‘And how do I live, Olivia?’

‘You know as well as I do. Parties till dawn and a different woman in your bed every night.’

‘You disapprove?’

‘It’s not for me to judge, but it’s certainly not how I want to live my life.’

‘Surely there’s a balance? We’re opposites, you and I, in our pursuit of pleasure, but don’t you think we could find some middle ground?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘And where would that be?’

In bed. Aziz had a sudden vivid image of Olivia lying on top of tangled satin sheets, her glorious hair spread out on the pillow, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses. His libido stirred insistently. He knew he had no business thinking like this, feeling like this.

And yet he did.

RIVALS TO THE CROWN OF KADAR

Ruthless in battle, ruthless in love …

Two powerful men locked in a struggle to rule the country of their birth …

One a desert prince, once banished and shamed, the other a royal playboy, cutting a swathe through the beautiful women of Europe.

Tortured by their memories of the past, these bitter enemies will use any means necessary to win. But neither expects the women who will change the course of their revenge!

Read Khalil’s story in CAPTURED BY THE SHEIKH September 2014

Read Aziz’s story in COMMANDED BY THE SHEIKH October 2014

Commanded by the Sheikh

Kate Hewitt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon® romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older. She has written plays, short stories and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling and learning to knit.

After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years, and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website: www.kate-hewitt.com

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘I NEED YOU, OLIVIA.’

Olivia Ellis quickly suppressed the flare of feeling Sheikh Aziz al Bakir’s simply stated words caused inside her. Of course he needed her. He needed her to change his sheets, polish his silver and keep his Parisian townhouse on the Ile de la Cité pristine.

That didn’t explain what she was doing here, in the royal palace of Kadar.

Less than eight hours ago she’d been summoned by one of Aziz’s men, asked unequivocally to accompany him on the royal jet to Siyad—the capital of Kadar—where Aziz had recently ascended the throne.

Olivia had gone reluctantly, because she liked the quiet life she’d made for herself in Paris: mornings with the concierge across the street sipping coffee, afternoons in the garden pruning roses. It was a life that held no excitement or passion, but it was hers and it made her happy, or as happy as she knew how to be. It was enough, and she didn’t want it to change.

‘What do you need of me, Your Highness?’ she asked. She’d spent the endless flight to Kadar composing reasons why she should stay in Paris. She needed to stay in Paris, needed the safety and comfort of her quiet life.

‘Considering the circumstances, I think you should call me Aziz.’ The smile he gave her was whimsical, effortlessly charming, yet Olivia tried to remain unmoved. She’d often observed Aziz’s charm from a distance, had heard the honeyed words slide from his lips as he entertained one of his many female guests in Paris. She’d picked up the discarded lingerie from the staircase and had poured coffee for the women who crept from his bed before breakfast, their hair mussed and their lips swollen.

She, however, had always considered herself immune to ‘the Gentleman Playboy’, as the tabloids had nicknamed him. A bit of an oxymoron, Olivia thought, but she had to admit Aziz possessed a certain charisma.

She felt it now, with him focusing all of his attention on her, the opulent palace with its frescoed walls and gold fixtures stretching around them.

‘Very well, Aziz. What do you need of me?’ She spoke briskly, as she had when discussing replacing the roof tiles or the guest list for a dinner party. Yet it took a little more effort now, being in this strange and overwhelming place with this man.

He was, Olivia had to admit, beautiful. She could acknowledge that, just as she acknowledged that Michelangelo’s David was a magnificent sculpture; it was nothing more than a simple appreciation of undeniable beauty. In any case, she didn’t have anything left inside her to feel more than that. Not for Aziz, not for anyone.

She gazed now at the ink-black hair that flopped carelessly over his forehead; his grey eyes that could flare silver; the surprisingly full lips that could curve into a most engaging smile.

And as for his body...powerful, lean perfection, without an extra ounce of fat anywhere, just pure, perfect muscle.

Aziz steepled his fingers under his chin and turned towards the window so his back was partially to her. Olivia waited, felt the silence inexplicably tauten between them. ‘You have been in my employ for six years now?’ he said after a moment, his voice lilting as if it was a question, even though Olivia knew it was not.

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘And I have been very pleased with your dedicated service in all of that time.’

She tensed. He sounded as if he were about to fire her. And so now I’m afraid I have to tell you that I have no need of you any more...

She took a careful breath, let it out silently. ‘I’m very glad to hear that, Your Highness.’

‘Aziz, remember.’

‘Considering your status, it doesn’t seem appropriate to call you by your first name.’

‘Even if I demand it by royal decree?’

He turned around and raised his eyebrows, clearing teasing her. Olivia’s mouth compressed. ‘If you demand it, I shall of course comply,’ she answered coolly. ‘But in any case I shall do my best to call you by your first name.’

‘I know you will. You have always done your best, Olivia, and that is exactly what I need from you today.’

She waited, unease creeping its cold fingers along her spine. What on earth could he need her for now, here in Kadar? She didn’t like surprises or uncertainty; she’d spent six years creating something safe, small and good and she was terribly afraid of losing it. Of losing herself.

‘In Paris you have done an admirable job keeping my home clean and comfortable and welcoming,’ Aziz told her. ‘I have another task entirely for you here, but it shall be short, and I trust you are capable of it.’

She had no idea what he was talking about, but if it was short she hoped it meant that she’d be able to return to Paris, and soon. ‘I hope that I am, Your—Aziz.’

He smiled, his gaze sweeping over her in approval. ‘See what a quick learner you are?’ he murmured.

Olivia said nothing. She ignored the little flutter of—something—Aziz’s lazy murmur had caused inside her. In Paris their conversations were so mundane Olivia simply hadn’t felt the full force of the Gentleman Playboy’s charisma. That she should feel it here, now, was disconcerting but understandable. She was out of her element, in this beautiful yet overwhelming palace, and Aziz wasn’t talking to her about house repairs or his social diary.

She gave him a quick, cool, professional smile. ‘I’m afraid I still don’t understand why I’m here.’

‘All in good time.’ Aziz flashed her an answering smile before walking over to a walnut desk inlaid with hand-tooled leather. He pressed a button on the side of the desk and within seconds Olivia heard a knock on the door.

‘Enter,’ Aziz said, and the same man who had escorted her to the room came in.

‘Your Highness?’

Aziz braced one hip against the desk. ‘What do you think, Malik? Will she do?’

Malik’s gaze flicked to Olivia. ‘The hair...’

Aziz snapped his fingers. ‘Easily dealt with.’

‘Eyes?’

‘Not necessary.’

Malik nodded slowly. ‘She’s about the right height.’

‘I thought so.’

The man turned to look at Aziz. ‘Discreet?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Then I think it’s a possibility.’

‘It’s more than a possibility, Malik, it’s a necessity. I’m holding a press conference in one hour.’

Malik shook his head. ‘One hour—there won’t be time.’

‘There has to be. You know I can’t risk any more instability.’ Olivia watched as Aziz’s expression shuttered, his mouth hardening into a grim line, turning him into someone utterly unlike the laughing, careless playboy she was familiar with. ‘One rumour at this point will be like a lit match. Everything could go up in flames.’

‘Indeed, Your Highness. I’ll start making preparations.’

‘Thank you.’

Malik withdrew and Olivia turned to Aziz. ‘What on earth was all that about?’

