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

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?”