brutal degenerative disease, then Makin could accomplish even more.

He had to.

The world was polluting itself to death, choking on chemicals and strangling on debt. The rich were getting richer and the poor, sick and hungry were still suffering and dying at a staggering rate.

For the past five years he’d met privately with powerful, wealthy visionaries from the music industry and high-tech businesses, to pool resources and make an even greater impact around the world. The goal was to get clean water to all people, to help immunize children in all third-world countries, to provide mosquito nets to help protect all vulnerable people from malaria.

Food. Shelter. Education. Safety.

For all children, regardless of religion, race, culture or gender.

This was his goal. This was his life’s ambition. And this was why he was sending her away.

She’d become a distraction. A liability. And nothing could come between him and his work.

“Sheikh Al-Koury, are you firing me?”

Her uncertain voice broke the silence.

He turned his head, glanced at her, felt a dull ache in his chest.

Damn her. Damn the garden. Damn the moonlight and the orange floaty fabric of her dress that clung to her small, firm breasts and made him want things he couldn’t want with her.

“Yes,” he said roughly. “No. Not firing. It’s a transfer.”

“Transfer to where?”

“The London office.”

“But I live in Dallas.”

“You’ve always enjoyed London.”

“But my home—”

“Will now be London.” His gaze met hers. He steeled himself, reminding himself that the only way to pull this off was to be ruthless. Hard. “If you no longer wish to work for me, I understand. But if you do, you’ll embrace the challenges of your new position in the marketing and public relations department for the international division.”

There. He’d said it. Makin exhaled. For the first time in days he felt relief. He felt in control again.

Silence stretched. The only sound in the garden was the bubble and splash of the fountain and the swish and whisper of palm fronds overhead.

Hannah’s smooth jaw shifted, her lips compressed, but still she said nothing, which provoked him. She worked for him, not the other way around. It was her job to accept. Acquiesce. To make this change comfortable and easy for all of them.

“It’s a promotion,” he said tautly. “Human resources will provide you with temporary housing until you find something you like—”

“I like my job here, with you.”

“You’re needed elsewhere now.”

“Yesterday you needed me here.”

“Things change.”

Her lips parted ever so slightly as if realizing where this was going, and why.

He hoped she’d gracefully fold, accept his new plan for her. He needed her to concede.

Her gaze turned beseeching. “Alejandro was a mistake. I admit I made a mistake—”

“It has nothing to do with Alejandro—”

“It has everything to do with Alejandro,” she cried.

“You’re wrong,” he countered, torn between wanting to comfort her and crush her because all she needed to do was accept. Give. Agree. Not fight. Not cry. Not make him feel an ounce more emotion tonight.

“I’m not stupid,” she said, eyes still shimmering but now flashing with bright hot sparks.

“No, you aren’t.”

“Then why?” She leaned forward, cheeks flushed, breasts rising and falling with every quick breath. “For four years I have given you everything. For four years I have made your goals mine. For four years I have put your needs before mine. I don’t take vacations. I don’t use sick days. I don’t have a social life. I don’t even have a fashionable wardrobe. My life is all about you, and only you.”

“All the more reason you need to go to London.”

She shot him a withering look, a look that should have cooled his hunger, but it didn’t, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this way—so raw and physical, so completely carnal.

Before French-born Madeline had been his mistress there had been Jenny, a stunning English woman, and like Madeline, she’d been slim and blonde and very bright. He’d always been attracted to blonde, intelligent women. He took care of his mistresses, too, financially, and physically. When he made love with his mistress, he made sure she was pleasured. He wanted her happy. But he didn’t offer love. Nor would he.

It wasn’t her fault, he’d told Madeline more than once. It was his. He wasn’t sensitive. Wasn’t the type to feel certain emotions. Wasn’t the type to feel passion.

And yet at the moment Makin literally felt as if he was on fire, his skin hot, nerves sensitive, his body rippling with tension and need. It wasn’t rational. And far from civilized. He wanted to grab her, shake her—

He broke off with a shake of his own head. Madness. He’d never wanted to shake a woman before, or drag her from her chair and into his arms. He didn’t lose control. Didn’t feel strong emotions. So what was happening to him now?

“There will be a bump in your salary, as well as better benefits,” he said. “Including another week of vacation.”

Her lips curved. “Another week to add to the weeks and months I’ve never used?”

“Perhaps it’s time you started taking those holidays.”

“Perhaps it is.”

Her tart tone made him see red. Sassy, saucy wench. How dare she speak to him with that attitude? How dare she smirk at him from beneath those long, black lashes as if he was the problem, not she?

What the hell was happening to him? He didn’t even know himself at the moment. His shaft ached and throbbed and his hands itched to reach for her, catch her by the wrist and pull her toward him so that he could take her mouth, cover that mocking twist of her lips with his and make her his.

It wasn’t a desire but a need. To know her. Feel her. Make her part of him.

His fingers flexed and balled before returning to hard fists. Clearly he wasn’t himself.

He wasn’t an aggressive man, and he didn’t drag women about, and he didn’t teach them lessons, but right now he wanted to remind her who he was, and what he was and how he wasn’t a man to be trifled with.

He was Sheikh Makin Al-Koury, one of the world’s most powerful men. He had a plan and a vision and nothing distracted him from it.

Certainly not his secretary. She was disposable. Dispensable. Replaceable. And he’d proved it by swiftly organizing the job transfer to London.

“So why this. promotion. now?” she asked, her gaze meeting his and holding, expression challenging.

“I’m ready for a change. And I think you are, too.”

Her eyes sparked blue fire. Her eyebrows lifted. “How kind of you to think for me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Good, and I respectfully ask that you don’t make decisions for me based on what you think I need. You do not know me. You know nothing about me—”

“That’s actually not respectful. And I do know you. I know virtually everything about you.”

She laughed. Out loud. Practically in his face.

“If you knew me, Your Highness,” she drawled his title, “you’d know who I am.” She paused a moment, lashes dropping, concealing the hot bright blue of her eyes. “And who I am not.”

Maybe he shouldn’t transfer her to London. Maybe he should fire her. Her impudence was galling. He wouldn’t have accepted this blatant lack of respect from anyone but her.

“You go too far,” he thundered. He hadn’t actually raised his voice, but his tone was so hard and fierce that it silenced her immediately.

She fell back into her seat, shoulders tense, lips pressed thinly. For a moment he imagined he saw pain in her eyes and then it was gone, replaced by a stony chill.

“I’m trying to help you,” he said quietly.

She looked away, her gaze settling on the bubbling fountain. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”

“Maybe I am.”

And there it was. The truth. Spoken aloud.

He’d said it and he saw by the way she flinched she’d heard it, too.

For a long, endless moment they sat in silence, she staring at the blue ceramic fountain while he stared at her, drinking in her profile, memorizing the delicate, elegant lines of her face. He’d never appreciated her beauty before, had never seen the high-winged eyebrow, the prominent thrust of her cheekbone, the full, sensual curve of her lips.

His chest grew tight, a spasm of intense sensation. Regret. A whisper of pain. He would miss her.

“Is that it, then?” she asked, turning her head to look at him, dark hair spilling across her shoulder and over the soft ripe chiffon of her orange dress. She was staring deeply into his eyes as if she were trying to see straight through him, into the very heart of him.

He let her look, too, knowing she couldn’t see anything, knowing she, like everyone else, only saw what he allowed people to see.

Which was nothing.

Nothing but distance. And hollow space.

Years ago knowing that his father was dying and that his mother didn’t want to live without his father, he’d constructed the wall around his emotions, burying his heart behind brick and mortar. No one, not even Madeline, was given access to his emotions. No one was ever allowed that close.

“Is that why we’re here having dinner?” she added. “Is that what you came here tonight to say?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him for another long, unnerving moment, her eyes a brilliant, startling blue against the paleness of her face. “All right.” She shrugged lightly, almost indifferently, and rose to her feet. “Am I excused then?”

“Dinner hasn’t even been served.”

“I don’t think I could stomach a bite now, and it seems a waste of time to sit and make small talk when I could begin getting organized for my flight tomorrow.”




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_82ff9c57-4be3-5c36-93ae-bcbc7e7c38e5)


“DINNER hasn’t been served,” he repeated calmly, leaning back in his chair, stretching out his legs, his broad shoulders square.

Emmeline gazed down at him, thinking that if one didn’t know him, one might think he was a gorgeous, easygoing man, the kind of man you’d want to take home to meet the family.

But she did know him. And he was gorgeous but he wasn’t easy, or simple or kind.

He was fierce and intimidating and totally overwhelming.

But she was supposed to be Hannah, and Hannah was supposed to like him, even though he’d just transferred her to a new position in London.

“I’m sure the kitchen could send the meal to you in your rooms since I no longer want to eat,” she said, masking her anger with her most royal, serene expression.

His dark head tipped, black hair like onyx in the candlelight. “I’m not going to have my staff chasing me all over the palace with a dinner cart,” he replied cordially. “I planned to eat here with you. And I will eat here.” He paused, and then smiled but the warmth in his eyes was dangerous, as if he were not entirely civilized. “And so will you.”

She’d never seen that look in his eye before. Had never thought of him as anything but coldly sophisticated, an elegant Arab sheikh with far too much money and power. But right now he practically hummed with aggression. It was strange—and disorienting.

Emmeline braced herself against the edge of the table with its opulent settings and gleaming candlelight. Her legs shook beneath her. “You can’t force me to eat.”

“No, I can’t force you. And so I’m asking you. Would you please sit down and join me for dinner? I’m hungry, and I know you’ve eaten virtually nothing today, and a good meal wouldn’t hurt you. You’re far too thin these days. You don’t eat enough—”

“If I stay and eat, would you at least reconsider your decision to send me to London?”

“No,” he answered bluntly. “My decision has been made.”

“But you can change it.”

“I won’t. I stand by my decision. It is the right one.”

“Please.” Her voice dropped to a husky note and broke. “Please. I don’t want to go to London—”

“Hannah.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll work harder.” Her voice cracked. “It doesn’t seem fair to just throw me away after four years—”

“I am not throwing you away!” He was on his feet and starting toward her but then stopped himself. “And don’t beg. You’ve no reason to beg. It’s beneath you, especially when you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“If I haven’t done anything wrong, why am I being sent away?”

“Because sometimes change is necessary.”

Emmeline’s heart felt as if it was breaking. She’d failed Hannah again. She reached up to wipe a tear away before it fell. Her hand was trembling so hard that she missed the tear and had to try again.

“Don’t.”

“What? I’m not allowed to hurt? To have emotions? I’m supposed to just let you send me away as if I don’t care?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because your job is to make my life easier and you’re not.”

“How terrible.”

“But true.”

She struggled to catch another tear. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to be human—”

“I realize you’re disappointed, but this isn’t personal, and I’d like you to remain professional. So if you could pull yourself together and have a seat—”

“No.”

His nostrils flared. A small muscle popped in his jaw. “No?” he repeated, his voice velvet-soft. “Did I hear you correctly?”

Her lower lip quivered. “Yes.”

He moved toward her, a deep hard line between his black eyebrows. “That’s insubordination, Miss Smith.”

“I won’t be bullied.”

“I’m not a bully, I’m your boss.” He was before her now, and standing so close that she had to tip her head back to see his face. “Or have you forgotten?”

She’d always thought his eyes were a cool silver-gray, but with him just inches away, she could see that his eyes burned and glowed like molten pewter.

“Haven’t forgotten,” she whispered, her courage starting to fade, as he dwarfed her, not just in height, but in sheer size. His shoulders were immense, his chest broad, his body muscular and strong. But he overpowered her in other ways—made her feel fragile and foolish and terribly emotional.

“Perhaps you’d care to apologize?”

There was a lethal quality to his voice, a leashed tension in his stance. It crossed her mind that she’d pushed him too far, demanded too much. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” His voice was so rough and deep it sounded like a growl.

She was mesmerized by the tiny gold flecks in his gray eyes. That’s why up close his eyes looked warmer. His eyes weren’t a cold gray. They had bits of the desert’s gold sun and sand in them. “I’ve botched it all up.” Her voice dropped and the air caught in her lungs. “Again.”

He was silent, and then he gave his head the slightest of shakes. “I can’t do this with you.”

She squeezed her eyes closed, nodded her head.

“But I do accept your apology,” he added.

Eyes still closed, she nodded again.

“Hannah.”

She couldn’t look at him, she couldn’t, not when she was so overwhelmed by everything.

“Hannah, open your eyes.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll see … you’ll see …”

“What?” he demanded, tipping her chin up with a finger.