‘I apologise for speaking in such a way with Malik. I’m sure you are more confused than ever.’

‘You’re right,’ Olivia answered, her voice coming out in something close to a snap. She hadn’t liked the way the two men had discussed her...as if she were an object. She might be Aziz’s housekeeper, but she wasn’t his possession, and she had no intention of letting another person control her actions or attitude ever again.

‘Pax, Olivia.’ Aziz held up his hands. ‘There would have been no point continuing our discussion if Malik hadn’t approved of you.’

‘Approved of me?’

‘Found you suitable.’

‘For what?’

Aziz let out a little sigh, the sound sudden. ‘I presume you are not aware of the terms of my father’s will?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not,’ Olivia replied. ‘I’m not privy to such information, naturally.’

He shrugged, the movement careless, negligent, yet utterly graceful. ‘It could have leaked out. There have been rumours of what the will requires.’

‘I don’t pay any attention to rumours.’ She didn’t even know what they were; she didn’t read gossip magazines or tabloids.

Aziz lifted his eyebrows. ‘You know I am engaged to Queen Elena of Thallia?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Their engagement had been announced publicly last week; Olivia knew the wedding was in the next few days, here in Kadar.

‘You might have wondered why Queen Elena and I became engaged so quickly,’ Aziz remarked, his dark gaze steady on her as he waited for her reaction.

Olivia gave a little shrug. Gentleman though he might be, Aziz was still a playboy. She’d seen the evidence herself in the women he’d brought home to his Paris house, had turned away more than one ardent admirer who’d received the diamond bracelet and bouquet of lilies that was Aziz’s standard parting gift.

‘I expect you feel a need to marry, now that you are Sheikh,’ she said, and Aziz let out a little laugh, the sound hard, abrupt and utterly unlike him.

‘You could say that.’ He gazed out of the window once more, his lips pressed together in a firm line. ‘My father has never approved of my choices,’ he said after a moment. ‘Or of me. I suspect the requirements of his will were put in place so he could keep me in Kadar, bound by the old traditions.’ He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. ‘Or perhaps he just wanted to punish me. That is perfectly possible.’ He spoke easily, almost as if he was mentioning something pleasant or perhaps trivial, but she saw a coldness, or perhaps even a hurt, in his eyes.

Curiosity flickered and she quickly stamped it out. She had no need to know about Aziz’s relationship with his father, or with anyone. No need to wonder about what emotions he tried to hide, if any. ‘What requirements?’

‘In order to remain Sheikh, I must marry within six weeks of my father’s death.’ Aziz’s mouth possessed a cynical twist, his eyes flinty. She’d never seen him look so bitter.

‘It’s been over a month already.’

‘Exactly, Olivia. It has, in fact, been five weeks and four days. And my wedding to Queen Elena of Thallia is set for the day after tomorrow.’

‘Then you will succeed,’ she answered. ‘You will marry within the time required and there’ll be no problem.’

‘But there is a problem,’ Aziz informed her, his voice turning dangerously silky and soft. ‘There is a big problem, because Elena has gone missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘Kidnapped by an insurgent two days ago.’

Olivia gaped before she managed to reassemble her features into her usual composed countenance. ‘I had no idea things like this still happened in a civilised country.’

‘You’d be surprised what can happen in any country, when power is involved. What secrets people keep, what lies they tell.’ He swung away from her, the movement sudden, strangely defensive; again Olivia had the sense he was hiding something from her. Hiding himself.

In the six years she’d worked for him, Aziz had always seemed like nothing more than what he was on the surface: a charming, careless playboy. But for a moment, as he angled his face away from her, he seemed as if he had secrets. Darkness.

And she knew all about secrets and darkness.

‘Do you know where this—this insurgent might be keeping Queen Elena?’ Olivia asked after a moment.

‘Somewhere in the desert, most likely.’

‘And you’re looking for her?’

‘Of course, as best as I can.’ Aziz turned around to meet her troubled gaze with an unflinching one of his own. ‘I have not been back to Kadar in five years and I spent as little time here as a boy as possible. The people don’t know me.’ His mouth twisted. ‘And, if they don’t know me, they won’t be loyal to me. Not until I’ve proved myself to them, if I can.’

‘What are you saying—?’ she began, only to have Aziz cut her off in a hard voice.

‘I’m saying it is very difficult to find Queen Elena in the desert. Her kidnapper has the loyalty of the Bedouin tribes, and they will shelter both him and her. So until I find her, or come to some agreement with him, I need to make alternative arrangements.’

‘What kind of alternative arrangements?’ Olivia asked, although she had a horrible, creeping feeling just what they might be, or at least who they might concern. Her. Somehow he wanted to involve her in this debacle.

Aziz gave her a dazzling grin, his eyes flaring silver, his teeth blindingly white. Olivia felt her body involuntarily respond, her insides pulse with awareness of him, not as an employer or even an attractive person, a work of art, but as a man. A desirable man.

She blinked and forced back that rush of surprising, and completely inappropriate, feeling. Clearly it was just a basic biological reaction she had no control over. She had thought she was past such things, that she didn’t have anything left in her to fizz or spark, but perhaps her body thought otherwise. Even so, her mind would prevail. ‘Your Highness—’

‘Aziz.’

‘Aziz. What alternative arrangements are you talking about?’

‘It is important that no one knows Elena is missing. Such knowledge would make Kadar more unstable than it already is.’

‘More unstable?’

‘Some of the desert tribes have rallied around this rebel.’ Aziz’s mouth twisted. ‘Khalil.’

He spoke tersely, without emotion, yet Olivia still sensed something underneath his flat tone, something that seethed. Who exactly, she wondered, was Khalil?

‘Why have they rallied around this Khalil? You’re the legal heir.’

‘Thank you for your vote of confidence, but I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.’

He spoke lightly again, but Olivia wasn’t fooled. ‘How is it complicated? And what could I possibly have to do with any of this?’

‘Since I can’t let the public know my bride is missing,’ Aziz said, turning the full force of his silvery gaze on her once more, ‘I need someone else.’

Olivia felt as if someone had caught her by the throat and squeezed. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. ‘Someone else,’ she finally repeated, her voice coming out flat and strange.

‘Yes, Olivia. Someone else. Someone to be my bride.’

‘But—’

‘And that’s where you come in.’ Aziz cut her off smoothly, something almost like amusement glinting in his eyes. Olivia stared at him, disbelieving and appalled. ‘I need you to be my bride.’

CHAPTER TWO

HIS COOL, CAPABLE HOUSEKEEPER, Aziz thought in bemusement, looked as if she was about to hyperventilate. Or faint. She swayed slightly, her lovely slate-blue eyes going wider, her lush, pink lips parted in a rather delectable o.

She was a beautiful woman, he acknowledged as he had many times before, but it was a cool, contained beauty. Sleek, caramel hair she always kept clipped back at the base of her neck. Dark blue eyes. Smooth skin and rosy lips, neither ever enhanced by make-up, at least that he’d seen. Not that she needed any cosmetics, particularly right now. A flush was rising up her throat, sweeping across her face as she shook her head and compressed her mouth.

‘I’m not quite sure what you even mean, Your Highness, but whatever it is it’s not possible.’

‘To start with, you need to remember to call me Aziz.’

Temper blazed so briefly in her eyes he almost missed it. He was glad, contrarily, perhaps, that she actually possessed a temper. He’d often wondered how much passion lurked beneath that reserved exterior.

