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“That’s actually not respectful. And I do know you. I know virtually everything about you.”
She laughed. Out loud. Practically in his face.
“If you knew me, Your Highness,” she drawled his title, “you’d know who I am.” She paused a moment, lashes dropping, concealing the hot bright blue of her eyes. “And who I am not.”
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.”
CHAPTER SIX
“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—”