She opened her eyes, looked up at him, her vision blurred by tears. “Me.”

For a long, endless moment he simply stared into her eyes. “And why would that be a bad thing?”

The unexpected tenderness in his voice made her heart seize. “Because you don’t like me.”

He exhaled hard. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Absolutely.” And then his head abruptly dropped, blocking the moon, and his lips covered hers.

It was the last thing she’d expected. The last thing she wanted. She froze, her lips stiff beneath his. For a second she even forgot how to breathe, and the air bottled in her lungs until her head began to spin and little dots danced before her eyes.

His lips traveled slowly across hers, in a light, fleeting kiss that was more comfort than passion. Her back tingled. She shivered and lifted a hand to press against his chest, intending to push him away, and yet her hand seemed to like the feel of his chest, her palm absorbing his warmth, her fingers splaying against the smooth, dense plane of muscle that wrapped his ribs.

Emmeline found herself leaning forward, drawn to his warmth and the heady spice of his cologne and the coolness of his mouth on hers. He nipped lightly at her lower lip, coaxing a response from her and sending a frisson of feeling zipping up her spine. Emmeline shuddered with pleasure, lips parting slightly with a muffled gasp.

Makin’s arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her close so that his hard frame pressed against the length of her. He was powerfully built, hard and muscular, and heat radiated from him in waves.

Teasingly his tongue parted the seam of her lips, sending a shock of hot, electric sensation throughout her. She shuddered again, her lips parting beneath his, as her breasts grew heavy, aching, nipples exquisitely sensitive.

She’d never been kissed like this, never felt anything remotely like this. Makin’s mouth tasted of spearmint and his spicy cologne filled her nose and his hard jaw was smooth, the skin soft from a recent shave. Her senses swam with the pleasure of it all.

Again he traced the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue so that she gasped, opening her mouth wider for him. His tongue slid across her soft inner lip even as she felt his hand in the small of her back, a slow, leisurely stroke down over her hips. The lazy caress sent a hot new streak of sensation through her. It felt as if he was spreading fire beneath her skin. She tingled and ached, her womb tightening in need, and she lifted her hands to clasp his face, kissing him back, feeling more urgency.

Makin responded by deepening the kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to taste her, his lips biting at hers, moving across hers, making every nerve dance to life. She gasped and arched, her hips pressing helplessly against his, making her aware of his thick hot erection. The rub of his erection between her thighs turned her legs to jelly, making her weak.

She’d only been kissed by Alejandro before, and it was that night he’d taken her virginity. His kiss had been hard, and she’d felt no lick of fire in her veins, no deep hot ache between her thighs. She’d felt pressure. A grating and grinding of jaw, lips, tongue and teeth. But there was no grating of anything here. No, Makin was making her melt, dissolving her bones into puddles of thick sweet honey.

Honey of want. Honey of need.

He was driving her wild. He slowly swept his hand back up her bottom to cup the curve of her breast, the palm of his hand so warm against her sensitive skin. She pressed closer wanting a satisfaction she couldn’t even name, her fingers tangling, tightening in his shirt.

She heard a hoarse, desperate moan and then realized it was her. She’d whimpered aloud, and if she heard it, he did, too.

Heat rushed through her, a rush of embarrassment and she started to pull away and then his hand found her breast, his fingers catching, kneading the taut nipple and she shuddered and curled back against him, hips, breasts, thighs pressed to him, giving herself over to the hot, intense sensation.

He could have her, she thought, as he sucked the tip of her tongue into his mouth and drew on it, a slow, sensual rhythm that made her pulse throb and her knees press together. She felt hot and wet, her satin thong slick against the softness between her thighs.

He made a rough sound, a sound both primal and male, as he caught the back of her head in his hand, holding her still to kiss her more deeply.

She was drowning in desire, overwhelmed by need. And as he took her mouth, she didn’t think she’d ever felt quite so frantic. He could do anything he wanted with her. He could do anything as long as he didn’t stop touching her, didn’t stop tasting her. She’d never felt so much sensation, never felt such sweet, wild pleasure. He could lift her onto the table and press her against the dishes and cutlery, crushing her into the flowers and she wouldn’t protest. He could lift the hem of her dress and slide his fingers beneath the satin edge of her thong and between her thighs where she ached and ached.

He could fill her.

He could.

And then she felt his hand draw the chiffon fabric up over her thigh, and his fingers slide across warm bare skin. She shuddered, and reached up to clasp his nape, and then grab at the ends of his dark, thick hair.

She was empty, so unbearably wet and empty, and she needed him to warm her, needed him to fill her, needed—

“No.”

It was just one word, one syllable, and yet he said it loudly, harshly, as he pulled her hands from around his neck and pushed her back, setting her away from him.

“No,” he repeated thickly, dark color high in his cheekbones, his breathing still ragged. “I can’t do this.”

She heard what he was saying but couldn’t seem to think of an appropriate response, not when her blood still hummed in her veins and her body felt hot and wet, and there was that terrible ache between her legs.

She’d never known physical desire, had never been truly aroused, and yet all of a sudden she understood why teenagers sat in parked cars and how good girls got themselves into trouble.

They lost control because what they felt was so good.

They forgot the dangers because pleasure could be so addictive.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he added. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No, it’s not. It’s wrong. I have a mistress. I don’t want this from you.”

And then he left her without a second glance.

Stunned, she slid into the nearest chair, her hands falling numbly to her sides.

She felt shattered.

Even now she could feel the dizzying heat of the kiss, and the scorching warmth of Makin’s hard body against hers. She could still smell the tantalizing hint of his fragrance lingering in the air—or was it on her skin? It was a scent of sandalwood and spice, a smell that reminded her of this desert of his—warm, exotic, golden.

But then his words returned to her, No. I don’t want this from you, and she cringed with shame, and the gorgeous pleasure faded away.

His words hurt.

Exhaling slowly, trying to stop the rush of pain, she got to her feet, took a step, and then another, until she was walking around the pool. For several minutes she just made herself move. It was easier when she was moving not to feel so much. Not to hurt so much. Easier to work through his bruising disdain.

And then finally, when she’d walked herself to a place of quiet and calm, she was able to tell herself that the sheikh had overreacted.

It was a kiss, just a kiss, nothing more. He might be upset but there had been no great impropriety. They hadn’t undressed, they weren’t lying down, hadn’t touched intimately.

And yet …

She stopped, ran a hand along her neck and down to the valley between her breasts. It had been a hot, explosive kiss. A kiss that had seared her, burned her, made her understand what she wanted from a man.

Hunger. Fire. Passion. All the things she’d been taught to believe were bad, wicked … and yet when she was in his arms, it hadn’t felt wicked. It had felt sweet.

She’d felt good. Beautiful and strong and lovely. Emmeline rarely felt lovely. The world heralded her as her generation’s great beauty but she didn’t feel beautiful. She’d never felt like anything special until just now …

Biting her lip, she turned away, confused. Conflicted.

How could something that felt so good be wrong?

When she’d been in Makin’s arms she hadn’t felt any shame, any guilt, nothing but pleasure. And she refused to feel shame now. She wouldn’t let the kiss become ugly, wouldn’t let the dizzying pleasure turn to disgust.

Swallowing hard, she smoothed the silky chiffon hem of her dress over the heated skin of her upper thigh. Just the whisper of fabric against her sensitive skin made her insides turn over and her breasts tighten as she was flooded with another scalding rush of desire.

This is how good girls go bad, she thought ruefully, slipping one gold high-heeled sandal off, and then the other. This is how eligible ladies ruined their chances. Not on men like Alejandro, men who kissed too hard with their jaws and tongues, but men like Makin who could make a woman feel wonderful and beautiful inside and out.

And even though Makin Al-Koury had hurt her after with his harsh rejection, the kiss itself had been amazing.

The kiss had made her feel amazing. As though she’d actually mattered.

Smiling wistfully, she picked up the shoes by the thin gold straps and rose. Leaning across the table, Emmeline blew out the candles, one by one, and then, shoes in hand, headed into Hannah’s apartment.

She was sliding the glass doors closed when the doorbell chimed. Had Makin returned?

“Good evening, Miss Smith,” the uniformed kitchen staff greeted her as she opened the door. “Sheikh Al-Koury is taking his dinner in his own room, but said you’d want something to eat.”

Emmeline’s smile slipped.

That was the moment she remembered that the kiss, so good and melting and bittersweet, hadn’t been meant for her. Makin thought he’d kissed Hannah Smith.

The kiss—the one he’d regretted—had been for Hannah. But if he regretted kissing Hannah, his perfect secretary, how would he react if he knew he’d kissed Emmeline d’Arcy, the princess he despised?

Emmeline choked back a strangled laugh. Her eyes stung and burned. She swallowed once and again. And then she did what she’d been taught to do her entire life—she arranged her features into a formal but polite smile—and graciously thanked the kind kitchen staff for bringing her dinner.

That kiss, he thought, that kiss …

It was two-thirty in the morning and Makin was still up, his thoughts unusually chaotic, and he climbed from bed, giving up the illusion of trying to sleep.

He was angry he’d kissed her, angry with himself, angry with his loss of control.

He never lost control.

And that kiss.

It threatened to change everything. It had made him feel things he didn’t feel. Hadn’t thought he could feel. Holding her, tasting her had been intoxicating. He’d felt like someone else. Someone different.

He’d felt.

And suddenly he didn’t want to send her away, on to London and a new position, but he wanted to keep her here, for him, with him. Not as his assistant but as his woman.

But he had a woman. He had Madeline. And until tonight he’d been happy with her as his mistress.

Had been, he silently repeated, brow furrowing, his expression darkening as he paced the length of his bedroom once and again.

Why was he so tempted by Hannah? Was Madeline not enough for him anymore?

Skin hot, emotions hotter, Makin opened the tall glass doors and walked out onto his balcony. Moonlight turned the garden below silver and white. A fountain splashed and he leaned against the elegant iron railing, aware that his attraction to Hannah was stronger than anything he’d ever felt for Madeline or Jenny or any woman in years.

But then, he’d always deliberately chosen beautiful women who were cool and calm … composed. His mistresses accommodated him, never challenging him or disturbing his focus.

Everything about Hannah disturbed his focus.

He shouldn’t like it, shouldn’t allow it. He’d never wanted fire or intensity with his women before. He was too practical. He wanted convenience, companionship and satisfaction. And he had all that with Madeline. When in Nadir he saw her two, maybe three times, a week. If she chafed at their limited time together, she never said so. She greeted him with smiles and easy warmth, and there was never pressure to be anything but present. It was enough. Enough for her, enough for him.

He liked their routine in Nadir. He’d join her around nine or ten in the evening. They’d have dinner, a little conversation, sex, and then he’d return home. He never stayed the night. He never wanted to. And it was the kind of relationship that worked for him.

What kind of mistress would Hannah be? He pictured installing her in a beautiful house overlooking the royal gardens in Nadir, pictured working all day then going to her at night. Pictured her opening the door, wearing something orange and filmy, or perhaps a sleek black satin evening gown with a thigh-high slit up the front. Makin hardened.

He wouldn’t want dinner. Or talk. He’d want her. Immediately. He’d want to take her there in the hall, slip his hands beneath the fabric and find her soft sensitive skin and make her shudder and whimper against him.

And then he’d want her again in the bedroom, beneath him on the bed, pale thighs parted, her breasts rising and falling as he rose up over her, plunging slowly, deeply into her, filling her, making her cry out his name.

Body aching, shaft throbbing, Makin turned, leaned against the railing and gazed into his bedroom glowing with yellow light, wishing Hannah were in his bed now. He wanted her now. Needed her, needed release.

His hand slipped down his belly, reaching into his loose pajama pants to grip his heavy erection. He palmed himself once, twice, his grip firm as he pictured her blue eyes, the curve of her lips, the firmness of her breasts and the ripeness of her hips and ass.

He would take her from behind, and then flip her over, and take her again, this time drawing her down onto his shaft so that he could watch her face as he made her come.

He wanted to make her come. He wanted to make her come over and over.

Madness.

This was exactly why he had to send her away. He didn’t want to feel this much for a woman, didn’t want to become emotionally involved. He had a job to do, a plan for his future, a plan that didn’t include sex in hallways and restless nights and hot, erotic thoughts.

He liked cool women, cool, calm, sophisticated women. Women who didn’t provoke or challenge or arouse him to the point he couldn’t think or sleep.

As she had tonight.