He’d known Olivia for six years, admittedly seeing her only a few times a year, and he’d had only a scant few glimpses of any deeper feeling. A silk scarf in deep reds and purples that he’d been surprised to see her wear. A sudden rich, full-throated laugh he’d heard from the kitchen. Once, when he’d arrived in Paris a day early, he’d come upon her playing piano in the sitting room. The music had been haunting, full of grief and beauty. And the look on her face as she’d played... She’d been pouring her soul into that piece of music, and it was, he’d thought in that moment, a soul that had known anguish and even torment.

He’d crept away before she’d seen him, knowing how horrified she would have been to realise he’d been listening. But he’d wondered just what lay underneath her cool façade. What secrets she might be hiding.

And yet it was her cool façade, her calm capability, that had made him choose Olivia Ellis for this particular role. She was intelligent, discreet and wonderfully competent. That was all he needed.

He hoped.

‘Let me rephrase,’ he said, watching as her chest rose and fell in indignant breaths. She wore a white blouse that still managed to be crisp after a nine-hour flight from Paris, and her hair, as sleek and styled as ever, was held back in its usual clip. She’d matched her blouse with a pair of tailored black trousers and sensible flats. He knew she was twenty-nine but she dressed conservatively, like a woman who was middle-aged rather than in the prime of her youth. Though still stylish, he acknowledged. Her clothes, while staid, were of good quality and cut.

‘Rephrase, then,’ she said evenly, and the temper he’d seen in her eyes was now banked. He saw the old Olivia, the familiar Olivia, return now. Calm and in control. Good. That was what he needed, after all.

So why did he feel just a tiny bit disappointed?

‘I need you to be my temporary bride. A stand-in for Queen Elena, until I can find her.’

‘And why do you need a stand-in?’

‘Because I want to dispel any rumours that she might be missing. I’m holding a press conference in one hour and we’re meant to appear together on the palace balcony.’

She pursed her lips. ‘And then?’

He hesitated, but only briefly. ‘And then, that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘If you only needed a woman for one balcony appearance, surely you could have found someone a bit more local?’

‘I wanted someone I knew and trusted and, as I told you before, I have not been back to Kadar in many years. There are few I trust here.’

She swallowed and he watched the working of her slender throat. Then she gave a little shake of her head.

‘I don’t even look like Queen Elena. She’s got dark hair and we’re not the same height, no matter what you said earlier to your staff. I must be a few inches taller.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘You’re familiar with Queen Elena’s height?’

‘I’m familiar with my own,’ she answered coolly. ‘And I have seen photos of her. I’m guessing, of course, but—’

‘No one will concern themselves with a few inches.’

‘And my hair?’

‘We’ll dye it.’

‘In the next hour?’

‘If need be.’

She stared at him for a long beat, and he felt tension gather inside him in a tight, hard knot. He knew he was making an unusual request, to say the least. He also knew he had to get Olivia to agree. He didn’t want to threaten her, God knew, but he needed her. He didn’t have any other woman in his life who he trusted to be discreet and competent, the way Olivia was. He supposed that said something about his own life, but at this moment all he could care about was achieving his goal. Securing the crown of a kingdom he’d been born to rule...even if many didn’t believe it. Even if he’d never been sure he would.

Never sure if his father would change his mind and disinherit him, just as he had Khalil.

‘And if I say no?’ Olivia asked and Aziz gave her his most charming smile.

‘But why would you?’

‘Because it’s insanity?’ she shot back without a shred of humour. ‘Because any paparazzi with a telephoto lens could figure out I’m not Queen Elena and plaster it all over the tabloids? I don’t think even the Gentleman Playboy could charm himself out of that disaster.’

‘So cutting, Olivia.’ He shook his head in gentle mockery. ‘If that happened, I’d be responsible. All the blame would fall to me.’

‘You don’t think I’d be dragged through the gossip mill, every aspect of my life dissected in the tabloids?’ For a second her features contorted, as if such a possibility caused her actual physical pain. ‘No.’

‘If you were discovered, which you won’t be,’ Aziz answered calmly, ‘No one would who know you are.’

‘You don’t think they could find out?’

‘Possibly, but we’re theorising to no purpose. There are no journalists out there. The country has been closed to foreign press for years. I have yet to change that decree.’

‘The Kadaran press, then.’

‘Have always been in the royal pocket. I’ve requested no photographs on this occasion, and they’ll comply.’ His insides tightened. ‘I’m not condoning the way things are here, but it’s how my father ran things, and currently it continues.’

She stared at him for a moment, her slate-blue gaze searching his face. ‘Are you going to do things differently now you’re Sheikh?’ She sounded curious but also a bit disbelieving, which Aziz could understand, even if he didn’t like it.

He hadn’t proved himself capable of much besides being a whiz with numbers and partying across Europe, at least to someone like Olivia. She’d seen his hedonistic lifestyle first-hand, had cleaned up its excesses. He could hardly blame her now for being a little sceptical of his ability to rule well, or even at all.

‘I’m going to try.’

‘And you’ll start with this ridiculous masquerade.’

‘I’m afraid it’s necessary.’ He cocked his head, offering her a smile that didn’t even make her blink. ‘It’s for a good reason, Olivia. The stability of a country. The safety of a people.’

‘Why has Khalil kidnapped Queen Elena? And how did he even do it? Wasn’t she guarded?’

A hot, bright flare of anger fired his insides. Aziz didn’t know whom that anger was directed at: Khalil, for taking his bride, or his staff, who had not been alert to the threat until it was too late. No, he realised, he was angry at himself, even though he knew he could not have prevented the kidnapping. He was angry that he couldn’t have prevented it, that he didn’t know this country or people well enough yet to command their loyalty or obedience—or to find Elena hidden somewhere in its endless, barren desert.

‘Khalil is the illegitimate son of my father’s first wife,’ he explained tersely. ‘He was raised as my father’s son for seven years, until my father discovered the truth of his parentage. My father banished him, along with his mother, but he insists now that he has a claim to the throne.’

‘How awful.’ Olivia shook her head. ‘Banished.’

‘He was raised in luxury by his aunt in America,’ Aziz told her. ‘You needn’t feel sorry for him.’

She eyed him curiously. ‘You obviously don’t.’

Aziz just shrugged. What he felt for Khalil—when he even allowed himself to think of the man who shadowed his memories like a malevolent ghost—was too complicated to explain even to himself, much less to Olivia. Anger and envy. Sorrow and bitterness. A potent and unhealthy mix, to say the least.

‘I admit,’ he said, ‘I don’t have much sympathy for him now, considering he is destabilising my country and has kidnapped my bride.’

‘Why do you think he believes he has a right to the throne?’

Because everyone else does. Because my father adored him, even when he learned he wasn’t his son. Even when he didn’t want to. ‘I’m not sure he does believe he has a right,’ he told her with a small shrug. ‘This might just be revenge against my father, a man he thought to be his own father for much of his childhood.’ Aziz glanced away from Olivia’s inquisitive gaze. Revenge against me, for taking his place. ‘My father was not a fair man. This extraordinary will is surely proof of that.’

