His Majesty's Mistake

“It’s a promotion,” he said tautly. “Human resources will provide you with temporary housing until you find something you like—”

“I like my job here, with you.”

“You’re needed elsewhere now.”

“Yesterday you needed me here.”

“Things change.”

Her lips parted ever so slightly as if realizing where this was going, and why.

He hoped she’d gracefully fold, accept his new plan for her. He needed her to concede.

Her gaze turned beseeching. “Alejandro was a mistake. I admit I made a mistake—”

“It has nothing to do with Alejandro—”

“It has everything to do with Alejandro,” she cried.

“You’re wrong,” he countered, torn between wanting to comfort her and crush her because all she needed to do was accept. Give. Agree. Not fight. Not cry. Not make him feel an ounce more emotion tonight.

“I’m not stupid,” she said, eyes still shimmering but now flashing with bright hot sparks.

“No, you aren’t.”

“Then why?” She leaned forward, cheeks flushed, breasts rising and falling with every quick breath. “For four years I have given you everything. For four years I have made your goals mine. For four years I have put your needs before mine. I don’t take vacations. I don’t use sick days. I don’t have a social life. I don’t even have a fashionable wardrobe. My life is all about you, and only you.”

“All the more reason you need to go to London.”

She shot him a withering look, a look that should have cooled his hunger, but it didn’t, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this way—so raw and physical, so completely carnal.

Before French-born Madeline had been his mistress there had been Jenny, a stunning English woman, and like Madeline, she’d been slim and blonde and very bright. He’d always been attracted to blonde, intelligent women. He took care of his mistresses, too, financially, and physically. When he made love with his mistress, he made sure she was pleasured. He wanted her happy. But he didn’t offer love. Nor would he.

It wasn’t her fault, he’d told Madeline more than once. It was his. He wasn’t sensitive. Wasn’t the type to feel certain emotions. Wasn’t the type to feel passion.

And yet at the moment Makin literally felt as if he was on fire, his skin hot, nerves sensitive, his body rippling with tension and need. It wasn’t rational. And far from civilized. He wanted to grab her, shake her—

He broke off with a shake of his own head. Madness. He’d never wanted to shake a woman before, or drag her from her chair and into his arms. He didn’t lose control. Didn’t feel strong emotions. So what was happening to him now?

“There will be a bump in your salary, as well as better benefits,” he said. “Including another week of vacation.”

Her lips curved. “Another week to add to the weeks and months I’ve never used?”

“Perhaps it’s time you started taking those holidays.”

“Perhaps it is.”

Her tart tone made him see red. Sassy, saucy wench. How dare she speak to him with that attitude? How dare she smirk at him from beneath those long, black lashes as if he was the problem, not she?

What the hell was happening to him? He didn’t even know himself at the moment. His shaft ached and throbbed and his hands itched to reach for her, catch her by the wrist and pull her toward him so that he could take her mouth, cover that mocking twist of her lips with his and make her his.

It wasn’t a desire but a need. To know her. Feel her. Make her part of him.

His fingers flexed and balled before returning to hard fists. Clearly he wasn’t himself.

He wasn’t an aggressive man, and he didn’t drag women about, and he didn’t teach them lessons, but right now he wanted to remind her who he was, and what he was and how he wasn’t a man to be trifled with.

He was Sheikh Makin Al-Koury, one of the world’s most powerful men. He had a plan and a vision and nothing distracted him from it.

Certainly not his secretary. She was disposable. Dispensable. Replaceable. And he’d proved it by swiftly organizing the job transfer to London.

“So why this. promotion. now?” she asked, her gaze meeting his and holding, expression challenging.

“I’m ready for a change. And I think you are, too.”

Her eyes sparked blue fire. Her eyebrows lifted. “How kind of you to think for me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Good, and I respectfully ask that you don’t make decisions for me based on what you think I need. You do not know me. You know nothing about me—”