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

hands from around his neck and pushed her back, setting her away from him.

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

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

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

      They lost control because what they felt was so good.

      They forgot the dangers because pleasure could be so addictive.

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

      “It’s okay—”

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

      And then he left her without a second glance.

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

      She felt shattered.

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

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

      His words hurt.

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

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

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

      And yet …

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

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

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

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

      How could something that felt so good be wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Emmeline’s smile slipped.

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

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

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

      That kiss, he thought, that kiss …

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

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

      He never lost control.

      And that kiss.

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

      He’d felt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Everything about Hannah disturbed his focus.

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

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