‘And so Khalil has kidnapped Queen Elena in order to prevent your marriage,’ she stated slowly, and Aziz nodded, his jaw bunching. He hated to think of Queen Elena out in the desert, alone and afraid. He didn’t know his prospective bride very well, but he could only imagine how terrifying such an experience would be for anyone, and especially for someone with her history. She’d told him a little of how her parents had died, how alone she’d been. He just hoped Khalil would keep her safe now.

‘If you don’t marry within the six weeks,’ Olivia asked, ‘What happens?’

‘I lose the throne and title.’

‘And who does it go to?’

Aziz hesitated. ‘The will doesn’t specify a particular person,’ he answered. ‘But a referendum will have to be called.’

‘A referendum? You mean the people will decide who is Sheikh?’

‘Yes.’

Her mouth curved slightly. ‘That sounds nicely democratic.’

‘Kadar has a constitutional monarchy,’ Aziz answered, struggling to keep his voice even, dispassionate. ‘The succession has always been dynastic. The referendum is simply my father’s way of forcing me to jump through his hoops.’

‘And you don’t want to jump?’

‘Not particularly, but I recognise the need.’ He’d spent over three weeks trying to find a loophole in his father’s will. He didn’t want to marry, didn’t want to be forced to marry, and certainly not by his father. His father had controlled his actions, his thoughts and desires for far too long.

Yet even in death his father had the power to control him. To hurt him. And here he was, jumping through hoops.

‘Why not just call the referendum?’ Olivia asked.

‘Because I’d lose.’ Aziz spoke easily, lightly, using the tone he’d taken for so long it was second nature to him—a second skin, this playboy persona of his. But talking about his father—about the possibility of Khalil being Sheikh because his country didn’t want him—was making that second skin start to peel away, and he was afraid of what Olivia might be able to see through the tatters. ‘Hazard of not spending much time in Kadar, I’m afraid,’ he continued in a mocking drawl. ‘But I’m hoping to remedy that shortly.’

‘But not in time for the referendum.’

‘Exactly. Which is why I need to appear with my bride and reassure my people that all is well.’ He took a step towards her, willing her to understand, to accept. ‘My father left his country in turmoil, Olivia, divided by the choices he made twenty-five years ago. I am trying my hardest to right those wrongs and keep Kadar in peace.’

He saw a flash of something in her slate-blue eyes—understanding, or even compassion. He was getting to her. He hoped. ‘And if you don’t find Queen Elena?’ she asked.

‘I will. I just need a little more time. I have men searching the desert as we speak.’

It had all been so cleverly, capably done. Khalil had planted a man loyal to him in Aziz’s new staff, a man who had given Aziz the message that Elena’s plane had been delayed by bad weather. He’d bribed the pilot of the royal jet to divert the flight to a remote desert location and he’d had his men meet Elena as she came off the plane.

That much he knew, had pieced together from witnesses: from the steward who had helplessly watched Elena disappear into a blacked-out SUV; the maid who had seen one of Aziz’s staff looking secretive and shifty, loitering in places he shouldn’t have been.

Aziz sighed. Yes, it had been capably done, because Khalil still had the loyalty of many of the Kadaran people. Never mind that he’d left Kadar when he’d been seven years old and had only returned to the country in the last six months. They remembered the young boy they’d known as Sheikh Hashem’s beloved son—the real son, or so the whispers went.

Aziz was the interloper. The pretender.

He always had been, from the moment he’d been brought to the palace at just four years old. He remembered the way the staff had pretended not to hear his mother’s humble requests, how they’d sneered even as they’d served them. He’d been bewildered, his mother desperate. She’d stopped trying to please anyone and had remained isolated in the women’s quarters, rarely seen in public.

Aziz had tried. He had tried to win over the staff, the people and most of all his father. He’d failed in nearly every respect, and most definitely in the last. And so, finally, he’d stopped trying.

Except now. Now you want to try again. You’re just afraid you’ll fail.

He silenced the sly whisper of his personal demons and retrained his gaze on Olivia. They now had only forty minutes until his press conference. He had to make her agree.

‘If I can’t find Queen Elena, I’ll arrange a meeting with Khalil. We might be able to negotiate.’ Although Aziz didn’t want to talk to Khalil, or even see him. Just the memory of the last time he’d seen Khalil made his stomach churn. The boy he’d thought was his half-brother had looked at him, all of four years old, as if he were something sticky and disgusting on the bottom of his shoe. Then his father had steered Aziz out of the royal nursery, dismissing him so he could be with the son he’d always favoured. The one he’d preferred, even when he’d learned that they shared no blood.

His father might have banished Khalil, but he’d chosen to cling to his memory and revile the son he’d made heir out of necessity rather than desire.

Now Aziz forced the memories back and turned to Olivia. ‘In any case, none of that needs to concern you. All I’m asking is that you appear on the balcony for about two minutes. People will see you from afar and be satisfied.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘They’re expecting Elena. They’ll see Elena. I made the announcement that she arrived by royal jet this afternoon.’

She pursed her lips. ‘When, in fact, I did.’

‘Exactly. People will be waiting to see her. They’re most likely lining the courtyard right now. Two minutes, Olivia, that’s all I ask. And then you can return to Paris.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘For how long?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will you really need a house in Paris with a full-time housekeeper once you’re married and ruling Kadar, assuming you do find Queen Elena?’

He stared at her for a moment, nonplussed, before he realised she was worried about her job. ‘I intend on keeping my house in Paris,’ he told her, even though he hadn’t actually considered it either way. ‘And, as long as I have my house, you will have a job there.’

He saw relief flicker over her features, softening her eyes and mouth, relaxing the stiffness of her posture. She’d really been worried about her job.

‘So? We are agreed?’

She shook her head, her eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth pulled down. ‘I don’t...’

‘I have forty minutes before I face the cameras and the reporters.’ He took a step towards her, holding his hands out in appeal, offering the kind of wry smile he knew had melted hearts in the past, if not hers. ‘You’re my only hope, Olivia. My salvation. Please.’

Her mouth twitched before she firmed it into its usual cool line. ‘That might be laying it on a bit thick, Your Highness.’

‘Aziz.’

She stared at him for a long moment and he could see the conflict clouding her eyes. Then she gave one brief nod, pulling herself up straight. ‘All right,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll do it.’

CHAPTER THREE

WITHIN SECONDS MALIK had returned to the room and Aziz was speaking to him in rapid Arabic. Olivia felt as if she’d entered into some alternate reality. How on earth could she actually impersonate Queen Elena?

She’d been reluctant to agree, but she also saw the wisdom in going along with Aziz’s outrageous plan. Aziz held her livelihood in his hands and, while he hadn’t outright bribed or blackmailed her, Olivia had still felt the tit-for-tat exchange he was offering: do this and you’ll have a job for as long as you want.

And her job, the life she’d built for herself in Paris, was all she wanted now. All she hoped to have.

She wasn’t entirely self-serving, though, she told herself as she followed Malik down several marble-floored corridors. She understood Aziz’s dilemma and she didn’t want to exacerbate the instability of his country or rule. She didn’t know if pretending to be someone else actually would help things, but she supposed it would at least buy Aziz some time.

And hopefully no one would ever know and tomorrow she would be back in Paris.

‘This way, Miss Ellis.’

Malik opened a door and ushered Olivia into a bedroom decorated in peach and cream. She glanced around the sumptuous room, from the canopied bed with its satin cover and pile of pillows, to the brocade sofas and teakwood dressing table. It was a woman’s room, feminine and opulent, and she wondered who had last stayed in it.

