Jane Porter - Midnight at the Oasis - His Majesty's Mistake

Maybe he shouldn’t transfer her to London. Maybe he should fire her. Her impudence was galling. He wouldn’t have accepted this blatant lack of respect from anyone but her.

“You go too far,” he thundered. He hadn’t actually raised his voice, but his tone was so hard and fierce that it silenced her immediately.

She fell back into her seat, shoulders tense, lips pressed thinly. For a moment he imagined he saw pain in her eyes and then it was gone, replaced by a stony chill.

“I’m trying to help you,” he said quietly.

She looked away, her gaze settling on the bubbling fountain. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”

“Maybe I am.”

And there it was. The truth. Spoken aloud.

He’d said it and he saw by the way she flinched she’d heard it, too.

For a long, endless moment they sat in silence, she staring at the blue ceramic fountain while he stared at her, drinking in her profile, memorizing the delicate, elegant lines of her face. He’d never appreciated her beauty before, had never seen the high-winged eyebrow, the prominent thrust of her cheekbone, the full, sensual curve of her lips.

His chest grew tight, a spasm of intense sensation. Regret. A whisper of pain. He would miss her.

“Is that it, then?” she asked, turning her head to look at him, dark hair spilling across her shoulder and over the soft ripe chiffon of her orange dress. She was staring deeply into his eyes as if she were trying to see straight through him, into the very heart of him.

He let her look, too, knowing she couldn’t see anything, knowing she, like everyone else, only saw what he allowed people to see.

Which was nothing.

Nothing but distance. And hollow space.

Years ago knowing that his father was dying and that his mother didn’t want to live without his father, he’d constructed the wall around his emotions, burying his heart behind brick and mortar. No one, not even Madeline, was given access to his emotions. No one was ever allowed that close.

“Is that why we’re here having dinner?” she added. “Is that what you came here tonight to say?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him for another long, unnerving moment, her eyes a brilliant, startling blue against the paleness of her face. “All right.” She shrugged lightly, almost indifferently, and rose to her feet. “Am I excused then?”

“Dinner hasn’t even been served.”

“I don’t think I could stomach a bite now, and it seems a waste of time to sit and make small talk when I could begin getting organized for my flight tomorrow.”

“DINNER hasn’t been served,” he repeated calmly, leaning back in his chair, stretching out his legs, his broad shoulders square.

Emmeline gazed down at him, thinking that if one didn’t know him, one might think he was a gorgeous, easygoing man, the kind of man you’d want to take home to meet the family.

But she did know him. And he was gorgeous but he wasn’t easy, or simple or kind.

He was fierce and intimidating and totally overwhelming.

But she was supposed to be Hannah, and Hannah was supposed to like him, even though he’d just transferred her to a new position in London.

“I’m sure the kitchen could send the meal to you in your rooms since I no longer want to eat,” she said, masking her anger with her most royal, serene expression.

His dark head tipped, black hair like onyx in the candlelight. “I’m not going to have my staff chasing me all over the palace with a dinner cart,” he replied cordially. “I planned to eat here with you. And I will eat here.” He paused, and then smiled but the warmth in his eyes was dangerous, as if he were not entirely civilized. “And so will you.”

She’d never seen that look in his eye before. Had never thought of him as anything but coldly sophisticated, an elegant Arab sheikh with far too much money and power. But right now he practically hummed with aggression. It was strange—and disorienting.

Emmeline braced herself against the edge of the table with its opulent settings and gleaming candlelight. Her legs shook beneath her. “You can’t force me to eat.”

“No, I can’t force you. And so I’m asking you. Would you please sit down and join me for dinner? I’m hungry, and I know you’ve eaten virtually nothing today, and a good meal wouldn’t hurt you. You’re far too thin these days. You don’t eat enough—”

“If I stay and eat, would you at least reconsider your decision to send me to London?”

“No,” he answered bluntly. “My decision has been made.”

“But you can change it.”

“I won’t. I stand by my decision. It is the right one.”

“Please.” Her voice dropped to a husky note and broke. “Please. I don’t want to go to London—”

“Hannah.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll work harder.” Her voice cracked. “It doesn’t seem fair to just throw me away after four years—”

“I am not throwing you away!” He was on his feet and starting toward her but then stopped himself. “And don’t beg. You’ve no reason to beg. It’s beneath you, especially when you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“If I haven’t done anything wrong, why am I being sent away?”

“Because sometimes change is necessary.”

Emmeline’s heart felt as if it was breaking. She’d failed Hannah again. She reached up to wipe a tear away before it fell. Her hand was trembling so hard that she missed the tear and had to try again.

“Don’t.”

“What? I’m not allowed to hurt? To have emotions? I’m supposed to just let you send me away as if I don’t care?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because your job is to make my life easier and you’re not.”

“How terrible.”

“But true.”

She struggled to catch another tear. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to be human—”

“I realize you’re disappointed, but this isn’t personal, and I’d like you to remain professional. So if you could pull yourself together and have a seat—”

“No.”

His nostrils flared. A small muscle popped in his jaw. “No?” he repeated, his voice velvet-soft. “Did I hear you correctly?”

Her lower lip quivered. “Yes.”

He moved toward her, a deep hard line between his black eyebrows. “That’s insubordination, Miss Smith.”

“I won’t be bullied.”

“I’m not a bully, I’m your boss.” He was before her now, and standing so close that she had to tip her head back to see his face. “Or have you forgotten?”

She’d always thought his eyes were a cool silver-gray, but with him just inches away, she could see that his eyes burned and glowed like molten pewter.

“Haven’t forgotten,” she whispered, her courage starting to fade, as he dwarfed her, not just in height, but in sheer size. His shoulders were immense, his chest broad, his body muscular and strong. But he overpowered her in other ways—made her feel fragile and foolish and terribly emotional.

“Perhaps you’d care to apologize?”

There was a lethal quality to his voice, a leashed tension in his stance. It crossed her mind that she’d pushed him too far, demanded too much. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” His voice was so rough and deep it sounded like a growl.

She was mesmerized by the tiny gold flecks in his gray eyes. That’s why up close his eyes looked warmer. His eyes weren’t a cold gray. They had bits of the desert’s gold sun and sand in them. “I’ve botched it all up.” Her voice dropped and the air caught in her lungs. “Again.”

He was silent, and then he gave his head the slightest of shakes. “I can’t do this with you.”

She squeezed her eyes closed, nodded her head.