Excerpts

Hannah regretted it more than she'd ever regretted anything. Three days had passed since she'd switched places with Emmeline. Three endless days of pretending to be someone she wasn't. Three days of living a lie. Hannah should have stopped this yesterday before heading to the airport. She should have confessed the truth when she could have. Instead she'd boarded the royal jet and flown to Raguva as if she really was Europe's most celebrated princess instead of an American secretary who just happened to look like the stunning Princess Emmeline… Should have, could have, would have… Hannah held her breath, trying to contain her panic. She was in serious trouble now, and the only way she--and Emmeline--would survive this disaster intact was by keeping a cool head. Not that remaining cool and calm would be easy given that she was just about to meet Princess Emmeline's fiance, the powerful King Zale Ilia Patek, a man rumored to be as brilliant as he was driven, in front of his entire court. Hannah knew nothing about being royal, or European. Yet here she was, squeezed into a thirty-thousand-dollar couture gown with a delicate diamond tiara pinned to her artificially lightened hair after having spent a long, and very frantic night cramming everything she could learn about Zale Patek of Raguva into her head. Only a fool would appear before a king and his court, pretending to be his fiancée. Only a fool, she repeated, knowing no one was holding a gun to her head, no one was forcing her to pretend to be Emmeline. No one but herself. But she'd pledged her help to Emmeline, given the princess her word. How could she abandon the princess now? Hannah stiffened and gulped air as the tall gold and cream doors swung open, revealing the palace's grand crimson throne room. A long row of enormous chandeliers shone so brightly overhead that she blinked, overwhelmed by the glittering and hum of sound. Hannah blinked again and focused on the throne dais at the far end of the room. A long red carpet stretched before her. Then a voice announced her, first in French, and then Raguvian, silencing the buzz of conversation--"Her Royal Highness, Princess Emmeline of Brabant, Duchess of Vincotte, Countess d'Arcy." The formal introduction made Hannah's head swim. How could she have thought swapping places with Emmeline was a good idea? Why hadn't she perceived the dangers? Why hadn't she realized that Emmeline's plan had been far from foolproof? Because she'd been too busy enjoying the decadent spa treatments, thinking herself lucky to have this escape before she returned to her exhausting, but fascinating life as secretary for impossible to please Sheikh Makin Al-Koury of oil-rich Kadar. Only Emmeline had never returned. Instead she'd called and texted, begging Hannah to keep up the charade a few more hours, and then a day after that, saying there was a snag, and then another, but not to worry, everything was fine, and everything would be fine. All Hannah had to do was keep up the charade a little longer. One of the ladies-in-waiting at Hannah's elbow whispered, "Your Royal Highness, everyone waits." Hannah's gaze jerked back to the throne at the end of the long red carpet. It seemed so far away, but then suddenly, somehow, Hannah was moving down the plush crimson carpet, placing one trembling foot in front of the other. She wobbled in her foolishly high heels, and felt the weight of her heavy silk gown with the thousands of crystals, but nothing felt as uncomfortable as the intense gaze of King Zale Patek as he watched her from his throne, his unwavering gaze resting on her face. No man had ever looked at her so intently and her skin prickled, heat washing through her, cheeks on fire. Even seated, King Patek appeared imposing. He was tall, broad-shouldered and lean, and his features were handsome and strong. But it was his expression that made her breathless. In his eyes she saw possession. Ownership. They weren't to be married for ten days but in his eyes she was already his. Hannah's mouth dried. Her heart raced. She should have never agreed to play princess here. Zale Patek of Raguva would not like being played the fool. Reaching the dais, she gathered her heavy teal and blue skirts in one hand and sank into a deep, graceful curtsy. Thank God she'd practiced this morning with one of her attendants. "Your Majesty," she said in Raguvian, having practiced that, too. "Welcome to Raguva, Your Royal Highness," he answered in flawless English. His voice was so deep it whispered through her, smooth, seductive. She lifted her head to look up at him. His gaze met hers and held, demanding her full attention. She sucked in a quick breath of surprise. This was the thirty-five-year-old king of Raguva, a country adjacent to Greece and Turkey on the Adriatic Sea. He looked younger than