‘Mada and Abra are here to help you prepare,’ Malik said and two smiling, sloe-eyed women stepped forward shyly to greet her. ‘I’m afraid they speak very little English,’ Malik said in apology. ‘But I trust you will be in good hands.’ With a brief nod, he turned and left Olivia alone with the two women.

With smiles and shy nods they ushered her towards the en suite bathroom, which if anything was even more sumptuous than the bedroom, with a sunken marble tub, a two-person shower and double sinks with what looked like solid gold taps.

One of the women said something to her in Arabic, and Olivia shook her head helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand...’

Smiling, she indicated her own clothes and then gestured to the buttons of Olivia’s blouse. The other woman held up a bottle of hair dye and belatedly Olivia understood. She needed to undress so they could dye her hair.

Why was she doing this again? she wondered as she slid off her blouse and trousers and then stood shivering in just her bra and pants. She felt embarrassingly self-conscious; she lived such a solitary life now, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone but her doctor had seen her in her underwear.

One of the women draped a towel around her shoulders and the other laid out the preparations for the hair dye.

‘What is your name?’ Olivia asked the woman who had given her the towel. She wished she knew a little Arabic. Did Queen Elena know any?

The woman understood her question, for she smiled and ducked her head. ‘Mada.’

‘Thank you, Mada,’ Olivia said and Mada gave her a lovely, gap-toothed smile before leading her towards the marble sink.

Olivia leaned over the sink, closing her eyes as Mada ran warm water over her head and then worked in the hair dye. She realised she hadn’t even asked if it was a temporary colour. She hadn’t had time properly to consider the ramifications of this charade, she acknowledged as the other woman, Abra, snapped a plastic cover over her hair and eased her up from the sink.

She hadn’t had time to ask Aziz if it was even legal. Was impersonating someone—and especially a royal someone—a crime? What if she was arrested? What if someone twigged she wasn’t Elena and sold the story to the foreign press?

They might uncover other secrets. She couldn’t bear the thought of the world knowing her past, raking over her secrets, judging her. She judged herself harshly enough, God knew. She didn’t need everyone else doing it too.

And her father, she thought, would be disgraced. After selling her soul to keep him from disgrace ten years ago, the thought that he might end up humiliated anyway gave her a surprising surge of savage satisfaction, and then more familiar rush of guilt.

One appearance. Two minutes. Then it would be over.

A few moments later Mada indicated that she should rise from where she’d been seated, waiting for the dye to set, and Olivia returned to the sink and bent her head so the women could rinse the dye from her hair.

She watched the water in the sink stream blue-black with the dye. When it finally went clear Abra eased her up again, and she stared at herself in the mirror in shock.

She looked completely different. Her skin seemed paler, her eyes deeper, darker and wider somehow. Her hair, her smooth, caramel-coloured hair, now framed her face in a damp, inky tousle. She didn’t really look like Queen Elena, but neither did she look like herself. Perhaps from a distance she really would pass as the monarch.

Mada took her by the hand and led her back into the bedroom where clothes had been laid out: a dove-grey suit jacket and narrow skirt paired with an ivory silk blouse.

She dressed quickly, sliding on the gossamer-thin, sheer stockings first, and then the blouse and suit. Four-inch black stilettos heels completed the ensemble. Olivia hesitated; she always wore plain, sensible flats. The heels, she thought as she gazed down at them, felt too...sexy.

And that was not a word she wanted to associate with herself...or Aziz.

Next came hair and make-up; the women styled her newly dark hair in an elegant chignon, then did her face with subtle eye shadow, eyeliner, lipstick and blusher, all of it more than Olivia ever wore. The clothes had been familiar but the shoes, make-up and hair made her feel strange. An impostor.

Which was exactly what Aziz wanted her to be—a convincing one.

A knock sounded on the door and then Malik entered. ‘You are ready, Miss Ellis?’

She nodded stiffly. ‘As ready I can be, I suppose.’

He glanced up and down her body and then nodded, seemingly in approval. ‘Please come with me.’

As she followed him down the corridor, her heels clicking smartly on the marble tile, she remarked with a touch of acerbity, ‘Clearly Mada and Abra are both in on this plan, and both of them looked far more like Queen Elena than I do. They have the right colouring, at least. Why couldn’t one of them act as her stand-in?’

Malik slid her a sideways glance. ‘Neither of those women possesses the confidence or ability to enact such a masquerade. In any case, they would not even be comfortable wearing Western clothes.’

‘But you trust them? Aziz trusts them?’

Malik nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Very few people know about this deception, Miss Ellis. Only you, Sheikh Aziz, myself, Mada and Abra.’

‘And the crew of the royal jet,’ Olivia pointed out. ‘Plus the staff who escorted me here.’

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘True, but it is a contained group, and everyone in it is loyal to the Sheikh.’

‘Aziz said he had not been in Kadar long enough to gain the people’s loyalty.’

Malik gazed at her with an inscrutable expression. ‘So he seems to think. But there are more loyal to Aziz than he knows, or allows himself to believe.’

Before Olivia could consider a response to that rather cryptic remark, Malik opened a door and ushered her into an ornate reception room. French windows led out to a wide balcony, and even from across the room Olivia was able to glimpse the courtyard below already filled with people pressed shoulder to shoulder, all of them craning their necks to catch a glimpse of their new Sheikh and his future bride.

Her stomach lurched and she pressed a hand to her mouth.

‘Please don’t be sick,’ Aziz remarked dryly as he stepped into the room. ‘That would ruin quite a lovely outfit.’ He stopped in front of her, his silvery-grey gaze wandering up and down her figure, eyes gleaming with a blatant masculine approval that made Olivia’s stomach tighten. He’d never looked at her like that before. ‘Dark hair suits you. So do high heels.’ His mouth quirked in a smile. ‘Very much so. I’m almost sorry it’s only a temporary dye.’

She lifted her chin, forcing the feeling back that Aziz stirred so easily up inside her. Why was she reacting to him now, when she never had before? ‘As long as I look like Queen Elena. As much as I can, at any rate.’

‘I think you’ll pass. Very well, actually.’ His smile turned sympathetic. ‘I do recognise that I am asking much of you, Olivia. Your willingness to help me is deeply appreciated, believe me.’

Olivia met his compassionate gaze with a direct one of her own. ‘I just want to return to Paris.’

‘And so you shall. But first, the balcony.’ He nodded towards the doors; even from here, with them closed, Olivia could hear the muted roar of the crowd below. She swallowed hard.

‘You had the press conference?’

‘Just a few moments ago.’

‘Were the media concerned with why Queen Elena wasn’t there?’

‘A few asked, but I said you were tired from your journey and preparing to meet your new people. They accepted it. In any case, it would be unusual in this country for a woman to appear in front of the media and speak for herself.’

‘But Queen Elena has spoken for herself many times,’ Olivia observed. ‘She’s a reigning monarch.’

‘True, but in Kadar she is merely going to be the wife of a Sheikh. There is a difference.’

Olivia heard a surprising edge of bitterness in his voice and wondered at it. ‘Why did Queen Elena agree to this marriage if she would have few rights in your country? It wasn’t, I presume, a love match?’

‘Indeed not.’ Aziz flashed her a quick, hard smile. ‘The alliance suited us both, for different reasons.’

