“There are paparazzi everywhere. Please get into the car.”

It was only then that Emmeline realized camera flashes were popping right and left. Not because of her—but because Sheikh Al-Koury was one of the world’s most powerful men.

He smiled at her, firm lips quirking as if he was amused, and yet she knew he couldn’t be—not when his silver gaze glittered like frost. “It wasn’t a request. I’m not negotiating. Get in the car.”

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 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.”

A ROYAL SCANDAL

When blue blood runs hot …

Separated at birth, twin sisters Hannah and Emmeline

had very different up-bringings: Hannah was

raised in a small town in Texas, while Emmeline

took her rightful place as a princess, enjoying

a life of unequalled privilege.

Reunited years later, the identical sisters

cause the scandal of the century by swapping places

and posing as each other.

But now their paths have crossed with

two powerful rulers—and their

princess-and-pauper charade is about to be exposed …

In December 2010 you read Hannah’s story in NOT FIT FOR A KING?

This month read Princess Emmeline’s story in HIS MAJESTY’S MISTAKE

About the Author

JANE PORTER grew up on a diet of Mills & Boon® 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

Recent titles by the same author:

NOT FIT FOR A KING?

(A Royal Scandal) A DARK SICILIAN SECRET ONE CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN VENICE (short story)

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

His Majesty’s
Mistake

Jane Porter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CHAPTER ONE

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

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

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.

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