He’d been with Madeline for three years and yet he’d never once lost sleep thinking of her. But tonight he felt absolutely obsessed with Hannah.

Thank God she’d be gone in the morning.

The sun poured through his office window, casting a glare on the computer screen, making his eyes burn.

Makin felt like hell.

It had been a rough night. A long night. He’d ended up going to bed just hours ago, and then sleeping badly, and now he was back at his desk at seven drinking cup after cup of coffee, hoping to wake up, gain some clarity and, with any luck, shake his sense of guilt and shame.

He’d treated Hannah badly last night and he was still angry with himself for losing control, for allowing lust and desire to cloud his thinking. He shouldn’t have kissed her, shouldn’t have reached for her, but that wasn’t her fault. It was his.

He’d apologize to her later, just before he put her in the limousine on the way to the airstrip. And then he’d move forward. He wouldn’t look back.

It was good. Everything was good. Hannah would be off after breakfast, his guests would arrive midafternoon, and he had sorted out his priorities.

Ringing for a fresh pot of coffee, Makin woke up his computer and checked the headlines of the various international papers for world news. He usually devoted an hour to reading his preferred papers every morning, and was reading the online version of The New York Times when he came across a link with the heading Argentine Polo Star in Fatal Crash.

Alejandro’s accident had finally hit the newswire.

Curious to see if there was an update on Alejandro’s condition, Makin clicked on the link and pulled up the article. He skimmed the piece but the article didn’t cover anything new.

Makin looked at the three photos accompanying the story next. The first was one of Ibanez on his horse on the field, one posing with his team at the recent Palm Beach tournament, and one in which Alejandro was snapped talking with the Princess Emmeline of Brabant.

He ignored the first two photos, intrigued by the last. It was a recent photo, he saw, taken a week ago in Palm Beach at the polo tournament he’d hosted and Hannah had organized.

It wasn’t the most flattering photo of either Ibanez or the princess, and Makin suspected they probably weren’t even aware they were being photographed. Alejandro looked angry and the princess was in tears. It didn’t require a lot of imagination to figure out what the fight was about. Perhaps the princess had discovered that there were other women? Women like Penelope. Women like Hannah.

Thinking about Hannah, Makin clicked on the photo, enlarging it. He felt a flicker of unease as he studied the princess.

She looked far too familiar, as if he knew her, but how could that be? He’d only been in the same room with Princess Emmeline once and yet looking at this picture, he felt as if he knew her … intimately.

Impossible.

He studied the photo intently, drawn by Emmeline’s eyes and her expression.

He knew that expression. He knew those eyes.

His uneasiness increased.

He copied and pasted the photo onto his desktop and enlarged the picture once more, studying it carefully, analyzing the princess’s slender frame, the tilt to her head, the twist of her lips.

She was clearly desperately unhappy. And while that wasn’t his problem—the princess was most definitely not his problem—he recognized that face. It was the face he’d seen all night in his troubled dreams.

Hannah’s.

A thought came, unbidden, and it made him even more uncomfortable than before.

Holding his breath, Makin opened the photo folder on his computer, pulled up the photo taken in Tokyo last year at a business dinner. It was a photo of Hannah accepting a ceremonial kimono. The shot had been taken at an angle, just like the photo of the princess talking to Ibanez. Hannah’s hair had been pulled back in a low ponytail, much like the princess’s chignon at the polo match.

He enlarged Hannah’s photo and dragged it next to the shot of the princess.

The resemblance was uncanny. Their profiles were so similar. The chin, nose, brow. Even the eye color. Change the hair color, and they could be the same. Maybe identical. And to think they’d come so close to meeting each other in Palm Beach. They’d both been there at the polo field … they’d both attended Sunday.

Could they … could Hannah be.

No. No. It was too incredible, too impossible. People didn’t switch places … that was a ludicrous idea, something that only happened in Hollywood movies.

And yet, when he glanced from the photo of Emmeline to the one of Hannah and back again, comparing the faces, the profiles, the lavender-blue eyes, he thought, It could be done.

Change the hair, swap the clothes, mask the accents and Hannah and the princess could easily pass for each other. Makin was rarely truly shocked by anything but he was blown away now. Dumbfounded, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared through narrowed eyes at the computer screen.

Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why hadn’t he picked up on the differences … the changes? Hannah’s sudden extreme thinness. Her fragile beauty. The emotion in her eyes.

Hannah, the Hannah with him here in Raha right now, wasn’t Hannah at all. She was Princess Emmeline d’Arcy, the twenty-five-year-old royal from Brabant engaged to King Zale Patek of Raguva.

Which meant he hadn’t kissed Hannah, but Princess Emmeline.

It hadn’t been Hannah who had captured his imagination and turned him on, it was Emmeline.

It was Emmeline he’d wanted. Emmeline who had created a night of hot, erotic thoughts.

Unbelievable.

He drummed his fingers on the desk.

Unthinkable.

He didn’t know what game she was playing, but he’d soon find out.

Unforgivable.

He slapped his hand down hard on the desk and got to his feet. Time he paid a call on the princess.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_e80e84b5-a0a3-5681-9360-2eb1c80b7b4d)


EMMELINE answered the knock on her door, hoping against hope it was breakfast as she’d rung for eggs and toast a half hour ago, but it wasn’t anyone from the kitchen on her doorstep. It was Makin Al-Koury, looking elegant and polished, if a tad forbidding in his black trousers and black shirt.

He must have just showered and shaved because his dark hair still gleamed, the skin on his bronze jaw was taut and smooth and she caught a whiff of his spicy sandalwood cologne. “You’re up early,” she said, her pulse racing, her stomach a knot of nerves.

“We’re usually working by seven-thirty,” he answered. “You’ve been taking it easy and sleeping in.”

There was something rather chilling about his smile this morning and her heart faltered and plummeted, making a dramatic swan dive right to her feet.

Locking her knees, she forced herself to look up and meet his gaze head-on. His eyes were light and glacier-cool, like mist rising office.

Last night the kiss had felt so good, but now, in the clear light of day, she knew it had been a dreadful mistake. Sheikh Makin Al-Koury was too big, too powerful, and far from civilized. He might have millions and billions of euros, and expensive toys and homes scattered across the globe, but that didn’t make him easy, or comfortable or approachable.

“No wonder you’re sending me away. I’ve become unforgivably lazy,” she answered lightly, forcing a smile as she placed an unsteady hand over the narrow waistband of her ivory lace skirt, hoping he’d be fooled by her bravado.

“No one can be perfect all the time.” He smiled at her. “How are you this morning?”

“Good.”

“And you slept well?”

He was still smiling but she felt far from easy. “Yes, thank you.”

“Excellent.” He paused, gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable. “In that case, I trust you feel well enough to take some dictation?”

“Dictation?” She hoped he didn’t hear the slight stutter in her voice.

“I need a letter written, a letter that must go out today. I’m hoping to put it on the flight with you.”

“Of course.” Emmeline fought panic and reminded herself that she could do this. She could play the game a little longer. pretend a little longer. “Would you like me come to your office?”

“That’s not necessary.” He put a hand on the door and pushed it all the way open. “I’m already here.”

Emmeline stepped aside to let him in. “I just need some paper and a pen.”

“You’ll find both in your desk in the bedroom,” he said helpfully. “In case you’ve forgotten.”

She darted a quick look into his face, trying to understand where he was going with this, because he was most definitely going somewhere and she didn’t like it. “Thank you.”

Heart hammering, stomach churning, she headed to the bedroom to retrieve the pad of paper and a pen from the desk, and then hesitated at the mirror hanging over the painted chest of drawers. She looked elegant this morning in her ivory silk blouse and matching lace skirt. She’d pulled her dark hair back and added a rope of pearls, and Emmeline could only pray that her polished exterior would hide her anxiety. She didn’t know anything about taking dictation. She’d never dictated a letter, either, but she’d never let the sheikh know that.

Back in the living room, Emmeline sat down on the edge of the pale gold silk couch, pen poised. “I’m ready.”

He glanced at her pen hovering above paper and then into her eyes. He smiled, again, all hard white teeth. “I’m not sure how to start the letter,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me? It’s for an acquaintance, King Zale Patek of Raguva. I’m not sure about the salutation. Would I say ‘Dear Your Royal Highness’? Or just ‘Your Highness’? What do you think?”

Emmeline’s cheeks grew hot. She fought to keep her voice even. “I think either would work.”

“Good enough.” The sheikh sat down on the couch next to her, far too close to her. And then he turned so that he fully faced her. “How about we start with ‘Your Royal Highness’?”

She swallowed, nodded and scribbled the words onto the top of the page before looking up at him.

“Something has come to my attention that cannot be ignored. It is an urgent personal matter, and I wouldn’t bring it to you if it weren’t important.” He paused, looked over her shoulder to see what she’d written. “Good. You’ve almost got it all. And it’s very nice handwriting, but I’d appreciate it if you took shorthand. It’s hard to get my thoughts out when you’re writing so slowly.”

She nodded, staring blindly at the notepad, so hot and cold that she barely registered a word he said.

She couldn’t do this. Heavens, how could she when she couldn’t even breathe? Couldn’t seem to get any air into her lungs at all. Was she having a panic attack? It had happened once before, on the night of her sixteenth birthday after her father had broken the news about her adoption.

She’d nearly collapsed that night as her throat had seized.

Her throat felt squeezed closed now. Her head spun. And it was all because Sheikh Al-Koury was sprawling on the couch next to her, taking up all the space, as he dictated a letter to her fiancé, King Patek.

A letter about an urgent personal matter.

Emmeline’s head swam.

What could Makin Al-Koury possibly have to say to King Patek that was urgent or personal? If they were close friends, the sheikh wouldn’t have her dictate a letter. He’d send Zale a text, or an email or pick up the phone and call. No, a formal letter was reserved for acquaintances. And bearing bad news.

“You missed a line,” Sheik Al-Koury said, leaning close to point to the page. “The last thing I just said, about me discovering some disturbing information concerning his fiancée, Princess Emmeline d’Arcy. Write it down, please.”

He waited while she slowly wrote each word.

“Your handwriting is getting smaller,” he said. “Good thing I’ll have you type it before sending. Now to continue. Where were we? Right, about his duplicitous fiancée, Princess—”

“I have that part,” she interrupted huskily.

“Not duplicitous.”

“You didn’t say it the first time.”

“I said it now. Put it in. It’s important. He needs to know.”

Her pen hovered over the page. She couldn’t make it move. She couldn’t do this anymore.

“Hannah,” he said sharply. “Finish the letter.”

She shook her head, bit her lip. “I can’t.”

“You must. It’s vital I get this letter off. King Patek is a good person—a man of great integrity—and one of the few royals I truly like. He needs to be told, at the very least warned, that his fiancée can’t be trusted. That she’s unscrupulous and amoral and she’ll bring nothing but shame—”

“If you’ll excuse me,” she choked, rising from the couch, eyes burning, stomach heaving. “I don’t feel so well.”

Emmeline raced to the bathroom, closed the door and sat down on the cold marble floor next to the deep tub. She felt so sick she wished she’d throw up.

Instead she heard Sheikh Al-Koury’s words swirl and echo around in her head. Duplicitous. Unscrupulous. Amoral.

They would be her mother’s words, too. There would be no one to take her side or speak up for her in defense. Her family would judge her and punish her just as they always had. Just as they always did.

The bathroom door softly opened and a shadow fell across the white marble floor. Jaw set defiantly, she glanced up at Makin as he filled the doorway, a silent challenge in her blue eyes.

Makin gazed down at the princess where she sat on the floor, a slender arm wrapped around her knees.

Considering her precarious situation, he would have thought she’d be timid or tearful, or pleading for forgiveness, but she was none of those things. Instead of meeting his gaze meekly, she stared him in the eye, her chin lifted rebelliously, her full lips stubbornly compressed.

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly. Was this how she intended to play it? As if he was the villain and she the victim?

How fascinating.

She was a far better actress than he’d given her credit for. Last night she’d moved him with her touching vulnerability. He, who felt so little real emotion, had felt so much for her. He’d wanted to strap on a sword and rush to her defense. He’d wanted to be a hero, wanted to provide her with the protection she so desperately seemed to need.

But it had all been an act. She wasn’t Hannah, nor was she fragile, but a conniving, manipulative princess who cared for no one but herself.

The edge of his mouth curled. She hadn’t changed. She was still the imperious, spoiled princess he’d met nine years ago at her sixteenth-birthday ball. He’d never forget that her father had thrown her a huge party, inviting everyone who was anyone, and she’d spent it throwing a tantrum, crying her way through the evening.