A surprisingly implacable note had entered Aziz’s voice, but Olivia ignored it. ‘You speak in the past tense. Does it not still suit you?’

‘It will,’ Aziz told her. ‘When I find her. But as for now...’ He gestured to the balcony doors. ‘Our adoring public awaits.’

Nerves coiled tightly in Olivia’s belly and she nodded. There was surely no going back now. ‘All right.’

‘It is important for you to know,’ Aziz said in a low voice as they walked towards the balcony, ‘That, though my marriage to Elena was for convenience only, the public assumed it was a love match. They want it to be a love match.’

Olivia shot him a sharp glance, nerves leaping now, like a nest of snakes had taken up residence in her stomach. ‘Even though you only became engaged a few weeks ago?’

Aziz shrugged. ‘People believe what they want to believe.’

That, she thought grimly, had certainly been true in her own experience. ‘So what does this mean for our appearance out there?’

Aziz gave her a teasing smile and reached out to brush her cheek with his fingers, sending a sudden shower of sparks cascading through Olivia’s senses. Instinctively she jerked back. ‘Only that we both need to act as if we are hopelessly in love. Try to restrain yourself from too much PDA, though, Olivia. This is a conservative country, after all.’

She opened her mouth in outrage, knowing he was joking yet still indignant. Aziz just chuckled softly then slipped his arm through hers and guided her out onto the balcony and the throng that waited below.

A cheer went up as soon as they both stepped outside; the hot, still air hit Olivia full in the face. She blinked, dumbfounded by the roar of approval that sounded from below and seemed to go on and on.

Aziz slid a hand around her waist, his fingers splayed across her hip as he raised one hand in greeting.

‘Wave,’ he murmured and obediently Olivia raised her hand. ‘Smile,’ he added, a hint of laughter in his voice, and she curved her lips upwards.

They stood like that, hip to hip, Aziz’s hand around her waist, waving as the crowd continued to cheer.

‘I thought,’ Olivia said in a whisper, even though no one could possibly hear, ‘That you said the Kadaran people were not loyal to you.’

He shrugged. ‘They are a romantic people as well as a traditional one. They like the idea of my marriage, of a fairy-tale wedding, more than they like me.’

‘It is indeed a fairy tale,’ Olivia answered tartly and Aziz just smiled.

After another endless minute he dropped his hand. Olivia thought they would be finally, thankfully heading back inside, but he stayed her with his hand still around her waist, the other coming up to frame her jaw.

‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.

‘The crowd wants to see us kiss.’

‘What happened to no PDA?’ she retorted through gritted teeth. ‘And this being a conservative country?’

‘Siyad is a little more modern. And we’ll keep it chaste, don’t worry. No tongues,’ he advised, and as her mouth dropped open in shock he kissed her.

Olivia froze beneath the touch of his lips; it had been so long since she’d been kissed she’d forgotten how it felt—how intimate, strange and frankly wonderful. Aziz’s lips were cool and soft, the hand that framed her face both tender and firm. Her eyes closed instinctively as she fought against the tidal wave of want that crashed so unexpectedly through her.

‘There.’ He eased back, smiling. ‘You managed to restrain yourself.’

‘Easily,’ she snapped, and he laughed softly.

‘It’s so delightfully simple to get a rise out of you, Olivia. It makes your eyes sparkle.’

‘How delightful to know,’ Olivia retorted, and he just laughed again.

‘Indeed.’

He was leading her back inside but Olivia was barely aware of her surroundings. Her mind spun with sensation and her lips buzzed, as if his brief kiss had electrocuted her. It had been an appropriately chaste kiss, little more than a brushing of mouths, yet her insides felt alarmingly shivery and weak. Why had a simple kiss affected her so much?

Because it hadn’t been simple for her. When you hadn’t been kissed in nearly a decade, Olivia thought, a little one like that could be explosive. Unforgettable.

It surely had nothing to do with Aziz. Although she had to admit that, in her limited experience at least, he seemed a very good kisser.

As soon as the balcony doors were closed, Olivia tugged her hand from Aziz’s. ‘There.’ She fought the urge to wipe her mouth, as if such a childish action could banish the memory of his kiss and the unwelcome feelings it had stirred up inside her. ‘We’re done. I can go back to Paris.’

‘And so you shall, in the morning.’

‘Why not tonight?’

‘It’s a long flight, Olivia. The pilot needs to rest; the plane to be refuelled. Besides, I am meant to be having dinner with my bride, and I know you don’t want to miss that.’

She ignored the teasing, even though part of her actually was tempted to smile. The man was incorrigible, determinedly so. ‘You never said anything about dinner.’

‘It must have slipped my mind.’

‘Liar.’

‘As Sheikh, I’m in control of how much information to disseminate at a given time, it’s true.’

‘Such big words.’

‘I looked them up in the dictionary.’

And then she did smile, helpless to keep herself from it, knowing that she, like every other woman, was falling prey to his charm. ‘And I’m meant to be Queen Elena at this dinner?’

‘It’s a private dinner, so you only have to pretend for me.’

‘And the staff who see us together,’ Olivia pointed out. ‘Aziz, this is ludicrous. I might be able to pass myself off as Queen Elena from a balcony, but I can hardly do so face to face. One look at me and your staff will know.’

‘You are assuming they will be suspicious,’ Aziz answered calmly. ‘And why should they be? Word went out that Queen Elena arrived by royal jet this afternoon. And so she did. Then she appeared with me on the balcony, as planned. Everything is going just as it should, Olivia. No one has reason to suspect otherwise.’

‘Except for the fact that I don’t look anything like her.’

‘Do you think anyone here has seen Queen Elena in the flesh?’

‘Photographs in the papers,’ she argued. ‘And, in any case, didn’t she come here to discuss your marriage?’

Aziz nodded, still unruffled. ‘Yes, but it was a private meeting, very discreet. At that point, neither of us wanted to make the negotiations public.’

‘Even so.’

He smiled, laid a hand over hers, and Olivia had to fight the urge to yank her hand away. She’d been numb for so long, she hadn’t thought she had any feelings or desires left for Aziz to stir up inside her. Yet he had. So easily, he had. ‘Just dinner, Olivia. And then you can leave in the morning.’

She shook her head again, feeling as if she’d been caught in a riptide. She was being carried away from everything she’d known and wanted, everything safe, so quickly. She couldn’t fight against it.

And yet she was honest enough to admit she was tempted—tempted to enjoy this fleeting time with Aziz, to let herself fall just a little bit under his spell. Just for a night. Then she’d go back to her little life.

‘You need to eat, Olivia,’ he murmured.

‘I could have a sandwich in my room.’

‘Fine, then I’ll join you. Of course, then the staff might really gossip.’

She pulled her hand from his. ‘You’re impossible.’

He smiled and inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’

‘It wasn’t,’ she informed him tartly, ‘A compliment.’

His smile just widened. ‘I know.’

What point was there in resisting? Olivia wondered. Aziz would wear her down eventually with his tireless charm that masked a far more steely sense of purpose. She hadn’t realised that before, hadn’t seen how determined he could be, but then they’d never been at cross purposes before. And were they even now?

You are tempted...

Tempted to enjoy one evening with a beautiful man. Tempted to access those deadened parts of herself and feel like a beautiful, desirable woman, even if it was just pretend.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll have dinner with you. But I leave first thing in the morning.’

