Thank God for small mercies.
Perspiration beading her brow, Emmeline crouched before the toilet. Her hands trembled on the pristine white porcelain as she leaned forward, her stomach emptying violently into the toilet bowl.
The acid that burned her throat was nothing compared to the acid eating away in her heart. This was all her fault … she had no one else to blame. She’d been weak and foolish and insecure. She’d reached out to the wrong man in a moment of need, and to make matters worse, she’d approached Hannah, dragging her into this.
Remorse filled her. Remorse and regret. Why wasn’t she stronger? Why was she so needy? But then, when hadn’t she craved love?
Gritting her teeth, she knew she couldn’t blame her parents. They’d done their best. They’d tried. The fault was clearly hers. Apparently even at an early age she’d been clingy, always wanting to be held, needing constant reassurance and affection. Even as a little girl she’d been ashamed that she’d needed so much more than her parents could give.
Good princesses didn’t have needs.
Good princesses didn’t cause trouble.
Emmeline did both.
Emmeline’s stomach churned and heaved all over again, and she lurched over the toilet, sick once more.
Tears stung her eyes. How could anyone call this morning sickness when she was ill morning, noon and night? She flushed the toilet again.
A quiet knocked sounded on the door. “Hannah?”
It was Makin Al-Koury. Emmeline’s stomach performed a wild free fall which didn’t help her nausea in the slightest. “Yes?”
“May I come in?”
No. But she couldn’t say it. She was supposed to work for him. That meant she answered to him. Emmeline’s eyes stung. “Yes.”
The door softly opened and a shadow fell across the floor.
Blinking back tears, Emmeline glanced up as Makin filled the doorway. Tall and broad-shouldered, his expression was grim. There was no sympathy in his light gray eyes, no gentleness in the set of his jaw or the press of his firm mouth. But then, there’d been no gentleness earlier when he’d yanked her through the nightclub, pulling her onto the street, his hand gripped tightly around her wrist.
Even now, with her knees pressed to the cold tiled floor, she could feel the unyielding grip of his hand on her wrist, the heat of his skin against hers.
He’d been furious as his limousine traveled from the nightclub to the airport, and from his expression as he towered above her, he still was.
“Can I get you something?” he asked, his deep voice a raw rasp of sound in the small space.
She shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
“You are sick.”
She nodded, fighting fresh tears. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her brow creased, eyebrows knitting. “I did.”
His jaw tightened. He looked away, across the small bath, his lips flattening, making him look even more displeased. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“No.”
“Why not? You said you can’t keep anything down. You should have tests run, or see if the doctor could prescribe something that would help.”
“It won’t help—”
“Why not?”
She winced at the impatience and roughness in his voice. For a moment his mask slipped and she glimpsed something almost savage in his expression. “Because…”
Her voice faded as she got lost in his light eyes, and it crossed her mind that he might be the world’s richest sheikh, but he wasn’t entirely modern. Beneath his elegant, tailored suit and polished veneer was a man of the desert.
Because Sheikh Al-Koury wouldn’t employ a pregnant, unwed woman, not even if she were American. It was a cultural issue, a matter of honor and respect. Emmeline might not be able to type quickly or place conference calls or create spreadsheets, but she’d spent enough time in the United Arab Emirates and Morocco to be familiar with the concept of hshuma, or shame. And an unwed pregnant woman would bring shame on all close to her, including her employer.
“It’s just stress,” she said. “I’m just … overly upset. But I’ll pull myself together. I promise.”
He looked at her so long and hard that the fine hair on Emmeline’s nape lifted and her belly flip-flopped with nerves. “Then pull yourself together. I’m counting on you. And if you can’t do your job anymore, tell me now so I can find someone who can.”
“But I can.”
He said nothing for several moments, his gaze resting on her face. “Why Ibanez?” he asked at last. “Why him of all people?”
She hunched her shoulders. “He said he loved me.”
His jaw hardened, mouth compressing, expression incredulous. “And you believed him?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
Sheikh Al-Koury choked back a rough growl of protest. “I can’t believe you fell for his lines. He says those lines to everyone. But you’re not everyone. You’re smart. You’re educated. You should know better.”
“I didn’t.”
“Couldn’t you detect a false note in his flattery? Couldn’t you see he’s fake? That his lines were too slick, that he’s as insincere as they come?”
“No.” She drew a swift breath, making a hiccup of sound. “But I wish I had.”
Makin battled his temper as he stared down at Hannah where she knelt on the floor, her shoulders sagging, her long chestnut hair a thick tangle down her thin back.
Someone else, someone soft, might be moved by her fragile beauty, but he refused to allow himself to feel anything for her, not now, not after she’d become a temptress. A seductress. A problem.
He didn’t allow his personal and professional life to overlap. Sex, desire, lust … they didn’t belong in the workplace. Ever.
“I respected you.” His deep voice sounded harsh even to his own ears, but he’d never minced words with her before and wasn’t about to start now. “And I’m not sure I do anymore.”
She flinched, visibly stung, and his gut tightened, an uncomfortable cramp of sensation, and then it was gone, pushed away with the same ferocious intensity he’d applied to the rest of life.
He didn’t cater to anyone—male or female. It went against his belief system. Makin had been his parents’ only child and they’d been a very close, tight-knit family. His father, a powerful Bedouin ruler and Kadar’s royal prince, was nearly twenty years older than Makin’s French mother, Yvette.
When he was growing up, his parents had rarely discussed the past, being too focused on the present, but Makin had pieced enough details together to get a picture of his parents’ courtship. They’d met when his mother was just twenty and a film student in Paris. She was beautiful and bright and full of big plans, but within weeks of meeting Tahnoon Al-Koury, she’d accepted his marriage proposal and exchanged her dreams for his, marrying him in a quiet ceremony in Paris before returning to Kadar with her new husband.
Makin had only met his maternal grandparents once, and that was at his father’s funeral. His mother refused to speak to them so it’d been left to Makin to introduce himself to his French grandparents. They weren’t the terrible people he’d imagined, just ignorant. They couldn’t understand that their daughter could love an Arab, much less an Arab confined to a wheelchair.
Makin