Embarrassed for her father and disgusted by her histrionics, Makin had left the ball early, vowing to avoid her in the future. And he had. Until now.

His narrowed gray eyes searched hers, thinking that in the past nine years little had changed. She still epitomized everything he despised in modern culture. The sense of entitlement. The fixation on celebrity. The worship of money. Skating through life on one’s looks.

And yes, Emmeline was stunning—he wouldn’t pretend that he hadn’t wanted her last night—but now that he knew who he was dealing with, and what he was dealing with, his desire was gone. She left him cold.

Makin leaned against the white marble vanity, hands braced against the cool, smooth stone surface. He was furious and he needed answers, and he would have them now.

“You don’t have the flu,” he said shortly, his deep voice hard, the sharp tone echoing off all the polished stone.

She opened her mouth to protest and then thought better of it. “No.”

“And you weren’t sick yesterday because you had low blood sugar.”

Her chin inched higher. “No.”

Didn’t she realize the game was up? Didn’t she understand that he’d figured it out? That he knew who she was and that he was livid? That he was hanging on to his control by a thread?

Makin didn’t speak, battling for that control, battling to maintain the upper hand on his temper when all he could see was red. “How far along are you?” he asked, when he could trust himself to speak.

Her eyes, those stunning lavender eyes, opened wide. They were Hannah’s eyes, the same lavender-blue of periwinkles or rain-drenched violets, which made him suddenly hate her more. “The truth,” he bit out.

She just stared at him, expression mutinous, lips firm. There was nothing weak or helpless about her now. Even sitting on the floor she looked regal and proud and ready to fight him tooth and nail.

How dare she? How dare she play the entitled princess here? Now? She should be begging for mercy, pleading for leniency.

“I’m waiting,” he gritted impatiently, fully cognizant that if she were a man he wouldn’t be using words right now, but his fists. Just who did she think she was, waltzing into his life as if she belonged here? He flashed to last night in the garden and how he’d reached for her, and kissed her, wanting her more than he’d ever wanted any woman. And it galled him—infuriated him—that she’d succeeded in making a fool of him in his own home.

“Seven weeks,” she said at last, eyes darkening, the lavender-blue luminous against the pallor of her face. “Give or take a day.”

Give or take a day, Makin silently repeated. God, he detested her. Detested everything about her, and everything she represented. “I take it Alejandro Ibanez is the father.”

She nodded.

“And that’s why you were at Mynt making a scene.”

Her cheeks suddenly flushed, turning a delicate pink. “I didn’t make a scene. He was making a scene—” She broke off, bit savagely into her lower lip and looked away, expression tortured.

For a moment, just a moment, Makin almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but not quite. “And my second question, Your Royal Highness, and an even more important question is, what have you done with my secretary, Hannah Smith?”

Emmeline’s head jerked back around, her gaze wary as it met his. “What do you mean?”

For a moment he saw only red again, blazing-hot red, but then his vision cleared. “I’m not in the mood for games, princess.”

“I … I don’t know what you mean.”

He was angry, so very, very angry, that he could have easily dragged her up from the floor and taught her a lesson. “You know what I mean.”

“But I am Hannah.”

Makin gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached and his temple throbbed. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Your Highness. You’ll just make me angrier—”

“But I am—”

“—Emmeline d’Arcy, Princess of Brabant,” he finished for her, his tone sharp and withering. “You’ve been masquerading as my secretary, Hannah Smith, for the past three days—maybe longer. That’s the part you’ll want to explain, starting right now.”

“Sheikh Al-Koury—”

“How about we drop the titles? Cut out all the pretense of formality and suggestion of respect? You don’t respect me, and I certainly don’t respect you. So I’ll call you Emmeline, and you can call me Makin, and, with any luck, I’ll finally get the truth.”

She slowly rose to her feet, smoothed her ivory skirt with the overlay of fine Belgian lace, which accentuated the rounded shape of her hips and the high, firm buttocks. Blood coursed through his veins. He suddenly felt hot and hard and even angrier.

How could he still want her? It boggled his mind that he could find her attractive now, after all of this….

“How did you find out?” she asked quietly.

“By chance.” He looked down at her and his lips curled faintly, self-mockingly, even as his body ached with the need to take her, possess her. It wouldn’t be gentle though. “I was reading The New York Times online, and came across a link to an article about Alejandro’s accident. One of the photos accompanying the story was a shot of you and Alejandro talking at the polo tournament I hosted in Palm Beach.”

“The only photo I took was with the Argentine team—”

“This wasn’t a posed photo. It was candid. You were behind the stables and neither of you were happy. You looked as if maybe you were having a fight.” He saw the light dawn in her eyes and realized he’d been right. They had been quarreling, and probably about the pregnancy. Of course Ibanez wouldn’t want the child. He’d probably insisted she get an abortion, and for a moment Makin felt a flicker of pity for the princess but then squashed it. Emmeline d’Arcy deserved whatever she had coming. He wouldn’t spare her a moment’s concern.

“You were crying,” he added flatly, harshly, refusing to let her get under his skin again, reminding himself that she was shallow and selfish and without one redeeming virtue. “That’s when I knew.” He paused, studied her pale face. “I knew that expression.” And I knew those eyes, he silently added.

Now that he knew who was who, he could see how different Emmeline’s eyes were from Hannah’s. They might be the same shade, that astonishing lavender-blue, but the expression wasn’t at all similar. Hannah’s gaze was calm and steady, while Emmeline’s was stormy and shadowed with emotion. If one didn’t know better, one might think that Emmeline had grown up in a tough neighborhood, fighting for every scrap of kindness, instead of having lived an easy life in which luxury had been handed to her on a silver platter.

His chest grew tight. He told himself it was anger. But it wasn’t just anger, it was betrayal.

He’d started to care for her, just a little. Just enough for him to feel used today. Played.

And no one played Makin.

“So what have you done with Hannah?” he asked, his tone icy with disdain. “I want her back. Immediately.”

For a moment the princess didn’t speak and then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. “She’s in Raguva.” She hesitated. “Pretending to be me.”

“What?” Makin rarely raised his voice but it thundered through the marble bathroom.

She stood tall, appearing nonchalant, but then she ruined the effect by chewing nervously on her bottom lip. “I needed to speak with Alejandro about my pregnancy, but he wouldn’t take my calls, not after that talk we had at the polo field following the tournament. I was desperate. I had to see him. I needed his help. So I begged Hannah to switch places with me for a day so I could go to him in person.”

“And you couldn’t go to him as yourself?”

“He was avoiding me, and even if he would see me, my staff and security detail wouldn’t let me go. They’d been given orders by my parents to keep me away from him, and they were determined to follow those orders.”

“Your parents were right not to trust you.”

She shrugged, walked past him, leaving the bathroom. “Probably.”

“Probably?” he demanded, following her. “Is that all you have to say?”

Her shoulders rolled, shrugging. “What do you want from me? An apology? Fine. I apologize.”

Makin stood inside the bedroom doorway, astounded by her lack of concern. She was suddenly the epitome of calm and cool. How was such a thing possible? “When exactly did you switch places with my assistant?”

“Last Sunday. The twenty-second.” She moved across the bedroom to enter the walk-in closet. She pulled an armful of clothes out and carried them to the bed.

She was packing.

She must assume that she was going somewhere.

“That was a week ago,” he answered, leaning against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. Why pack now? Where did she think she was going? To London? On his plane? At his expense? How fascinating.

Emmeline nodded, emerging from the closet with a half dozen pairs of delicate high heels.

His brow lowered as he watched her place the shoes in tidy pairs on the bed next to her other garments. “And just how long were you planning on leaving my secretary in Raguva, Your Highness?”

Emmeline glanced up from the shoes, wincing at his sarcasm. He’d finally gotten to her. “I … I don’t know,” she confessed, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to her clothes and shoes. “I haven’t figured that part out.”

His gaze raked her up and down, expression merciless. “Unbelievable.” His chest felt blisteringly hot while the rest of him remained cold.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even try.

He took a step toward her, and then another, hands clenched at his sides. “Who do you think you are? How could you put my assistant in this position? Do you know what you’ve cost her?”

And still she said nothing.

“Her job.” He was so angry, so very angry and yet Emmeline appeared remote, detached, as if she were above the fray. “She’s gone. Fired. I’ve no need of her services anymore—not here with me, or in London, or back in Dallas, either. She’s gone, finished, so be sure to give yourself a good pat on your back.”

Emmeline’s body jerked, shoulders twisting. “But you’ve made it clear that there was no one like Hannah—”

“There wasn’t. But you changed that when you asked her to shift her loyalty from me to you—”

“She didn’t. She hasn’t!” Emmeline leaned urgently forward. “She is still very loyal to you. Completely loyal. She loves working for you.”

Finally, he thought. Finally some reaction. Some emotion. But it was too little, too late, for all of them. He shrugged indifferently. “Good. She’s yours. She can now work for you.”

“Please don’t do that. Please. Hannah loves her job.”

“Maybe she should have thought of that before she headed off to Raguva, pretending to be you.” He started for the bedroom door, but paused to turn to look at the princess who still sat frozen on the edge of the bed. “And I’m not sure why you’re packing. I don’t know where you think you’re going, or how you’re getting there. Because you’re in my desert, my world, princess, and you’re stuck here with me.”

And then he was gone, leaving the apartment with his emotions running high, temper hot, feeling even angrier and more punitive than he had an hour before.

There would be consequences. And she would not like them.




CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_80c5cf30-0de2-5644-adb4-e39d13389000)


EMMELINE’S legs shook as the door closed behind Makin. She’d been shaking ever since he’d confronted her in the bathroom with the truth. Shaking with fear.

But now he was gone and she was glad. Glad he’d left her alone. Glad the truth was finally out. She’d hated lying to him. Hated pretending to be his perfect Hannah. And now she didn’t have to lie anymore.

It was better now that he knew the truth. Even if it meant he’d never speak to her again. Better this way. Better to be honest about everything.

And he could say what he wanted about her. He could ridicule her and despise her, but she wouldn’t give him the ability to hurt her anymore. Emmeline left the cool serenity of the white, apricot and gold bedroom for the garden.

She paced the private courtyard with the intensely sweet perfume of antique roses scenting the air as the hot yellow sun beat down, heating her skin. For many this palace would be a kind of paradise. But Emmeline had grown up in palaces surrounded by high stone walls and uniformed soldiers who changed position every four hours. She’d never been the tourist on the outside, admiring the pageantry and elegance. She’d been the captive royal inside the palace walls, locked in for her own protection.

And now, Kasbah Raha was just one more beautiful gilded cage.

One more luxurious but secure building to hold her, confine her, trap her.

And Makin was one more powerful man who thought he could intimidate her. Belittle her. Control her.

But she was done being manipulated and controlled. It was time she grew up. Wised up. Opened her eyes and used her brain. She had a good brain, too, and at twenty-five it was time she owned her life and made decisions for her future.

A future with a baby. Her baby. And how she loved her baby already. Her baby was the most important thing now.

“You look like a tiger in the zoo.”

Emmeline jumped at the sound of Makin’s deep voice and turned to see him inside the doorway, in the cool shadows of the air-conditioned living room. “So much for privacy,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

He shrugged. “You didn’t answer the door.”

“So you just let yourself in?”

“If I’m concerned about the safety of one of my guests.”

“And so now you’re concerned about me?”

He shrugged again. “I’m responsible for all the guests in my home.”

The edge of her mouth curled up. “Did you forget something? Or have you thought of another way to humiliate me?”

“I don’t have to, Your Highness. You do a great job of humiliating yourself.” He gestured toward a bench in the dappled shade. “But I do have news. Sit.”

She bristled inwardly at his sarcasm but refused to let him see how much he affected her. There was no reason for him to affect her. She told herself she didn’t care for him. Certainly didn’t need him. They were equals. And adversaries. “I’d rather stand.”

“You’re seven weeks pregnant. I’d rather you sit.”

It was clear from the curt tone that he expected her to obey, but he forgot that he had no power over her. “You might, but I’d ask you to remember that I’m not Hannah—”

“Trust me, I do,” he cut her off with a sigh. “So sit. There is something I must tell you, and it’s not easy.”

Emmeline’s stomach fell and her knees went weak. Alarm shot through her. “Alejandro?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

She put a hand to her belly, sixth sense telling her that Makin’s news wasn’t good.

Crossing to the marble bench in the dappled shade, Emmeline sat down, feeling the tug of the lace skirt around her hips and how her ivory silk blouse clung to her damp, warm skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

Emmeline’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach. “What happened?”

