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The edge of his mouth curled. She hadn’t changed. She was still the imperious, spoiled princess he’d met nine years ago at her sixteenth-birthday ball. He’d never forget that her father had thrown her a huge party, inviting everyone who was anyone, and she’d spent it throwing a tantrum, crying her way through the evening.
Embarrassed for her father and disgusted by her histrionics, Makin had left the ball early, vowing to avoid her in the future. And he had. Until now.
His narrowed gray eyes searched hers, thinking that in the past nine years little had changed. She still epitomized everything he despised in modern culture. The sense of entitlement. The fixation on celebrity. The worship of money. Skating through life on one’s looks.
And yes, Emmeline was stunning—he wouldn’t pretend that he hadn’t wanted her last night—but now that he knew who he was dealing with, and what he was dealing with, his desire was gone. She left him cold.
Makin leaned against the white marble vanity, hands braced against the cool, smooth stone surface. He was furious and he needed answers, and he would have them now.
“You don’t have the flu,” he said shortly, his deep voice hard, the sharp tone echoing off all the polished stone.
She opened her mouth to protest and then thought better of it. “No.”
“And you weren’t sick yesterday because you had low blood sugar.”
Her chin inched higher. “No.”
Didn’t she realize the game was up? Didn’t she understand that he’d figured it out? That he knew who she was and that he was livid? That he was hanging on to his control by a thread?
Makin didn’t speak, battling for that control, battling to maintain the upper hand on his temper when all he could see was red. “How far along are you?” he asked, when he could trust himself to speak.
Her eyes, those stunning lavender eyes, opened wide. They were Hannah’s eyes, the same lavender-blue of periwinkles or rain-drenched violets, which made him suddenly hate her more. “The truth,” he bit out.
She just stared at him, expression mutinous, lips firm. There was nothing weak or helpless about her now. Even sitting on the floor she looked regal and proud and ready to fight him tooth and nail.
How dare she? How dare she play the entitled princess here? Now? She should be begging for mercy, pleading for leniency.
“I’m waiting,” he gritted impatiently, fully cognizant that if she were a man he wouldn’t be using words right now, but his fists. Just who did she think she was, waltzing into his life as if she belonged here? He flashed to last night in the garden and how he’d reached for her, and kissed her, wanting her more than he’d ever wanted any woman. And it galled him—infuriated him—that she’d succeeded in making a fool of him in his own home.
“Seven weeks,” she said at last, eyes darkening, the lavender-blue luminous against the pallor of her face. “Give or take a day.”
Give or take a day, Makin silently repeated. God, he detested her. Detested everything about her, and everything she represented. “I take it Alejandro Ibanez is the father.”
She nodded.
“And that’s why you were at Mynt making a scene.”
Her cheeks suddenly flushed, turning a delicate pink. “I didn’t make a scene. He was making a scene—” She broke off, bit savagely into her lower lip and looked away, expression tortured.
For a moment, just a moment, Makin almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but not quite. “And my second question, Your Royal Highness, and an even more important question is, what have you done with my secretary, Hannah Smith?”
Emmeline’s head jerked back around, her gaze wary as it met his. “What do you mean?”
For a moment he saw only red again, blazing-hot red, but then his vision cleared. “I’m not in the mood for games, princess.”
“I … I don’t know what you mean.”
He was angry, so very, very angry, that he could have easily dragged her up from the floor and taught her a lesson. “You know what I mean.”
“But I am Hannah.”
Makin gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached and his temple throbbed. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Your Highness. You’ll just make me angrier—”
“But I am—”
“—Emmeline d’Arcy, Princess of Brabant,” he finished for her, his tone sharp and withering. “You’ve been masquerading as my secretary, Hannah Smith, for the past three days—maybe longer. That’s the part you’ll want to explain, starting right now.”
“Sheikh Al-Koury—”
“How about we drop the titles? Cut out all the pretense of formality and suggestion of respect? You don’t respect me, and I certainly don’t respect you. So I’ll call you Emmeline, and you can call me Makin, and, with any luck, I’ll finally get the truth.”