She gazed at him in challenge and Aziz just smiled blandly. ‘Of course,’ he answered, and with a creeping sense of foreboding Olivia wondered if she dared to take him at his word—or if she even wanted to.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE PRIVATE DINING ROOM, one of the palace’s smaller ones, had been set for a romantic dinner for two. Aziz raised an eyebrow at the snowy linen tablecloth, the creamy candles casting flickering shadows across the dim, wood-panelled room. Olivia, he knew, would not be pleased by any of it. He’d never met a woman so resistant to his charm.

Although, she hadn’t been resistant when he’d kissed her. He’d felt her shock first, tensing her whole body as if a wire that ran through her had been jerked taut, and then he’d felt her compliance, even her desire, as her body had relaxed and her hand had come up to grip his shoulder. He wondered if she’d even been aware of the fullness of her response, how she’d drawn him closer, parted her lips under his. He’d teased her that she’d have to restrain herself but he hadn’t thought she’d take him at his word.

And as she’d responded he’d felt, with a sudden, shocking urgency, a desire or even a need to deepen that kiss, slide his tongue into her mouth and taste her velvety sweetness.

Thank God he hadn’t acted on that overwhelming instinct. The people of Siyad might want to see them kiss chastely; they would have been appalled by such a blatant display of sexual desire.

And what he’d felt for Olivia in that moment had been deeply, potently sexual. A complication, he mused, that he certainly didn’t need right now.

‘Your Highness.’ A member of staff opened the doors of the dining room. ‘Her Highness, Queen Elena.’

So she’d fooled at least one person, Aziz thought with satisfaction. Olivia stepped into the room, her dark hair styled into an ornate twist with a few tendrils curling around her face. She wore an evening gown of shimmering silver; the sparkling bodice hugged her tiny waist before flaring out around her legs in gossamer folds. She looked magnificent, radiant, and more beautiful than he’d ever seen her before. Lust reached out and caught him by the throat, left him momentarily breathless and blindsided.

The doors closed behind her and she stopped in front of them, fixing him with a defiant stare. ‘I didn’t choose this dress,’ she told him. ‘But Mada and Abra insisted. I don’t even know where it came from.’

‘I had some clothes ordered.’

‘For the impostor or the real thing?’ she retorted.

Aziz kept his own voice deliberately mild. ‘Does it matter?’

‘I don’t know.’ She looked lost for a moment, vulnerability melting the ice in her eyes, before she shook her head in weary resignation. ‘This is all so strange.’

‘I agree. But strange, in its own way, can be enjoyable.’ Aziz walked towards her, wanting to touch her. He felt the entirely primal and primitive reaction of a man alone with a beautiful woman; he wanted to enjoy it, enjoy her, and not discuss how strange or wrong or dangerous it all was.

‘You certainly look the part now,’ he said as he gestured to her sparkling dress. ‘You are lovely, Olivia.’

Her cheeks pinked and she arched one elegant eyebrow. ‘I think you’re a little more adept with the compliments than that.’

A smile tugged at his mouth. ‘Oh, am I?’

‘I’ve heard you compare a woman to a rose petal before.’

‘Oh dear, that sounds rather uninspired.’

‘She obviously fell for it. The two of you were upstairs before dessert was served.’

‘Mmm.’ He felt strangely disconcerted. He wasn’t ashamed of his sexual exploits; he’d discovered at fifteen that women liked him, and after an isolated, unhappy childhood that had been a powerful aphrodisiac. So, maybe they only liked his body, his charm, but that was enough.

He wasn’t looking to offer his heart. He knew what happened when you did that. He’d put his on a damn plate for most of his childhood, for anyone to shove away, to shatter.

Yet he was conscious now of how much Olivia knew about him. His housekeeper had turned a blind and clearly unimpressed eye to his goings-on in Paris; why she felt the need to remind him of them now, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t like it.

‘I’ll have to think of an apt comparison,’ he said as he reached for her hand. Her skin was cool and soft. ‘An icicle, perhaps? Glittering, perfect and rather cold.’

‘That sounds more like a criticism.’

‘Well...’ Aziz answered with a hint of a wolfish smile. ‘Icicles melt.’

Olivia melted just a little then, her fingers tightening on his, her cheeks pinking again as she looked away. Her reaction, Aziz decided, was delightful. ‘Come,’ he said as he drew her further into the room. ‘Dinner is waiting.’

‘This is all very romantic,’ she murmured as she let him lead her to the table. Her fingers felt fragile and slender in his, and he let go of her hand with reluctance.

He knew, logically at least, that acting on the desire he felt for Olivia was out of the question. It would complicate what needed to be—for the sake of the monarchy, not to mention his marriage—very simple.

God willing, Olivia would be flying back to Paris tomorrow—and he would have found Elena.

Yet he still wanted to enjoy himself tonight.

As if she could read his mind, Olivia asked, ‘Is there any news on Queen Elena?’

Aziz shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘This Khalil wouldn’t... He wouldn’t hurt her, would he?’ Concern shadowed Olivia’s eyes and Aziz felt an answering clench of both worry and anger in the pit of his stomach.

‘I don’t think so. There would be no purpose to it and, as you said earlier, she is a reigning monarch. Kidnapping her is bad enough, but hurting her would have international consequences.’

‘That’s true,’ Olivia said, frowning. ‘But doesn’t Khalil realise that? He could be brought before an international tribunal.’

‘Kadar exists outside of such things.’ Aziz gave her a bleak smile. ‘At least, at the moment. My father ruled with an iron fist. The people loved him even so, because he was strong and he kept the country stable. But he did things his own way, and it means there are very few repercussions for what happens within its borders.’

‘But surely someone from the Thallian government will protest?’

‘If they find out.’

‘You’ve kept it from them too?’

‘From everyone, Olivia. I’ve had to. But I will find her.’ He placed the heavy damask napkin in her lap, just an excuse to touch her. Her body quivered under the brush of his fingers. ‘I understand you have questions,’ he continued quietly. ‘But I’d much rather talk about something else. Something pleasant, even.’ He smiled, willing the tension and uncertainty of the last few hours, the last few weeks, away, if just for one evening.

‘Something pleasant,’ Olivia repeated, her long, slender fingers toying with the crystal stem of her wine glass. Her mouth curved and she glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Nothing comes to mind at the moment, I’m afraid.’

His lips twitched in an answering smile. ‘Oh dear,’ he murmured. ‘What a dilemma. Surely we can come up with something?’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘I’m sure, between the two of us, we could think of something pleasant indeed.’ His voice had dropped to a husky murmur and his insides tightened with desire. He hadn’t intended a sexual innuendo, but it was there all the same. He heard it and, from the way Olivia moistened her lips, he knew she did too. He wondered what she would do with it, how she would respond...and how he wanted her to.

‘I’m sure you think of something pleasant all the time,’ she answered. ‘Although, that’s a euphemism I haven’t come across before.’

‘Rather an innocuous one,’ he answered, and her expression tightened.

‘Don’t flirt with me, Aziz. I know it’s your default setting but you managed to keep yourself from it before.’

He let out a laugh. ‘My default setting?’

She faced him directly, her gaze now resolute. ‘You’re a playboy. You can’t help it.’

He smiled wryly. ‘You make it sound like I have some condition. A disease.’

‘One I’d hope you can control. I’m not going to be one of your conquests.’