“He went into cardiac arrest a couple of hours ago. And even though they had the best doctors and nurses in all of Miami, they couldn’t get his heart beating again.”

It took her a second to process everything. “He’s gone.”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes, besieged by wildly different emotions. Shock, grief, regret. But the grief and sorrow weren’t for herself, or Alejandro. They were for Alejandro’s five children. Their lives would now be changed forever.

“Are you feeling faint?” Makin asked.

She shook her head, opened her eyes. “No.”

“This must be quite a blow.”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry.”

She pushed a loose tendril of hair back from her face. “You didn’t like him.”

“He was a father.”

She nodded. “I feel for his children,” she answered, realizing now that her child would never have the chance to know his or her father. “I wonder if they know yet. I wonder if his wife knows.”

“Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”

“What?”

“To pretend you care about his family …?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“You chase Ibanez, sleep with him—”

“I didn’t know he was married until you told me, and I didn’t chase him. He chased me.”

“So that makes it okay to sleep with a married man?”

“No! Heavens, no! I’m horrified, disgusted. I made a terrible mistake.”

“And your engagement? Did you not know about that, either?”

She swallowed around the thick lump filling her throat. No wonder Makin enjoyed ridiculing her. She sounded pathetic. Stupid beyond belief. “I did.”

“That’s a relief, because I’d hate to think that everyone but you knew.”

She winced. Blood rushed to her cheeks again. “He pursued me, not the other way around. Some days he’d call or text over and over, and this went on for years.”

“So you’re saying it is okay to cheat?”

“No. But I wasn’t married to Zale yet, and I was still hoping to marry for love, not money. My parents knew I didn’t want an arranged marriage. I wanted a love match, and I thought since Alejandro loved me, we would have that.”

“If you didn’t want to marry Zale, why didn’t you say no? Why enter the arrangement in the first place?”

Makin Al-Koury was a powerful man, and he understood a great deal about politics and economics. But he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know what it was like to be a woman. Much less a beautiful, sheltered young woman with no vocation, few practical skills and a numbing lack of real world experience. Emmeline’s only purpose and power lay in her marriage ability. “Because I didn’t have a choice.”

“You were forced into the arrangement?”

She shrugged, worn out from trying to make him understand. He’d been raised by different parents, who had a different plan for him than hers had had for her. “There are different kinds of pressure. It’s not always about physical force. Women can be intimidated emotionally, psychologically—” She broke off, shook her head. “But that’s neither here nor there. The fact is, I have known since I was a little girl that my parents would choose my husband for me. They made sure that from a young age I knew my duty.”

“Apparently they didn’t. Because everyone but King Patek knows you’ve been hooking up with Ibanez over the years.”

Emmeline flushed. “That’s not true. We never hooked up.”

“So you’re not pregnant?”

“Yes. Yes, I did sleep with him. But it was only one time, and he was my. first.” Her voice wobbled. “I was a virgin until then.”

Makin snorted with derision.

Emmeline’s flush deepened, heat spreading through her body until she tingled all over. “Believe what you want. I don’t have to answer to you, or impress you, or try to make you like me. You and I will never see eye to eye—” She broke off abruptly and turned away, horrified to discover that she was about to cry.

Thank God he didn’t say anything right away, or laugh. Thank God there was just the bubble and splash of the fountain. But the silence stretched too long. Emmeline glanced at Makin and saw his expression.

Hard. Unforgiving.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat and lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed by his judgment, knowing that others would look at her the exact same way. Including her parents. It would hurt. But it wouldn’t kill her. Over time she’d learn to weather the disapproval without letting it get to her. She’d learn she could stand on her own two feet just fine.

“I know you don’t think much of me,” she said. “But I will be a good mother. I will do what’s right for my child, starting with seeing a doctor as soon as I get back to Europe.”

“Then let’s stop wasting time and get you on a plane for Brabant—”

“I’m not going to Brabant. I’m going to London.”

“Not back to Brabant?”

“No. Never.”

“But that is your home, your country—”

“Not anymore.”

“You can’t change your birthright, Your Highness. You are descended from one of the oldest royal families in all of Europe. Your bloodline ties you to the very country.”

“I will find a new country to call home. Lots of royals do it.”

“Yes, in countries where monarchy has been replaced by democracy or socialism, but Brabant is still a constitutional monarchy and as far as I know, you are the rightful heir to the throne. Why would you give that up?”

“Because I’m not the rightful heir,” she said huskily, walking away from him to approach the pool. “I’m not a true heir at all—”

“That’s ridiculous.”

She shrugged. “But true. And that’s why I won’t be going home, and why I won’t be asking for forgiveness or mercy. I don’t have to tell my parents anything. I’m twenty-five, of majority, and have access to the trust set up for me by my late grandfather. If I am careful, it’s more than enough for me to live on.”

“And your child?” he asked. “If you walk away from them, he or she may never be accepted by your family.”

“I am sure he—or she—won’t be,” she said after a moment.

“Certainly not, if you plan on running away … hiding in the English countryside?”

“I wouldn’t be hiding. I’d be living quietly, raising my child with, I hope, some privacy and dignity—”

“You hope?” His mouth tightened. “Is that your bright plan? To hope to have some privacy and dignity?” He made a rough, low sound of disgust. “Good luck, Your Highness. You’re going to need it.” With another low, derisive snort, he turned around and walked away.

She drew a quick breath, feeling as if he’d slapped her. “I might be running away but you’re great at walking away,” she called after him, hands curling into fists, her voice vibrating with emotion.

“What?”

“You can do it because you have power,” she said as he turned to face her. “Most of us can’t. We have to stand there and take it. But you don’t have to. You’re a man, and one of the world’s richest. Everybody needs you. Everybody wants your approval or your protection. It must feel good.”

He started back toward her. “How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice? You are a guest in my home. You are completely dependent on me—”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

“No, you didn’t ask. You forced yourself on me by impersonating my assistant.”

“Then let me go.”

“I would love you to go.”

She visibly flinched, stung. And yet, why did she care what he thought? Why did he have the power to hurt her? Swallowing hard, she walked around the pool and toward the house. “Great. That makes two of us. If you’ll have a driver take me to the airstrip, I’ll fly out immediately.”

“With what plane?”

She stopped short. “The one you were going to send Hannah on.”

“Oh, my plane. But that was for Hannah. You can send for your own.”

“I don’t have my own plane.”

“I guess you’ll need to ask your parents.”

She clamped her jaw tight. “That’s exactly what I meant when I said you love your power. You want the world to think you’re this good, caring person. You put on conferences and host events and fund research, but you do it to prove you are superior.”

“Someone should teach your some manners.”

“It won’t be you. You have none.”

“Perhaps I should drop you off along the desert highway. see if any of my good Bedouin tribe members happen along and let you hitchhike a ride home. Or they may not. You might end up as desert road kill.”

“What a gentleman.”

“No. Wouldn’t claim that one at all. But then, why do I need to be a gentleman? You’re no lady.”

“Having fun now, are you?”

A hot light flickered in his silver eyes. “No. Not at all. So help me understand what it is you want from me. Do you want pity? Sympathy? Poor Emmeline, poor little princess, she’s been so mistreated—”

“Go to hell,” she gritted, walking past him into the living room. He was so appallingly chauvinistic. So arrogant and self-righteous that she couldn’t even believe this was the same man she’d kissed last night. And last night had been lovely. For a moment last night she’d felt something beautiful and good but all the goodness was gone, leaving her shaken and disillusioned.

“Where are you going?” Sheikh Al-Koury demanded, his sharp voice followed her into the living room.

“To finish packing. Your Bedouin tribesmen sound delightful compared to you.”




CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_1b2de478-f1dc-59b4-90f5-9fc51257c2b5)


WHEN Makin Al-Koury decided to act, he acted swiftly. And this time he’d acted so swiftly Emmeline’s head still spun.

She couldn’t quite believe she was seated on his jet as it taxied down the runway preparing for takeoff only thirty minutes after she’d told him his Bedouin tribesmen sounded delightful.

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say. But then, Emmeline had struggled with containing her emotions ever since she was a child. One day she would learn control. One day she’d bite her tongue.

But until then, she’d suffer the consequences as she was suffering now.

Because she wasn’t just flying to Brabant. She was being accompanied home by Sheikh Makin Al-Koury who had decided that she couldn’t be trusted to make it home to see her parents. No, he’d decided to escort her all the way to the d’Arcy palace and leave her in her parents’ care.

What a prince.

The jet was picking up speed, racing down the narrow black runway they’d landed on just twenty-four hours before.

It was déjà vu. Everything was as it had been—they were buckled into the very same seats they’d sat in on the way to Raha. She felt the same emotions, too. Anxiety. Dread. Fear of the unknown.

Emmeline felt Makin look at her as she choked on a gasp when the jet lifted off the ground in a dramatically steep ascent.

“Nervous flyer?” he asked.

“No.” She forced herself to take a deep breath. She wasn’t a nervous flyer, but she certainly hadn’t expected to spend the rest of the day in Makin’s company. It had been a tough morning and now it would be a very long day. “Just a little queasy from takeoff.”

He hesitated, before asking gruffly, “Do you need anything?”

Her head snapped up in shock, lips parting slightly at his audacity. Did she need anything? Was he serious?

He was hauling her—by force—across the Middle East to Europe, to return her—against her will—to the royal palace in Brabant, and he wondered if she needed anything?

This. This was exactly what she didn’t get. This is exactly what she didn’t understand about him.

If he was so angry with her—and he was—then why did he care about how she felt? Why ask her about her comfort, or pretend to care about her well-being?

“Aren’t your first guests arriving this afternoon?” she answered, suppressing her confusion, realizing she’d never understand him.

“Yes.”

“You won’t be there.”

“I am fully aware of that.”

“I thought this conference was so important to you.”

“It is.”

“Then shouldn’t you be home, welcoming everyone, instead of flying twenty-nine hundred miles to haul me before my parents?”

“I thought it prudent to get you out of Raha before my guests arrived.”

She saw his expression and understood. “You thought I’d be disruptive.”

She saw that she’d hit the nail squarely on the head.

He didn’t trust her. He thought she was a loose cannon, causing trouble wherever she went.

A weight settled in her chest, making it hard to breathe. He was no different than her parents. He looked at her and saw what he wanted to see instead of who she really was.

Chest tight, Emmeline glanced away, out the window at the sea of gold sand below. Let Makin think what he wants, she told herself. It doesn’t matter … he doesn’t matter …

And yet in a small part of her heart, she could admit that maybe he did.

It had happened when he’d kissed her.

In Makin’s arms she’d felt not just safe, but … desirable. Beautiful. And she never felt beautiful as a woman. She never felt like a real woman … and she hadn’t, not until Makin kissed her, bringing someone to life inside of her.

The kiss had been the most amazing thing she’d ever felt. And she’d wanted more.

“I’m not dangerous,” she said hoarsely, unable to hold the words in, or hide the hurt.

“You didn’t say dangerous, you said disruptive.”

“I wouldn’t have embarrassed you.”

“I couldn’t have taken the chance.”

“What about your guests? You’re not even going to be there now to greet them as they arrive.”

“My friend Sultan Nuri of Baraka has promised to do the honors.”

Emmeline knew Malek Nuri, had seen him and his wife, the European princess Nicolette Ducasse, at a number of social events over the years. They were a gorgeous couple and so very happy together. “Does he know why you’re not there? Does he know that you feel compelled personally to hand me over to the executioner?”

“You are so dramatic.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“As well as emotional.”

Blood surged to her cheeks. “And you are so critical.”

He studied her from beneath lowered lashes. “I hit a nerve, didn’t I?”

“I’ve been criticized for being emotional my entire life.”

Makin had been angry when they’d boarded the plane but now, seated across the aisle from Emmeline, he found it impossible to remain upset with her. He didn’t know if it was because she bore such a strong resemblance to Hannah, or if it was because Emmeline was an enigma, but he was intrigued by her and wanted to know more about her. “Who criticizes you?”

“My parents, particularly my mother.”

“What’s her complaint?”

“She has many.” Emmeline wrinkled her nose. “But the chief one seems to be my excessive emotion.”

“Excessive … how?”

She ticked her mother’s complaints off on her fingers. “I’m sensitive. I talk fast. I get nervous. I cry at the drop of a hat.”

His lips twitched. “Do you cry at the drop of a hat?”

“Depends on the hat.”

