by Jane Porter
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
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. Am
oral.
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 la
vender-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?”
