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?”
“Yes.”
“Because you had to see Mr. Ibanez.”
Just hearing Alejandro’s name sent a shock wave through her, because Alejandro hadn’t just rejected her, he’d rejected the baby, too. She exhaled in a rush, devastated. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Nausea rushed through her. “That’s personal.”
CHAPTER TWO
PERSONAL, Makin Al-Koury, His Royal Highness, Prince of Kadar, silently repeated, staring at Hannah from beneath his lashes, stunned that his sensible secretary had fallen for a man who had a woman in every city, as well as a wife and five children back at home.
“So what did he tell you?” Makin said coolly. “That he loved you? That he couldn’t live without you? What did he say to get you into bed?”
Her porcelain cheeks turned pink and she pushed the heavy weight of her rich brown hair off her pale shoulder. “That’s none of your business.”
So Alejandro Ibanez had seduced her.
Makin bit down, his jaws clamped tightly together. He loathed very few people but Ibanez was at the top of the list. Moving in similar polo circles, Makin had witnessed Ibanez in action and the Argentine’s tactic for getting women to sleep with him was simple—he seduced them emotionally and then bedded them swiftly. He’d convince a woman that she was special—unique—and that he couldn’t imagine living without her. And women fell for it. Hook, line and sinker.
And apparently, Hannah had, too.
He’d known all week that something was wrong with Hannah. His secretary was practical and punctual, organized and calm. She didn’t call in sick. She didn’t show up late. She didn’t make excuses. She was professional. Dedicated. Disciplined. The woman across the seat from him was none of the above.
For the past four days he’d tried to understand what had happened to his efficient secretary.
He’d pursued her as she pursued Alejandro Ibanez, and it wasn’t until tonight, when he saw her in the club, that he understood.
She’d fallen in love with Alejandro and the Argentine had callously, carelessly used her before tossing her away, breaking her heart just as he’d broken that of every other woman who came his way.
Makin’s chest felt tight and hot, and yet he wasn’t a sensitive man, nor was he emotionally close to his employees. He was their boss. They worked for him. He expected them to do their job. End of story.
“Your personal life is impacting your professional life, which is impacting mine,” he answered, offering her a small pleasant smile even though he felt far from pleasant on the inside.
Her lips compressed even as her eyes flashed at him. “I’m not allowed to be sick?”
“Not if you aren’t truly sick,” he said flatly. “In that case, you’d be taking personal days, not sick leave.”
Although pale, she sat tall, chin tilted, channeling an elegance, even an arrogance, he’d never seen in her before. “I wasn’t well,” she said imperiously, her back so tall and straight she appeared almost regal. “I’m still not well. But you can think what you want.”
His eyebrow lifted a fraction at her attitude, even as something in him responded to the challenge. Hannah had never spoken to him like this before and he grew warm, overly warm. His trousers suddenly felt too tight, and his gaze dropped to her legs. They were endless. Slim, long, bare, crossed high at her knee—
He stopped himself short. He was not going to go there. This was Hannah.
“I don’t appreciate the attitude,” he ground out. “If you’d like to keep your job, I’d drop it now.”
She had the grace to blush. “I’m not giving you attitude. I’m merely defending myself.” She paused, considered him from beneath her extravagant black lashes. “Or am I not allowed to do that?”
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Insolent, brash, defiant—”
“I’m confused. Am I an employee or a slave?”
For a moment he was silent, stunned by her audacity. What had happened to his perfect secretary? “Excuse me?” he finally said, his tone so deep and furious that she should have been silenced, but tonight Hannah seemed oblivious to any rebuke.
“Sheikh Al-Koury, certainly I’m allowed to have a voice.”
“A voice, yes, provided it’s not impudent.”
“Impudent?” Her laugh was brittle. “I’m not a disobedient child. I’m twenty-five and—”
“Completely out of line.” He leaned toward her, but she didn’t shrink back. Instead she lifted her chin, staring boldly into his eyes. He felt another raw rush of emotion, his temper battling with something else…curiosity…desire… none of which, of course, was acceptable.
But there it was. This was a new Hannah and she was turning everything inside-out, including him.
And he didn’t like it. Not a bit.
“You disappoint me,” he said brusquely. “I expected more from you.”
She tensed, pale jaw tightening, emotion flickering over her face, shadowing her eyes.
For a moment she looked fierce and proud and rather bruised.
A fighter without arms.
A warrior taken captive.
Joan of Arc at the stake.
He felt the strangest