He grinned, amused, liking this Emmeline. She was unpretentious. Funny. Direct. “Have you and your mother always had a strained relationship?”

“Since birth.”

“Why?”

“I wish I knew.”

She suddenly sounded very serious and his brow furrowed. She’d changed into jeans and a white peasant blouse before the flight, and right now with her hair loose and no makeup, she looked young and fresh. Appealing. Like the kind of girl you’d want to take home to meet your parents, and he suddenly wondered what his parents would have thought of Emmeline d’Arcy. They’d known of her, of course, but due to his father’s health, they’d never met her.

“I was emotional as a boy,” he said abruptly. “Sensitive. I’ll never forget my mother pulling me aside when I was around eight or nine and telling me I was a big boy now and too old to cry.”

“Do you remember why you cried?”

“My father had fallen out of his wheelchair. I was scared.”

“But that would be frightening.”

“I would see worse things.”

“Sounds like you had to grow up at quite a young age.”

He shrugged. “My mother needed me. It was important I be strong for her, and my father.”

Emmeline’s expression was troubled and Makin realized the conversation had become too personal. He swiftly changed the subject to lighten the mood. “I’ve never seen you in jeans before.”

Emmeline glanced down, crossed her legs, running a hand over her thigh as she did so. “They’re Hannah’s. And Hannah’s top. I found them buried in the back of her closet.” She suddenly looked at him. “I’m going to return them to her. I promise. I’ll have them dry-cleaned and—”

“That’s between you and Hannah. I imagine she’s had to wear your clothes in Raguva. I can’t picture her playing princess in her wardrobe of brown, beige and gray.”

Emmeline smiled crookedly. “She doesn’t really have a couture wardrobe.”

“No. She’s too practical for that.”

Emmeline ran a hand over the worn denim again. “I’ve never owned a pair of jeans like these. They aren’t the designer ones. They’re real. Broken in, so soft.”

“Hannah was raised on her father’s ranch in Texas, just outside of San Antonio. Has she told you some of her stories about her life on the ranch?”

Emmeline shook her head.

“I think she found it lonely on the ranch. Her father raised her. She didn’t have a mother. She grew up riding and roping and helping with roundups.”

“Such a different life than mine.”

“I can’t see you on a ranch.”

“Neither can I, but I do ride. Not Western-style, of course. I used to compete.”

“Dressage?”

She grinned. “No, jumping. I was quite good.” She must have seen the disbelief in his eyes because she laughed and added, “I really was. Even made the Brabant Olympic Equestrian team at twenty.”

“You participated in the Olympics?”

“Well, I made it there, but ended up getting thrown in my first event. It was a nasty fall, and for almost twenty-four hours I had no feeling below my chest. Thank goodness full sensation eventually returned, but that was the end of my riding. I’m not allowed to compete again.”

“I had no idea.”

“I can’t imagine you reading tabloid magazines, so it’s unlikely you’d know I was mad about jumping. It’s not exactly mainstream news.”

“Your accident would have made headlines.”

“It was mentioned that I was thrown, but there was a massive earthquake the next day, and the focus turned to real news.”

“How many years ago was that?”

“Five.” She glanced down at her middle and pressed a hand to the peasant blouse, flattening the cotton fabric over her still-flat stomach. “That’s how I met Alejandro. He was at the course when I was thrown and he came to the hospital to check on me. The nurses wouldn’t let him in. Alejandro being Alejandro—” She broke off, swallowed. “—he told them he was my fiancé, and they let him in.”

Makin thought he’d known Princess Emmeline all of these years. He thought he’d known everything important about her—beautiful, fashionable, chic, as well as soft, pampered and lazy. He’d imagined that her only ambition was being seen and photographed. Instead she’d spent years training in a highly competitive, dangerous sport. She’d been thrown from a horse. She was far stronger than he’d ever imagined.

“That’s how the rumors and talk started,” she added. “About Alejandro and me. But we weren’t involved. There was nothing between us, not until March.”

“But over the years you were seen with him, time and again.”

“Because he would search me out. Never the other way around. I was never interested in him. He wasn’t my type. I know you don’t believe me, but I worked very hard to rebuff him. Only, I think that backfired. The more I pushed him away, the more determined he was to win.”

Looking at her stunning features—the high cheekbones, the angled jaw, the full mouth—he could believe it. She was beyond beautiful. She had a rare, luminous quality, as though there was a light inside of her making her shimmer and glow. “Men like the chase,” he said.

“So I’ve learned.” She tried to smile but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He didn’t love me. He didn’t even want me. He just wanted to. oh, what’s that English expression? Score. He just wanted to score.” She met his gaze, smiled mockingly. “And he did. Now he’s gone. I’m pregnant. And nothing will ever be the same, will it?”

He felt such a sharp tug of emotion that it almost took his breath away. She’d been through a difficult time and things weren’t going to be getting any easier. He suddenly knew she needed a friend, someone in her corner. Someone who would be there for her. “You’re right. It won’t be.”

“I’m scared.”

He felt another inexplicable tug on his emotions. Gone was the glossy, glamorous princess who had sailed through life untouched by the problems of ordinary mortals. She looked young and real and heartbreakingly vulnerable. “You could end the pregnancy. No one would be the wiser.”

“I would.”

“It’d be the best thing for you.”

“But not for the baby!” she flashed hotly, color suffusing her cheeks. “And I know you don’t like Alejandro—”

“This has nothing to do with him,” he interrupted sternly. “And I’m not a proponent of abortion. But I think you have to be very practical right now, think hard on your choices. You are Princess Emmeline d’Arcy and the world holds you to a different standard.”

“Perhaps. But I could no more abort the pregnancy than amputate an arm or leg. I love this baby, and I want this baby and am prepared to make the necessary sacrifices to ensure that he or she has the best possible life.”

Makin regarded her steadily, torn between admiration and concern, aware that the road ahead of her would not be easy. But life wasn’t about making the easy decision, it was about making the right decision, and if keeping the baby was the right thing for her, then he supported her one hundred percent. Life was fragile and precious and full of unknowns.

Makin was all too familiar with the fragility of life. He’d known since he was a teenager that he’d never be able to have children due to the gene he’d inherited from his father. And so at twenty, six months after his father’s death, Makin had elected to have a vasectomy to ensure that he couldn’t carelessly or accidentally impregnate his partner. He simply could not take the risk of passing on such a fatal, painful disease to his children. It had been bad enough watching his father suffer. He couldn’t imagine his own children suffering the same fate.

“Then you need to be strong,” he said to Emmeline at length. “You need to hold tightly to your convictions and do not let anyone sway you from what you believe is right and true.”

They traveled in silence for nearly forty minutes and then the captain announced that they would be starting their descent momentarily.

Emmeline looked out the window and then at Makin. “We’re still flying over desert.”

“We’re stopping in Nadir to refuel. We’ll only be on the ground fifteen or twenty minutes.” He paused, studied her brown hair, aware that it wasn’t her true color. “Do you have a personal hair stylist?”

“Yes. She’s in Raguva with Hannah.”

“Which means she could be anywhere.” He saw Emmeline’s expression and clarified, “Hannah’s no longer in Raguva. She left the palace early this morning and should be on her way back to Dallas now.”

“So King Patek knows?”

“He discovered the truth last night.”

“My parents must know then, too.”

“I did send word we were on the way and had to stop and refuel. They aren’t expecting us until midafternoon.”

“It’s going to be pretty ugly when we get to Brabant,” she said slowly.

“You have to face your family sooner or later.”

“Then later seems preferable.”

“Right now, maybe. But it’s always better to confront problems head-on. I act as soon as I can. It saves heartache down the road.”

“That’s why we’re on the plane now. Better to get me home quickly than delay and risk more trouble.”

“Exactly,” he agreed, and then realized how it must sound to her. He tried to soften the blow. “My father taught me not to sweep things under the carpet or play ostrich by burying your head in the sand. People will think you’re ashamed or have something to hide.”

“But I do feel shame. I’m not proud to be a single, unwed mother. I’ve made so many appearances trying to educate young girls, wanting them to be smart and careful, and yet I’ve failed to do the very thing I preach.”

“As you said, you made a mistake.”

“A terribly stupid one.”

Makin’s insides tightened, his chest knotting with sensation, and he realized now it wasn’t Hannah he’d wanted to send away yesterday. It was this person, this woman. Emmeline. Not because he disliked her, or because she’d failed him in some way, but because she was making him care. Not about grand or important things like politics and economics, but about something very small and personal. Her.

He did care for her. He was glad he was accompanying her home, if only to lend his moral support. “What’s done is done,” he said. “You can’t go back. All you can do is go forward.”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t think you should go home like this.” He indicated her hair. “Not as a brunette. Since your stylist isn’t available, I know someone who could help. She can meet us at the airport and board the plane when we refuel.”

Emmeline touched her hair. “You’re sure she’ll come?”

“She’s on my payroll.”

“She’s your stylist then?”

“No. She’s Madeline’s.”

“Madeline?”

“My … mistress.”

Emmeline frowned. “That’s right. You mentioned her last night.” She hesitated. “Does Madeline mind that her stylist will help with my hair?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable and impatient. He wished he hadn’t mentioned Madeline. There was no need to bring her up, and he certainly had no desire to discuss her with the princess. “Risa is an expert at doing hair on this jet and she’ll have you back to your natural color by the time we arrive in Brabant.”

Just a little over an hour later, they were back in the air after refueling in Nadir.

Risa, the hairstylist, had brought everything she might need in a large trunk. She had various boxes of color, foil squares, cotton strips, shampoo and conditioner, as well as a hair dryer, curling tongs, styling creams and finishing sprays.

On board, Risa immediately mixed color and applied it to Emmeline’s hair, taking little strips here and there and wrapping them in foil.

Now Emmeline sat on the bed flipping through one of the magazines Risa had brought with her while she waited for the color to finish processing, but her mind kept wandering from the magazine to Makin. Why did he have a mistress? What was the point of a mistress? Why not a girlfriend … or a wife?

A knock sounded on the door. It was Makin. He opened the door a crack. “Are you decent?”

“I’m dressed. But not sure how decent I look,” she answered, setting the magazine aside.

He opened the door wider. “You look like an alien,” he said, taking in the pieces of foil and purple cream.

Emmeline smiled wryly. “You’re not supposed to see this part.”

“Where’s Risa?”

“In the galley kitchen rinsing the bowls and brushes.” Emmeline closed the magazine and slid her legs off the bed. “Risa’s good, by the way. She knows what she’s doing.”

“She worked in Paris for ten years for a top salon before Madeline hired her away.”

“Risa told me Madeline’s blonde.” Emmeline didn’t know why she said it.

“She is,” he agreed.

Emmeline waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. “Have you always had a mistress?”

Makin blinked. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m curious. And you’ve asked me very personal things. I don’t know why I’m not allowed to know anything about you.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“Good. So, why a mistress instead of a girlfriend? What’s the point of having a mistress?”

He hesitated a moment than shrugged. “Convenience.”

Her brows knit together. “For you?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s in it for her?”

“Comfort. Security.”

“Financial security, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Because it doesn’t sound as if there is emotional security.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

“Because you have all the control. It’s a relationship on your terms. You see her when you want, and she must be available whenever you call. Which, by the way, is horrible.”

“Madeline’s not unhappy.”

“How do you know she’s not unhappy?”

“Because she’s never said she was.”

“Maybe she’s afraid to complain—”

“Madeline’s not afraid of me.”

“But she can’t feel all that secure. She’s not in a relationship with you—”

“Time to change the subject.”

“Do you love her?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Do you plan on marrying her?”

“Again, none of your business.”

“But she’s been your mistress for three years.”

“Risa told you that, didn’t she?”

“Don’t blame her. I ask too many questions.”

“I can believe that,” he said dryly.

Emmeline flushed. “It’s just that I would hate to be someone’s mistress. I would hate to spend my life waiting for someone to call me or come see me.”

“Madeline has friends in Nadir, and a busy social life attending parties and fashion shows.”

“I’d rather be poor and have someone to love me, than to have lots of money and no love.”

“You can say that because you wear couture and get invitations to the most exclusive parties—”

“But clothes and parties aren’t real. Clothes and parties are frills … window dressing. I’d rather someone like me—want me—for me, than for what I have in a bank account.”

Makin suddenly smiled and shook his head. “You’re like a little dog with a bone. You’re not going to drop it, are you?”

She looked at him for a long moment before smiling reluctantly. “I’m sorry. I guess I did get a little carried away.”

“I admire your strong convictions.”

