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

Time he paid a call on the princess.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      EMMELINE answered the knock on her door, hoping against hope it was breakfast as she’d rung for eggs and toast a half hour ago, but it wasn’t anyone from the kitchen on her doorstep. It was Makin Al-Koury, looking elegant and polished, if a tad forbidding in his black trousers and black shirt.

      He must have just showered and shaved because his dark hair still gleamed, the skin on his bronze jaw was taut and smooth and she caught a whiff of his spicy sandalwood cologne. “You’re up early,” she said, her pulse racing, her stomach a knot of nerves.

      “We’re usually working by seven-thirty,” he answered. “You’ve been taking it easy and sleeping in.”

      There was something rather chilling about his smile this morning and her heart faltered and plummeted, making a dramatic swan dive right to her feet.

      Locking her knees, she forced herself to look up and meet his gaze head-on. His eyes were light and glacier-cool, like mist rising office.

      Last night the kiss had felt so good, but now, in the clear light of day, she knew it had been a dreadful mistake. Sheikh Makin Al-Koury was too big, too powerful, and far from civilized. He might have millions and billions of euros, and expensive toys and homes scattered across the globe, but that didn’t make him easy, or comfortable or approachable.

      “No wonder you’re sending me away. I’ve become unforgivably lazy,” she answered lightly, forcing a smile as she placed an unsteady hand over the narrow waistband of her ivory lace skirt, hoping he’d be fooled by her bravado.

      “No one can be perfect all the time.” He smiled at her. “How are you this morning?”

      “Good.”

      “And you slept well?”

      He was still smiling but she felt far from easy. “Yes, thank you.”

      “Excellent.” He paused, gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable. “In that case, I trust you feel well enough to take some dictation?”

      “Dictation?” She hoped he didn’t hear the slight stutter in her voice.

      “I need a letter written, a letter that must go out today. I’m hoping to put it on the flight with you.”

      “Of course.” Emmeline fought panic and reminded herself that she could do this. She could play the game a little longer. pretend a little longer. “Would you like me come to your office?”

      “That’s not necessary.” He put a hand on the door and pushed it all the way open. “I’m already here.”

      Emmeline stepped aside to let him in. “I just need some paper and a pen.”

      “You’ll find both in your desk in the bedroom,” he said helpfully. “In case you’ve forgotten.”

      She darted a quick look into his face, trying to understand where he was going with this, because he was most definitely going somewhere and she didn’t like it. “Thank you.”

      Heart hammering, stomach churning, she headed to the bedroom to retrieve the pad of paper and a pen from the desk, and then hesitated at the mirror hanging over the painted chest of drawers. She looked elegant this morning in her ivory silk blouse and matching lace skirt. She’d pulled her dark hair back and added a rope of pearls, and Emmeline could only pray that her polished exterior would hide her anxiety. She didn’t know anything about taking dictation. She’d never dictated a letter, either, but she’d never let the sheikh know that.

      Back in the living room, Emmeline sat down on the edge of the pale gold silk couch, pen poised. “I’m ready.”

      He glanced at her pen hovering above paper and then into her eyes. He smiled, again, all hard white teeth. “I’m not sure how to start the letter,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me? It’s for an acquaintance, King Zale Patek of Raguva. I’m not sure about the salutation. Would I say ‘Dear Your Royal Highness’? Or just ‘Your Highness’? What do you think?”

      Emmeline’s cheeks grew hot. She fought to keep her voice even. “I think either would work.”

      “Good enough.” The sheikh sat down on the couch next to her, far too close to her. And then he turned so that he fully faced her. “How about we start with ‘Your Royal Highness’?”

      She swallowed, nodded and scribbled the words onto the top of the page before looking up at him.

      “Something has come to my attention that cannot be ignored. It is an urgent personal matter, and I wouldn’t bring it to you if it weren’t important.” He paused, looked over her shoulder to see what she’d written. “Good. You’ve almost got it all. And it’s very nice handwriting, but I’d appreciate it if you took shorthand. It’s hard to get my thoughts out when you’re writing so slowly.”

      She nodded, staring blindly at the notepad, so hot and cold that she barely registered a word he said.

      She couldn’t do this. Heavens, how could she when she couldn’t even breathe? Couldn’t seem to get any air into her lungs at all. Was she having a panic attack? It had happened once before, on the night of her sixteenth birthday after her father had broken the news about her adoption.

      She’d nearly collapsed that night as her throat had seized.

      Her throat felt squeezed closed now. Her head spun. And it was all because Sheikh Al-Koury was sprawling on the couch next to her, taking up all the space, as he dictated a letter to her fiancé, King Patek.

      A letter about an urgent personal matter.

      Emmeline’s head swam.

      What could Makin Al-Koury possibly have to say to King Patek that was urgent or personal? If they were close friends, the sheikh wouldn’t have her dictate a letter. He’d send Zale a text, or an email or pick up the phone and call. No, a formal letter was reserved for acquaintances. And bearing bad news.

      “You missed a line,” Sheik Al-Koury said, leaning close to point to the page. “The last thing I just said, about me discovering some disturbing information concerning his fiancée, Princess Emmeline d’Arcy. Write it down, please.”

      He waited while she slowly wrote each word.

      “Your handwriting is getting smaller,” he said. “Good thing I’ll have you type it before sending. Now to continue. Where were we? Right, about his duplicitous fiancée, Princess—”

      “I have that part,” she interrupted huskily.

      “Not duplicitous.”

      “You didn’t say it the first time.”

      “I said it now. Put it in. It’s important. He needs to know.”

      Her pen hovered over the page. She couldn’t make it move. She couldn’t do this anymore.

      “Hannah,” he said sharply. “Finish the letter.”

      She shook her head, bit her lip. “I can’t.”

      “You must. It’s vital I get this letter off. King Patek is a good person—a man of great integrity—and one of the few royals I truly like. He needs to be told, at the very least warned, that his fiancée can’t be trusted. That she’s unscrupulous and amoral and she’ll bring nothing but shame—”

      “If you’ll excuse me,” she choked, rising from the couch, eyes burning, stomach heaving. “I don’t feel so well.”

      Emmeline raced to the bathroom, closed the door and sat down on the cold marble floor next to the deep tub. She felt so sick she wished she’d throw up.

      Instead she heard Sheikh Al-Koury’s words swirl and echo around in her head. Duplicitous. Unscrupulous. Amoral.

      They