thirty-five. Furthermore, he was ridiculously good-looking. The photographs on the Internet hadn't done him justice. Impressions continued to hit her one after the other--short dark hair, light brown eyes and a slash of high cheekbone above a very firm chin. The intelligence in his clear steady gaze made her think of all the great kings and Roman rulers who'd come before-- Charlemagne, Constantine, Caesar--and her pulse quickened. He was tall, imposing, powerfully built. His formal jacket couldn't hide the width of his shoulders, nor the depth of his muscular chest. He'd been born a prince but had trained as an athlete and become a star footballer through dedication to his sport. But he'd walked away from his incredible success when his father and mother had died in a tragic seaplane accident five years ago that had taken the lives of all onboard. She'd read that Zale Patek had rarely dated during the decade he played for two top European football clubs because football had been his passion and once he'd inherited the throne, he'd applied the same discipline and passion to his reign. And this man, this fiercely driven man, was to be sparkling, enchanting Princess Emmeline's husband. At the moment Hannah didn't know whether to envy her or pity her. "Thank you, Your Majesty," she answered, slowly lifting her head to look into his eyes. His gaze met hers squarely and she felt a sharp jolt to her heart, her chest squeezing tight in protest. It was like a thunderbolt of sensation--hot, electric--and her knees buckled, and her whole body felt weak. Trembling in her heels, she watched King Patek rise and descend the steps of the dais. He reached for her hand, carried it to his mouth, brushing his lips across the back of her knuckles. The touch of his mouth sent yet another shudder through her, her body tingling from head to toe. For a moment silence hung over them, surrounded them, an intimate, expectant silence that made her grow warm and her cheeks burn. Then King Patek turned her around to face his court. Applause filled the Throne Room and before she knew it, King Patek was introducing her to the first of his many advisors. Moving down the crimson carpet, the king would pause to introduce her to this important person or that, but the sensation of his skin against hers made it impossible for her to concentrate on anything. The names and faces blurred together, making her head swim. Zale Patek was in the middle of introducing Emmeline to yet another member of his court, when he felt her hand tremble in his. Glancing down at her, he saw fatigue in her eyes and a hint of strain at her mouth. Time for a break, he thought, deciding the rest of the introductions could wait until dinner. Exiting the Throne Room, Zale led her through a sparsely furnished antechamber, and then a small reception room, ending in the Silver Room, a room that had been a favorite of his mother's. "Please," he said, escorting her to a petite Louis IV chair covered in a shimmering silver Venetian embroidered fabric. An oversize silver and crystal chandelier hung from the middle of the room and Venetian mirrors lined the oyster-hued silk that upholstered the walls. It was a pretty room and it sparkled from all the silk, silver and glass, but nothing in the room could compare to the princess herself. She was stunning. Beyond stunning. As well as cunning, manipulative and deceitful, which he hadn't learned until after their engagement. It'd been a year since he last saw Emmeline--at the announcement of their betrothal in the Palace of Brabant--and they'd only spoken twice before that, although of course he'd seen her at various different royal functions while growing up. "You look lovely," he said as Emmeline sank gracefully into the fragile chair, her full teal and aqua skirts clouding around her, making him think of a mermaid perched on a rock. And like the sirens of lore, she used her beauty to lure men in--before dashing them on the rocks. Which wasn't a quality Zale wanted in his wife, or Raguva's future queen. Strong, calm, steady, principled--those were the qualities he wanted, qualities he'd come to realize she didn't possess. "Thank you," she answered, a delicate pink appearing in her flawless, porcelain skin. The bloom of pink in her cheeks stole his breath and made his body harden. Had she truly just blushed? Did she think she could convince him she was a virginal maiden instead of a jaded, promiscuous princess? And yet despite all her character flaws, in person she was nothing short of physical perfection with her exquisite bone structure, cream complexion and darkly fringed blue eyes. Even as a young girl Emmeline had been more than pretty with her wide blue eyes that seemed to see everything and know far too much, but she'd grown into an extraordinary beauty. His father had been the one to