Her smile stretched wider. “You know, you’re not all bad, Sheikh Al-Koury. There are some good things about you.”

“Just hours ago you were saying I was a power monger.”

She blushed, not sure if she should laugh or cry. “Haven’t forgotten. And I haven’t forgotten that we’re not friends. And that we don’t like each other.”

His lips curved faintly. “You’re incorrigible. I don’t think anyone could control you.”

“Many have tried.”

For a moment he just looked at her, his hard features set, his gray eyes narrowed. “You can’t move to England. You’d be miserable.”

“No.”

“You would. You’d be living in a fishbowl. You couldn’t go anywhere without a half dozen paparazzi following you.”

“Not in the country.”

“Most definitely. You are Princess Emmeline d’Arcy. Once the media discovers you are pregnant and single, you will never be left alone. The tabloids will haunt you. Photographers will shadow you. The paparazzi aren’t going to disappear just because you want to live quietly.”

“Well, I can’t stay in Brabant, locked behind the palace gate, under my parents’ thumb. It’s not healthy.”

“Don’t you have a home of your own in Brabant?”

“My grandparents left me an estate in the north. It’s quite pretty, a small castle with gorgeous grounds—orchards, a rose garden and even a small wood with a lake for fishing—but my parents have said that it’d cost too much for me to actually live there. Staffing it, running it, security. And so it’s mine, but unlivable.”

“I thought you said you had some money of your own now? That you’d come into your majority?”

“I do, but it’s not enough to fund the running of a château, and my parents won’t help cover the difference, nor will they ask the taxpayers to help. And I do agree with that. Our people don’t need me being a burden. That’s why I thought that I would just go somewhere else, like England, and find a small place that I could afford.”

“I think your citizens would be hurt if you left them. They love you.”

She thought of the large crowds that turned out every time she made an appearance, all ages, waving flags and carrying flowers, of all the little children who lifted their faces for a kiss. “And I love them. They have always been so very good to me. So loyal. But now I am pregnant, and it will bring them shame, which doesn’t seem right. I was to have been their perfect princess, a replacement for my aunt Jacqueline who was a most beloved princess. She’s been gone longer than she was alive, and yet they still mourn her.”

“She was stunning.”

“She was so young, too, when she died. Just twenty.”

“But now you create a new life,” he said firmly. “A new royal baby for your citizens to love and adore.”

Emmeline throat ached with emotion. “But I’m not royal—”

“What?”

She nodded. “And Alejandro is a commoner so the baby won’t be given a title, or be in line for the throne. That’s how it works in Brabant.” Her voice broke. “That’s why I had to marry King Patek. I had to marry a royal, a blue blood. And obviously I can’t marry Zale now—can’t marry any royal—and so I’m no longer in line for succession. Which means, my child won’t be, either.”

“I don’t understand. How can you not be royal? You are King William and Queen Claire’s daughter—”

“Adopted daughter.” Emmeline’s eyes met his. She hesitated, struggling to find the right words when none of them felt good. “They adopted me when I was six days old. Apparently I’m a bastard, which even today brings Claire, my adoptive mother, endless shame.”

He looked dumbstruck. “Do you know anything about your birth parents?”

“Only that my birth mother was a Brabant commoner. Young, pregnant and unwed.”

“And your father?”

“No one knows anything about him.”

“You can’t find out?”

Emmeline shook her head. “It wasn’t an open adoption. My birth mother had no idea who would be adopting me, and my parents are very private. I had no idea I was adopted until I was sixteen.” She paused, tugged on the cuff of the blouse with unsteady fingers. “My father broke the news to me just before my birthday party.”

Makin’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “The actual day of your birthday?”

She shrugged. “I know it sounds childish, but it crushed me. I’d had no idea, and then suddenly my father was telling me I was illegitimate—a bastard—born of sin.” Her lips twisted wryly. “There I was, in my beautiful party dress and brand-new high heels, my first real set of heels, feeling so grown-up and excited. Then Father called me aside and took it all away. I don’t think he meant to hurt me as much as he did. But to call me a bastard? To tell his only daughter that she was a product of sin?”

Her smile slipped for a moment, revealing raw, naked pain. “I fell apart. I think I cried the rest of the night. Silly, I know.”

“It would have been shocking for anyone.”

“Maybe.” She was silent a moment. “So you see, I understand the stigma and shame of being illegitimate. I know what it’s like to be judged and rejected. Who knows who my birth parents were, or why they had to give me up for adoption? But they did, and they must have imagined it was the best thing for me. And maybe it was. But I do know this—I want my child—he or she is not a mistake. And I will do everything in my power to ensure that he or she has the best life possible.”




CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_1e9f3866-819d-5904-9200-e1d3179f8fe6)


EMMELINE sat on the edge of the bed while Risa blew-dry her hair with a big round brush, aware that once she was home, it would be absolute hell. Her mother would lose her temper, probably scream at her that she was stupid. Her father would look morose and deeply disappointed and let her mother do all the talking. It was how they handled problems. It was how they handled problems like her. Not that she’d ever done anything to be considered a problem before, but it was how they’d always viewed her.

Sometimes Emmeline thought she should do something outrageous to give them cause for complaint, as the worst thing she’d ever done—until now—was skinny-dipping while visiting her cousins in Spain. She’d been twelve and it had seemed so daring to swim naked at night in the palace pool. Thirteen-year-old Delfina had suggested it and ten-year-old Isabel had endorsed the idea so Emmeline, nervous and giggling, joined them. And it had been fun, up until the time the palace security reported them to their parents.

Aunt Astrid had given them a scolding but Emmeline’s mother had been furious. She’d demanded to know whose idea it was, and when Delfina didn’t speak up, Emmeline took the blame to protect her cousins.

Emmeline had expected that her mother would spank her and that would be the end of it. Instead her mother spanked her and sent her home to Brabant.

The spanking had been bad, but being sent away from her cousins in disgrace, so much worse.

In the fourteen years since then, not a lot had changed. Her parents were still distant, her mother rigid. Emmeline could only imagine their reaction to the news that she was pregnant. She was too old to be spanked or sent away, so what would they do this time? Lock her in a tower and throw away the key?

“Almost done,” Risa said, turning off the blow-dryer.

Which meant they were almost there, Emmeline thought, hands knotting into fists.

While Risa was styling Emmeline’s hair in the rear cabin, Makin sat in his seat in the main cabin replaying the last several conversations he’d had with Emmeline in his head.

She wasn’t who he’d thought she was. She wasn’t shallow, either. Just sheltered and naive.

How could you hate someone for being sheltered? Inexperienced?

He couldn’t.

He understood now that she’d panicked back in March. She’d turned to Alejandro out of desperation, wanting someone to love her, knowing her prospective bridegroom didn’t. She’d made a gross error of judgment, but she wasn’t a terrible person. He couldn’t condone her actions, but he couldn’t dislike her anymore. Not when he understood how painful it had been for her to be married off to the highest bidder, as if she were an object instead of a smart, sensitive and shy young woman with hopes and dreams of her own.

Makin suddenly wished he hadn’t been so quick to put Emmeline on the plane for Brabant. But it was too late to turn around. All he could do now was offer her his support and let her know she wasn’t alone.

An hour later they were in the back of a limousine sailing toward the palace. Just before landing Emmeline changed into a black pencil skirt and a chic black satin blouse, which she accessorized with a long strand of ivory pearls. Her hair, now a gleaming golden blond, was drawn into an elegant chignon at the back of her head. She wore pearls at her ears.

She was nervous, beyond nervous, but she squashed every visible sign of fear, flattening all emotion, refusing to let herself think or feel. Things were what they were. What would happen would happen. She would survive.

“Not that it matters, but I’m not a fan of arranged marriages,” Makin said abruptly, breaking the silence. “They’re popular in my culture, but it’s not for me.”

She looked at him, surprised that he had shared something personal. “Your parents didn’t try to arrange anything for you?”

He shook his head. “They were a love match. They wanted the same for me.”

“Are they still alive?”

“No. They died quite a few years ago. My father first—I was twenty—and my mother the year after.” He hesitated. “We expected my father’s death. He had been ill for a long time. But my mother … she was still young. Just forty-one. It was quite a shock. I wasn’t at all prepared to lose her.”

“An accident?” she murmured.

“Heart attack…” His voice drifted off and he frowned, his strong brow creasing. “Personally, I think it was grief. She didn’t want to be without my father.”

Emmeline looked at Makin and the emotion darkening his eyes. Until he’d kissed her last night, she’d imagined him to be cool…cold…and quite detached. Now she was beginning to understand that with him, still waters ran deep. His cool exterior hid a passionate nature. “They were happy together?”

“Very. They had an extraordinary relationship, and they were devoted to each other, from the day they met until the very end. I was lucky to have parents who loved each other so much, and to be part of that circle of love. It made me who I am.”

“So why haven’t you married?” she asked, noting that he, too, had showered and dressed just before they landed. He now wore a gray shirt and black trousers, and the crisp starched shirt was open at the collar and exposed the hollow of his throat. His skin was the burnished gold of his desert, perfectly setting off his black hair and striking silver eyes.

And it was a good question, she thought, waiting for him to answer. He was gorgeous. Brilliant. Ridiculously wealthy. He would be the catch of the century.

His broad shoulders shifted. “I haven’t met the right one.”

“And what would she be like?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t met her yet. But I’ll let you know the moment I do.”

Makin saw her lips curve and her eyes dance as she laughed at him. He wouldn’t have thought he’d like her laughing at him and yet he found himself amused by her amusement. She didn’t laugh often, but now she came alive, mouth lifted, dimples flashing, light dancing in her eyes. She was joyous … mischievous … happier and younger than he’d ever seen her and it crossed his mind that he would do almost anything to see her smile like this again.

He glanced from her eyes to her appealing lips, and suddenly Makin wanted to touch her, kiss her, part those soft, full lips and taste her again as he had last night in the garden.

He’d thought it was the candlelight and moonlight and dark purple sky bewitching him, but now he knew better. He knew it was her. She was the magic. But he had Madeline, and Emmeline was pregnant. They each had their own path, a path they had been destined to travel.

“I have a plan,” he said firmly, hating that his body had hardened and he felt hot and restless next to her. He couldn’t let her affect him this way. He did have a plan—he had a vision—he’d vowed to do something significant with his life and he would.

If his father could be as successful as he had been with a disease so brutal and debilitating, a disease that destroyed his spine and his limbs, eventually robbing him of movement and speech, trapping his brilliant mind in a wasteland of a body, then Makin should be able to move mountains.

But he couldn’t move mountains if he got distracted. One day he’d have time for more. But not now.

Not now, he repeated, his gaze moving to the pearls around her neck. He’d never been a fan of pearls. They reminded him too much of old ladies and uptight college girls in cashmere twinsets, but Emmeline made pearls look glamorous. No, make that sexy. The long strand around her neck hung between her breasts almost to her waist. They slid across the black satin of her blouse as she moved, outlining one soft swell of breast and then the other. He found it almost impossible to look away from the luminescent pearls.

He stifled a groan as he felt yet another hot surge of desire, his attraction to her now complicated by his desire to protect her. He didn’t know when he’d begun to develop feelings for her, but he did care about her, and there was nothing simple about their relationship anymore.

“Not far now,” Emmeline said quietly, the laughter gone from her voice.

The car was speeding from the freeway to a quiet city street, and she was focused on the old buildings passing by, but her expression was serene, her blue eyes clear and untroubled.

If one didn’t know better you’d think she was heading to a fashion show and luncheon instead of an excruciating encounter with her parents.

If one didn’t know, he silently repeated, realizing he’d never known her. Realizing he’d always looked at the externals—the impossibly beautiful young woman, her effortless style, her placid expression—and had imagined that she sailed through life unmarked, untouched, unconcerned with the human fray.

He’d been wrong.

Emmeline suddenly turned her head and looked at him. For a moment she just looked into his eyes, cool and composed, and then her lips slowly curved up. “Is there something on my face?” she asked, arching a winged eyebrow, looking every inch a princess. “Or perhaps something green in my teeth?”

He nearly smiled at the something green in her teeth. She was funny. All these years he’d thought he’d known her, but he hadn’t. He’d known of her, and then he’d projected onto her, but he’d gotten her wrong.

She wasn’t stiff and dramatic and petulant. She was emotional, but she was also smart, warm, with a mischievous streak running through her.

“I have a feeling you were a handful as a little girl,” he said.

She wrinkled her nose. “I must have been. Until I was thirteen I thought my name was Emmeline-get-in-here-you’re-in-trouble-d’Arcy.”

