Midnight at the Oasis: His Majesty's Mistake

Fed by an underground stream that came from the mountains, the oasis became a city of red clay walls and narrow roads.

The sheikh’s driver turned off the narrow highway onto an even narrower road shaded by tall date palms, the massive green-and-yellow fronds providing protection from the dazzling desert heat.

As the car approached the enormous gates ahead, they swung open, giving entrance into the walled city.

“Home,” Makin said with quiet satisfaction as they traveled down yet another long drive bordered by majestic date palms, the heavy fronds like feathered plumes against the clear blue sky.

More gates opened and closed, revealing a sprawling building washed in the palest pink. But as the car continued to travel, Emmeline discovered the palace wasn’t just one building, but a series of beautifully shaped buildings connected by trellises, patios, courtyards and gardens. No two were the same. Some had turrets and towers, others were domed, although each had the same smooth clay walls lushly covered in dark purple and white bougainvillea.

The car stopped before the tallest building, three stories tall with intricate gold-plated doors and massive gold, blue and white columns flanking the entrance.

Staff in billowy white pants and white jackets lined the entrance, smiling broadly and bowing low as Sheikh Al-Koury stepped from the car.

Having grown up in a palace, Emmeline was familiar with pomp, protocol and ceremony. Daily she’d witnessed the display of respect all were required to show the royal family, and yet there was something different about the sheikh’s staff.

They greeted him with warmth and a genuine sense of pleasure in his return. They cared about him, and she saw from the way he responded to each man, he cared about them.

Makin paused at the ornate entrance, waiting for her, and together they stepped through the tall gold doors, leaving the bright sunlight and dazzling heat behind.

The serene, airy foyer was capped by a high domed ceiling of blue and gold, the cream walls stenciled in sophisticated gold swirls and elegant patterns. Emmeline drew a slow breath, relishing the palace’s tranquility and delicious coolness. “Lovely,” she said.

The sheikh lifted a brow, and glanced enquiringly at her.

She flushed, remembering she was supposed to be Hannah and familiar with everything here. “The coolness,” she said. “Feels so good after the heat.”

He stared down at her a moment, expression peculiar. He seemed to be looking for something in her face, but what, she didn’t know.

And then he nodded, a short nod, as if he’d come to a decision. “I’ll walk you to your room,” he said. “Make sure everything is as it should be.”

Emmeline’s brow puckered at his tone. Something had happened. She was sure of it.

He set off, leaving her to follow, and they crossed the spacious foyer, through one of the many exquisitely carved arches that opened off the entrance, their footsteps echoing on the limestone floor.

He turned down a hallway marked by ornamental columns. Sunlight streamed through high windows. Mosaic murals decorated the ivory walls and large ornate copper lanterns were hung from the high ceiling to provide light in the evening.

They passed through another arch which led outside to a rose-covered arbor. The roses were in full bloom, a soft luscious pink, and the heady scent reminded Emmeline of the formal rose garden at the palace in Brabant. She felt a sudden pang for all that she’d lose once her parents knew she wouldn’t—couldn’t—marry King Patek, and why. They’d be scandalized. They’d insist she’d get an abortion, something she wouldn’t do.

There would be threats.

There would be anger.

Hostility.

Repercussions.

Makin paused before a beautiful door stained a rich mahogany and stepped aside for her to open it.

Hannah’s room, she thought, opening the door to a spacious apartment contained in its own building. The high-ceilinged living room spoke of an understated elegance, the colors warmer here than in the rest of the palace. The living-room walls were pale gold and the furniture was gold with touches of red, ivory and blue. She glimpsed a bedroom off the living room with an attached bathroom. There was even a small kitchen where Hannah could prepare coffee and make simple meals.

“The cook made your favorite bread,” he said, nodding at a fabric-wrapped loaf on the tiled kitchen counter. “The refrigerator also has your yogurts and milk, and everything else you like. If you won’t let Cook send you a tray for lunch, promise me you’ll eat something right away.”

She nodded. “I promise.”

“Good.” He hesitated, still standing just inside the doorway, clearly uncomfortable. “I need to tell you something. May we sit?”

She glanced at his face but his expression was shuttered, his silver gaze hard.

Emmeline walked to the low couch upholstered in a delicate silk the color of fresh butter, and moved some of the loose embroidered and jeweled pillows aside so she could sit down. He followed but didn’t sit. He stood before her, arms crossed over his chest, his gray linen shirt pulled taut at the shoulders.

He was without a doubt a very handsome man. He radiated power and control, but right now he was scaring her with his fierce expression.

“There’s been an accident,” he said abruptly. “Last night on the way to the airport, Alejandro lost control of the car and crashed. Penelope died on the scene. Alejandro’s in hospital.”

It was the last thing Emmeline had expected him to say. She struggled to process what he’d just told her. Her mouth opened and closed without making a sound. She tried again. Failed.

“He was in surgery all night,” Makin continued. “There was a lot of internal bleeding. His condition is extremely critical.”

Reeling from shock, Emmeline clasped her hands tightly together, too stunned to speak.

Penelope was dead. Alejandro might not survive surgery. And yet both had been so beautiful and alive just hours ago.

Impossible.

Eyes burning, she gazed blindly out the glass doors to the garden beyond. Behind the walled garden the red mountains rose high, reminding her of the red dress Penelope had worn last night. And just like that, the desert was gone and all Emmeline could see was Penelope’s vivid red dress against the billowing fabric of Alejandro’s white shirt.

Her throat squeezed closed. Hot acid tears filmed her eyes. “Alejandro was … driving?” she asked huskily, finally finding her voice.

“He was at the wheel, yes.”

“And Penelope?”

“Was thrown from the car on impact.”

Emmeline closed her eyes, able to see it all and hating the movie reel of pictures in her head. Stupid, reckless Alejandro. Her heart ached for Penelope who was so young—just nineteen.

A tear fell, hot and wet on Emmeline’s cheek. With a savage motion she brushed it away. She was furious. Furious with Alejandro. Furious that he took lives and wrecked them and threw them all away.

“I’m sorry, Hannah,” Makin said, his deep voice rumbling through her. “I know you imagined yourself in love—”

“Please.” Her voice broke and she lifted a hand to silence him. “Don’t.”

He crouched down before her, his powerful thighs all muscle, and caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. His silver-gray eyes glowed like pewter, hot and dark with emotion. “I know this isn’t an easy time for you, but you’ll survive this. I promise.”

Then he surprised her by gently, carefully, sweeping his thumb across the curve of her cheek, catching the tears that fell. It was such a tender gesture from him, so kind and protective, it almost broke her heart.

She hadn’t been touched so gently and kindly by anyone in years.

She’d never been touched by a man as if she mattered. “Thank you.”