Not Fit for a King?. Jane Porter

“Sheikh Al-Koury can’t make you work if you’re ill. Not even he would drag a sick woman from her bed. And you wouldn’t have to leave the hotel. I could book some spa treatments for you tomorrow and you could be pampered all afternoon—”

      “But I sound like an American, not a Brabant royal!”

      “I heard you introduce your sheikh boss in French yesterday at the polo tournament. You speak French perfectly, without even an accent.”

      “That’s because I lived with a family in France one year during high school.”

      “So speak French tomorrow. It always throws Americans.” Emmeline suddenly grinned. “We can do this. Bring hair color with you in the morning, a blond color for you and your chestnut color for me, and we’ll do our hair and change clothes and think what an adventure it’ll be!”

      There was something infectious in Princess Emmeline’s laugh and Hannah reluctantly smiled back. If Hannah had met the princess in school she would have wanted to be her friend. There was something special about Emmeline, something engaging. “It’d only be for a couple of hours, just tomorrow afternoon. Right?”

      Emmeline nodded. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

      Hannah chewed the inside of her lip. “Will you be safe, going out on your own?”

      “Why wouldn’t I? People will think I’m you.”

      “But you’re not doing anything dangerous, are you? Putting yourself in harm’s way?”

      “Absolutely not. I’m staying in Palm Beach, not traveling anywhere. Say you’ll help me, Hannah, please.”

      How could Hannah say no? The princess was positively desperate and Hannah had never been able to say no to someone in need of help. “I’ll do it, but just for the afternoon.”

      “Thank you! Merci!” Emmeline reached out and clasped Hannah’s hand in her own. “You are an angel, and you won’t regret this, Hannah. I promise you.”

      CHAPTER ONE

       Three days later—Raguva

      BUT Hannah did regret it. She regretted it more than she’d ever regretted anything.

      Three days had passed since she’d switched places with Emmeline. Three endless days of pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Three days of living a lie.

      Hannah should have stopped this yesterday before heading to the airport.

      She should have confessed the truth when she could have.

      Instead she’d boarded the royal jet and flown to Raguva as if she really was Europe’s most celebrated princess instead of an American secretary who just happened to look like the stunning Princess Emmeline …

      Should have, could have, would have …

      Hannah held her breath, trying to contain her panic. She was in serious trouble now, and the only way she—and Emmeline—would survive this disaster intact was by keeping a cool head.

      Not that remaining cool and calm would be easy given that she was just about to meet Princess Emmeline’s fiancé, the powerful King Zale Ilia Patek, a man rumored to be as brilliant as he was driven, in front of his entire court.

      Hannah knew nothing about being royal, or European. Yet here she was, squeezed into a thirty-thousand-dollar couture gown with a delicate diamond tiara pinned to her artificially lightened hair after having spent a long, and very frantic night cramming everything she could learn about Zale Patek of Raguva into her head.

      Only a fool would appear before a king and his court, pretending to be his fiancée.

      Only a fool, she repeated, knowing no one was holding a gun to her head, no one was forcing her to pretend to be Emmeline. No one but herself. But she’d pledged her help to Emmeline, given the princess her word. How could she abandon the princess now?

      Hannah stiffened and gulped air as the tall gold and cream doors swung open, revealing the palace’s grand crimson throne room.

      A long row of enormous chandeliers shone so brightly overhead that she blinked, overwhelmed by the glittering and hum of sound.

      Hannah blinked again and focused on the throne dais at the far end of the room. A long red carpet stretched before her. Then a voice announced her, first in French, and then Raguvian, silencing the buzz of conversation—”Her Royal Highness, Princess Emmeline of Brabant, Duchess of Vincotte, Countess d’Arcy.”

      The formal introduction made Hannah’s head swim. How could she have thought swapping places with Emmeline was a good idea?

      Why hadn’t she perceived the dangers? Why hadn’t she realized that Emmeline’s plan had been far from foolproof?

      Because she’d been too busy enjoying the decadent spa treatments, thinking herself lucky to have this escape before she returned to her exhausting, but fascinating life as secretary for impossible to please Sheikh Makin Al-Koury of oil-rich Kadar.

      Only Emmeline had never returned.

      Instead she’d called and texted, begging Hannah to keep up the charade a few more hours, and then a day after that, saying there was a snag, and then another, but not to worry, everything was fine, and everything would be fine. All Hannah had to do was keep up the charade a little longer.

      One of the ladies-in-waiting at Hannah’s elbow whispered, “Your Royal Highness, everyone waits.”

      Hannah’s gaze jerked back to the throne at the end of the long red carpet. It seemed so far away, but then suddenly, somehow, Hannah was moving down the plush crimson carpet, placing one trembling foot in front of the other. She wobbled in her foolishly high heels, and felt the weight of her heavy silk gown with the thousands of crystals, but nothing felt as uncomfortable as the intense gaze of King Zale Patek as he watched her from his throne, his unwavering gaze resting on her face.

      No man had ever looked at her so intently and her skin prickled, heat washing through her, cheeks on fire.

      Even seated, King Patek appeared imposing. He was tall, broad-shouldered and lean, and his features were handsome and strong. But it was his expression that made her breathless. In his eyes she saw possession. Ownership. They weren’t to be married for ten days but in his eyes she was already his.

      Hannah’s mouth dried. Her heart raced. She should have never agreed to play princess here. Zale Patek of Raguva would not like being played the fool.

      Reaching the dais, she gathered her heavy teal and blue skirts in one hand and sank into a deep, graceful curtsy. Thank God she’d practiced this morning with one of her attendants. “Your Majesty,” she said in Raguvian, having practiced that, too.

      “Welcome to Raguva, Your Royal Highness,” he answered in flawless English. His voice was so deep it whispered through her, smooth, seductive.

      She lifted her head to look up at him. His gaze met hers and held, demanding her full attention. She sucked in a quick breath of surprise. This was the thirty-five-year-old king of Raguva, a country adjacent to Greece and Turkey on the Adriatic Sea. He looked younger than thirty-five. Furthermore, he was ridiculously good-looking. The photographs on the Internet hadn’t done him justice.

      Impressions continued to hit her one after the other—short dark hair, light brown eyes and a slash of high cheekbone above a very firm chin.

      The intelligence in his clear steady gaze made her think of all the great kings and Roman rulers who’d come before—Charlemagne, Constantine, Caesar—and her pulse quickened.

      He was tall, imposing, powerfully built. His formal jacket couldn’t hide the width of his shoulders, nor the depth of his muscular chest. He’d been born a prince but had trained as an athlete and become a star footballer through dedication to his sport. But he’d walked away from his incredible success when his father and mother had died in a tragic seaplane accident five years ago