Makin laughed softly, even as his chest suddenly ached. She was funny. And sweet. And really lovely. Heartbreakingly lovely and he didn’t know why he’d never seen it before.

Was it because she was so pretty? Was it because she looked like a princess that he had assumed the worst?

“I’m glad I had the chance to spend the past few days with you,” he said. “When you get past the body guards and ladies-in-waiting and multitude of assistants, you’re quite likable.”

She choked on a laugh. “Careful. Don’t be too nice. I might think we were friends.”

It crossed his mind that she could probably use a friend. He was beginning to understand there wasn’t anyone in her life to protect her. It was wrong. “So tell me, how will it go once we reach your home?”

The warmth faded from her eyes. “It won’t be pleasant. There will be hard things said, particularly from my mother.”

“She has a temper?”

“She does. She can be … hurtful.”

“Just remember, sticks and stones might break your bones…”

“… but words will never hurt me.” She finished the children’s rhyme, and her voice trailed off. She smiled a little less steadily. “It’ll be fine.”

That smile nearly pushed him over the edge.

He understood then that it wasn’t going to be fine. It wouldn’t be fine at all.

He looked away again, out the window at the elegant gray eighteenth-century buildings lining the square. It was raining, just a light drizzle, but the gray clouds made the afternoon feel dark and gloomy. The only color on the streets were the rows of trees leading to the adjacent park, lushly green with new spring growth.

“It seems bad now,” he said, aware that he was in danger of becoming too involved, caring too much. He needed to step back. Put some distance between him and Emmeline. He was merely bringing her home, returning her safely to her family. “But this will pass. In fact this time tomorrow you could have a whole new set of problems.”

“Oh, I hope not,” she answered with a cool, hollow laugh as the palace gates loomed before them. “I think I have enough on my plate. Don’t you?”

Entering the palace salon where her parents waited was like walking into a minefield, Emmeline thought several minutes later. She hadn’t even walked all the way through the salon doors before her mother exploded in anger.

“What were you thinking? Were you even thinking?” Queen Claire d’Arcy was on her feet in an instant, her voice a sharp ricochet of sound. “Or was your intention to humiliate us?”

“Absolutely not,” Emmeline answered firmly, forcing herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, closing the gap between them. In a dim part of her brain she knew that Makin was behind her but he was the least of her worries now. “I would never want to humiliate you—”

“But you did! Zale Patek didn’t give us a specific reason why he felt it necessary to break off the engagement, only that he was concerned about a lack of compatibility. Compatibility,” the queen repeated bitterly. “What does that even mean?”

“He was merely being polite. The fault is mine.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Emmeline ignored the jab. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you—”

“When haven’t you?”

“—and will try to make amends.”

“Good. At least we agree on something. You are to return to Raguva immediately and beg His Highness for forgiveness. Do whatever it is you must do, but do not return without his ring on your finger—”

“I can’t.”

“Emmeline, it’s not an option. It’s your duty to marry him. Your duty to provide heirs for him—”

“I can’t, Mother. I’m already pregnant.”

The grand salon, coolly elegant in white and gold, went strangely silent. For a moment there was no sound, no motion, and then her mother sank into her chair by her father’s side.

Finally her mother’s head tipped. “What did you just say, Emmeline?”

Emmeline glanced at her father, who, so far, hadn’t said a word. True to form he sat silent and grim, letting her mother do all the talking. “I … I’m…” She drew a deep breath. “…nearly eight weeks pregnant.”

“Please tell me I heard you wrong.” Her mother’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“I wish I could.” Emmeline’s voice sounded faint to her own ears.

“And of course it’s not Zale Patek’s.”

“No.”

“Slut.”

Emmeline heard Makin hiss a breath, but she didn’t even flinch. She’d expected this. Had known it wouldn’t be pleasant. And it wasn’t.

“How dare you?” Claire choked on the words. “You ungrateful girl! How dare you throw every good thing we have done for you back in our faces?”

Emmeline felt rather than heard Makin move to her side. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself? You ruin your chances, you ruin us, and you’re sorry?”

Emmeline lifted her chin, determined to stay calm, determined to remain strong. Tears would serve no purpose, just make her look weak and emotional. Instead she’d accept the consequences, no matter how painful. It’d been her decision to sleep with Alejandro. Now she had to deal with the repercussions. “Yes. And while this is the last thing I wanted to happen, it has, and I’m going to take responsibility.”

“And may I ask who the father is? Or is that secret knowledge?”

Emmeline’s lips parted but Makin spoke first.

“I am,” he said clearly, his deep voice firm.

Emmeline turned to face him, jaw dropping in shock, but he didn’t even look at her. He was staring straight at her mother, a snarl twisting his lips. “I am,” he repeated fiercely, “and I would like a little bit of respect, please.”

Emmeline’s legs turned to jelly, even as her head spun. She reached for Makin. “What are you doing?” she choked, as his fingers curled around hers.

“Making this right,” he growled.

She shook her head frantically. “It won’t… it won’t, trust me.”

“No. It’s time you trusted me.” And then with a small, hard smile in her parents’ direction, he walked Emmeline out and closed the doors behind him.

In the hall Emmeline’s legs threatened to give out. “Do you have any idea what you just did?” she said, holding his arm tightly.

“Yes.” He frowned at her. “You’re feeling faint, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

He swore beneath his breath and swung her into his arms. “I should not have brought you back!”

“But you did. Now, put me down. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

He ignored her, exiting the hall for the grand foyer with the blue-painted dome, and began to climb the stairs two at a time.

“Makin, please. I can walk.”

“Not going to have you faint and risk having you, or the baby, hurt,” he answered, continuing up the marble steps with single-minded focus. “Isn’t your room up here somewhere?”

“On the second floor, yes. But I won’t faint—”

“Good.” He shifted her weight in his arms as he reached the top stair. “Right or left?”

She peeked over his shoulder, saw the familiar hall with ivory-painted woodwork, gleaming chandeliers overhead and the pale gold-and-ivory carpet runner underfoot. “Right. But I can walk—”

“Fantastic. Which room?”

“That one,” she said, nodding at a closed door. “And you didn’t need to claim the baby. I was going to tell them the truth.”

“The truth?” he repeated, leaning down to turn the knob and push the door open, giving her a whiff of his subtle spicy cologne, the scent that always made her insides curl.

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly, growing warm and warmer. “It’s what you told me to do.”

“Until I saw your mother in action and thought she was the devil.”

“Makin.”

“I did. I still do.” He crossed the bedroom floor with the same long strides that had eaten up the stairs and hall. “No wonder Alejandro seemed like an attractive option. Your mother is terrifying!”

“She didn’t terrify you.”

His arms tightened around her. “No. But she did make me angry.”

Emmeline inhaled sharply as he held her even closer to his chest. His body was muscular and hard. His spicy fragrance teased her senses and she could feel his heart thudding beneath her ear. Alejandro had been cold in bed. She didn’t think Makin would be cold. She didn’t think he’d be detached or indifferent, either.

The thought of Makin in bed with her, naked next to her, was both thrilling and terrifying. He was beyond gorgeous, but too big … too strong … too overwhelming in every way.

She was glad when he placed her on the bed and she scooted to the middle to try to clear her head.

He gazed down at her, his arms crossing over his chest, emphasizing the width of his rib cage. “You’re an adult, Emmeline. You don’t owe them your soul.”

“My mother thinks I do.”

“I noticed.” He shook his head in disgust. “That’s why I spoke up. She wanted a name, so I gave her one.”

“But that’s just going to make things worse, Makin. She’s going to expect you to provide for the baby—”

“I will.”

“No, you won’t. It’s my baby and I’m responsible. Not you.”

His strong jaw firmed in protest, and she didn’t think he’d ever looked quite so powerful and primitive and male.

“And so what do you want me to do, Emmeline? Just leave you here with them? Allow your parents to ride roughshod over you?”

“I can manage them.”

“Just like you did in the salon?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks and she jerked her chin up. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Have you lost your mind? That was horrendous. A bloodbath. If it had been your father speaking I probably would have punched him.”

“Makin!”

“I’m serious.”

“I appreciate your support, I do, but telling them you’re the baby’s father isn’t the way. We have to go tell them the truth before it’s too late.” Her voice broke and a tendril of pale hair slipped from her chignon to tumble against her cheek. “And please understand that while I appreciate you speaking up for me, it’s time I stood on my own two feet—”

“So what do you want me to do?” he interrupted. “Stand by and do nothing? Allow your mother to attack you? Destroy you?”

Her heart suddenly ached. Hot tears filled her eyes. “Sticks and stones, Makin, remember?”

He held her gaze for an endless span of time. “But the rhyme has it wrong. Words can hurt. They were crushing you.”

For a second she couldn’t breathe: her chest on fire, her heart in pain. “She doesn’t really mean it,” she whispered. “It sounds worse than it is. Mother just has a temper.”

“She crossed the line, Emmeline. She said too much.”

“She did. But she’ll calm down and feel bad later. She eventually always apologizes.’”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

Her shoulders twisted. “I know. But this is how it’s always been and I’m not going to change her now.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Go back to Kadar. Focus on your conference. It’s an important conference for you.”

“But you’re important, too.”

Her lips twisted wryly. “Not as important as all those dignitaries gathered at Kasbah Raha.”

His light eyes searched hers. “I won’t let them hurt you anymore, Emmeline.”

“They won’t. The worst is over.”

His jaw flexed, a muscle popping, tightening near his ear. “You’re sure of that?”

She suppressed all thought but freeing him. This wasn’t his mess, or his mistake, and she couldn’t let her life take over his. “Yes.” She held out her hand to him. “And I hope we can part as friends.”

His hand slowly enveloped hers, his gaze holding hers captive. “Friends,” he repeated slowly.

She nodded, forcing a smile to her lips to hide her sudden rush of emotion. She would miss him. She’d grown to like him. Probably far more than she should. “Can we stay in touch? Maybe we could drop each other a line now and then?”

“That sounds like a plan.”




CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_9808a52c-da67-562e-a366-2bf1b872fba5)


AFTER Makin left, Emmeline stayed in her room and even took dinner there, unable to face anyone.

She wished Makin had stayed.

Not because she needed him to fight her fights, but because he was good company. Interesting company. And he made her feel interesting, too.

She liked that he listened to her when she talked, liked how his eyes rested on her mouth, his brow furrowed intently. No one had ever talked to her as much as Makin had. No one had ever cared so much, either.

She fell asleep missing him, and woke up thinking of him and was grateful when her father sent for her during her morning coffee, if only to get her mind off Makin.

Emmeline’s hands shook as she finished buttoning her navy silk blouse. She’d paired it with a long skirt the same color and added a wide, dark chocolate crocodile belt at her waist that matched her high heels. It was a mature, elegant, subdued look, perfect for the morning after yesterday’s histrionics.

She slipped a necklace of Murano glass beads around her neck, the beads a swirl of gold, bronze and blue, and wondered if her mother would be waiting in the library or if this was to be just a father-daughter talk. One of those unbearably tense conversations her father had with her, where he talked and talked, and she listened and listened?

Regardless, she had to go. Dressed, with her hair drawn back into a smooth ponytail, and just mascara on her lashes, she left her room for the library, each step making her stomach churn.

Makin must be back in Kadar now, surrounded by his beloved desert and his important work. She felt an ache in her chest, near her heart.

Emmeline knocked firmly on the library door and waited for King William to permit her to enter. When he did, she found him seated at his enormous desk searching for an item in the center drawer.

“I had no idea,” he said, frowning into his open drawer as she crossed the room to stand before his desk. “I wish you had spoken up.”

She folded her hands in front of her, her own brow furrowing; she wasn’t at all sure what he was referring to but she knew better than to interrupt.

“It would have helped if you’d explained, might have made the scene in the salon less uncomfortable.” He looked up at her now, blue gaze reproving. “It was damn uncomfortable. Especially with Al-Koury there.”

She sucked in a breath, hating the butterflies she got every time Makin’s name was mentioned. “Yes, Father.”

“But at the same time, I understand why you didn’t say anything. I understand that Al-Koury wanted to speak to me first, and I appreciate the courtesy. I’m glad he’s a gentleman and wanted to ask for your hand properly—”

“What?”

“Although to be quite honest,” he continued, “Al-Koury should have come on his own, asked for your hand, before traveling with you. It is irregular, what with you being engaged to Zale Patek. A bit presumptuous. Put me in the hot seat, especially with your mother. But you’re both human. Things happen.”




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