His Majesty's Mistake Page 2

  “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

  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 no
t?”

  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.