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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Madness.

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

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

      As she had tonight.

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

      Thank God she’d be gone in the morning.

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

      Makin felt like hell.

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

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

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

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

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

      Alejandro’s accident had finally hit the newswire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Impossible.

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

      He knew that expression. He knew those eyes.

      His uneasiness increased.

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

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

      Hannah’s.

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

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

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

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

      Could they … could Hannah be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Unbelievable.

      He drummed his fingers on the desk.

      Unthinkable.