suggest Princess Emmeline d'Arcy as a suitable bride. Zale had been fifteen at the time, Emmeline just five, and Zale had been horrified by his father's preliminary arrangements. A chubby little girl with blue eyes and dimples for a future wife? But his father had assured him that she'd be a stunning woman one day, and his father had been right. There wasn't a more beautiful or eligible princess in Europe. "You're here at last," he said, hating that he derived so much pleasure from just looking at her. He should be distant, disgusted, turned off. Instead he was curious. As well as very physically attracted. Her head dipped. "I am, indeed, Your Majesty." She did that so prettily, he thought, the edge of his mouth curving in a slightly cynical smile. The blushes, the shyness, the wide-eyed innocence. "Zale," he corrected. "We've been engaged this past year." "And yet we've never once seen each other," she answered, lifting her chin, porcelain cheeks stained pink. He raised an eyebrow. "By your choice, Emmeline, not mine." Her lips parted as if to protest before she pressed them together again. "Did that bother you?" she asked after a moment. He shrugged, knowing what he couldn't--wouldn't--say. That he knew Emmeline had spent the past year continuing to see her Argentine playboy boyfriend, Alejandro, despite being betrothed to Zale. He wouldn't say that he knew her seven-day trip to Palm Beach this past week had been to watch Alejandro play in a polo match. Or that for the past several days Zale hadn't even been sure Emmeline would actually get on the plane and come to Raguva for their wedding scheduled for June 4, ten days from now. But she had. She was here. And he fully intended to use these next ten days before their wedding to discover if she was ready to honor her commitments to him, their countries and their families, or if she planned to continue playing games and playing him. "I'm glad you're here now," he responded. "It's time we began to get to know each other." She smiled, a slow, radiant smile that lit her eyes from the inside out and he felt heat and pressure build in his chest. How absurd that Emmeline's beauty literally took his breath away. Ridiculous that he could be so moved by a woman in a ball gown and jewels. Diamond and sapphire rings covered her fingers and the diamonds in the tiara perched on her golden head glinted, throwing off tiny prisms of light. "So am I," she answered. "And it's a completely different world than Palm Beach." "It is at that," he agreed, intrigued despite himself. Charmed by everything about her right now. "I'm sorry I couldn't welcome you last night when you arrived. There is so much tradition attached to the job. Five hundred years of protocol." "I understand." She should. She'd agreed to this arranged marriage, too, despite being passionately in love with her boyfriend of five years. "Do you need any refreshment? Dinner is at least an hour away." "No, thank you, I can wait." "I heard you hadn't eaten anything today, or even last night after you arrived." She gave him a slightly mocking look, her finely arched eyebrows rising. "Which of my attendants tattled on me?" "My cooks were worried when you refused your meals. They feared they'd failed to whet your appetite." "Not at all. The breakfast and lunch trays looked delicious but I was very aware that at five I'd have to fit into this gown," she said with a gesture to her curvaceous body swathed in teal silk and intricate jeweled designs. "You're not on a starvation diet, are you?" She glanced down at her figure. "Do I look in danger of fading away?" Zale's lips twitched. No, she did not look like she was starving. The gown's fitted bodice revealed full, firm breasts while her waist nipped in before curving out again over very feminine hips. The gown's rich hues highlighted her smooth, creamy skin, the startling blue of her eyes and the pink pout of her generous lips. She looked lush, ripe, edible. He felt a hot shaft of desire, and Zale fought a sudden urge to touch her. Taste her. To take his tongue to her softly parted lips, to sink his teeth into their softness, then brush his lips along her satin skin-- He broke off as his body hardened, tightening, making the fit of his trousers almost unbearable. It'd been a year since he taken a woman into his bed, wanting to respect his engagement to Emmeline, but it'd been a long year and he looked forward to consummating their marriage in ten days. Should they marry. He glanced down at her and discovered she was staring steadily back at him, her blue gaze unflinchingly direct. As his gaze locked with hers, he felt raw, primal desire surge through him. He'd have her, too, he vowed, even if he didn't make her his queen. Excerpted from Not Fit for a King? by Jane Porter All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.