She was going on the attack because their little bout of flirting had disconcerted her, Aziz decided. Had affected her. ‘Default settings aside,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘I like seeing you smile, Olivia, and hearing you laugh. I’ve only heard you laugh once before, and I wasn’t even in the room.’

A wary confusion clouded her eyes. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You were in the kitchen and I’d come into the house without you knowing it. I heard you laugh.’ He paused, noting the way her face went pale, her eyes widened. ‘It was a delightful laugh,’ he continued. ‘Rich and full, almost dirty. I wondered what you were laughing about.’

‘I—I don’t remember.’

‘Why don’t you laugh like that with me?’

‘Maybe you’re not funny enough,’ she shot back, on the attack again, and he nodded, smiling.

‘Ah, a direct challenge. I now have a mission.’

‘One you’ll fail at, Aziz. I’m your housekeeper. You don’t need me to laugh. You don’t even know me.’

‘And is there very much to know?’

Her fingers tightened around her wine glass. ‘Not really. I live a very quiet life in Paris.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I prefer it.’

‘Yes, but why?’ He realised he truly did want to know the answer, wanted to understand why a woman like Olivia Ellis—a beautiful, capable, intelligent, lovely woman—would hide herself away as housekeeper to an empty house for six long years.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she challenged. ‘Not everyone wants to live like you do, Aziz.’

He sat back in his chair, amused and still intrigued by her non-answer. ‘And how do I live, Olivia?’

‘You know as well as I do. Parties till dawn and a different woman in your bed every night.’

‘You disapprove.’

‘It’s not for me to judge, but it’s certainly not how I want to live my life.’

‘Surely there’s a balance? We’re opposites, you and I, in our pursuit of pleasure, but don’t you think we could find some middle ground?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘And where would that be?’

In bed. He had a sudden, vivid image of Olivia lying on top of tangled satin sheets, her glorious hair spread out on the pillow, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses. His libido stirred insistently. He knew he had no business thinking like this, feeling like this.

And yet he did.

‘It’s up for discussion, I suppose,’ he said easily, and Olivia just shook her head.

A waiter came in with their first course and they both remained silent as he laid plates of salad before them. Olivia kept her head bowed, her face averted, although she murmured a thank you as the man departed.

‘I don’t think he suspected,’ Aziz murmured as the door clicked shut.

Olivia glanced up at him. ‘Like you said, people believe what they want to believe.’

She sounded hard, Aziz noted, and cynical. ‘Has that been your experience?’

‘More or less.’

‘Which one?’ he asked lightly, and she stared at him, her whole body going still, her face turning blank.

‘More,’ she said flatly, and then looked away. He wanted to ask her what she meant but she didn’t give him the chance. ‘Will you miss your old life?’ she asked. ‘The parties, the whole playboy routine? I suppose things will be very different for you, getting married, living in Kadar.’

‘Yes, I suppose they will.’ He picked up his fork and toyed with a piece of lettuce. ‘But in answer to your question, no, I won’t miss my old life.’ He glanced up, taken aback by his own honesty, striving for nonchalance. ‘Which I suppose is a confession of how shallow I really am.’

She cocked her head, eyeing him thoughtfully. ‘A shallow person wouldn’t be fighting for his throne.’

‘Maybe I just want power.’

‘Why do you want to be Sheikh?’ she asked. ‘You never even seemed interested in Kadar before. You hardly ever returned here, by your own admission.’

‘It isn’t a question of want,’ Aziz answered after a moment. ‘It’s my duty.’

‘A duty that didn’t concern you before,’ she pointed out and he pretended to wince.

‘You don’t pull your punches, do you, Olivia?’

‘Why should I?’

He chuckled softly. ‘No, I don’t suppose you should. It’s a fair question, anyway.’ One he didn’t particularly want to answer, yet he felt the surprising need to be honest. So much of his life was pretence and prevarication. Olivia, with her direct gaze and no-nonsense attitude, was someone he knew he could trust and confide in, at least a little. ‘My father never really wanted me to be Sheikh,’ he said after a moment. ‘I was always a disappointment to him.’

‘But why?’

Because he’d wanted Khalil. Even when he knew he wasn’t his son, when he’d rejected him, Hashem had longed for the son he’d loved, not Aziz. Not his son by blood. Honesty only went so far, though, and Aziz wasn’t about to admit any of that. He couldn’t stand it if Olivia ended up pitying him and the desperate-for-love boy he’d been. ‘We just didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.’ Which was putting it mildly.

Even now he could remember the way his father had sneered at his every attempt to please him. He could feel the scorching shame he’d known when Hashem had marched him into a meeting of royal aides and staff and asked him to recite Kadar’s constitution. Aziz had stumbled once, once, and Hashem had mocked him ruthlessly before slapping his face and dismissing him from the room.

Just one memory among dozens, hundreds, all of them equally cringe-worthy. Until he’d been fifteen and he’d lost his virginity—to one of his father’s mistresses, no less—and he’d realised there was another way to live. A way not to care.

‘Is that why you’ve stayed away from Kadar? Because of your father?’ Olivia asked, and Aziz blinked back the memories and stretched his lips into an easy smile.

‘Pretty much. Our meetings were—acrimonious.’

‘But you still haven’t told me why you’ve chosen to return to Kadar and be Sheikh.’

‘I suppose,’ he said slowly, ‘It’s a bit of perversity on my part. I want to prove my father wrong. I want to prove I can be Sheikh, and a damned good one at that.’ He heard the passionate intensity throb in his voice and felt a shaft of embarrassment. He sounded so eager.

‘So your decision is still about your father,’ she said after a moment. ‘You’re still letting him control you. Letting him win.’

He jerked back, stung more than he liked by her assessment, yet knowing she was right. His choices were still dictated by his father. He might not wear his heart on his sleeve any more, but he still wanted his father’s approval. His love.

‘I never thought of that before,’ he said as carelessly as he could. ‘But, yes, I suppose you’re right. It’s still about my father.’ And maybe it always would be.

‘It’s hard,’ Olivia said quietly, ‘When someone has so much power and influence in your life, to let go of it. Even choosing to ignore that person still makes them the centre of your life, in a way. You’re spending all your energy, all your time, trying not to think about them.’

‘You’re speaking from experience,’ Aziz observed and she shrugged.

‘Like you, I’m not very close to my father. He’s still alive, of course, but we haven’t spoken in years.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that.’ He thought of her father, an easy-going, affable man who had climbed high in the diplomatic service. ‘He recommended you for the position as housekeeper,’ he recalled and she nodded stiffly.

‘I think he felt he owed me that much, at least.’

‘Owed you?’

She shook her head and he could tell she regretted saying even that much. ‘It doesn’t matter. Ancient history.’

But he saw how her hands tightened in her lap, her features became pinched, her eyes darkened with remembered pain, and he knew it wasn’t that ancient. And it did matter.

She looked down at her plate, her expression clearing, Aziz suspected, by sheer force of will. ‘Anyway, we should be talking of the future, not the past,’ she said briskly. ‘Assuming you find Queen Elena in time, do you think you will come to love her?’

Aziz stiffened in surprise. No, never. Because he wasn’t interested in loving or being loved, didn’t want to open himself up to those messy emotions, needless complications. Look where it had got him; you loved someone and they let you down. They didn’t love you back or, worse, they hated you.

But he wasn’t, thank God, a needy, foolish boy any more. He was a man who knew what he wanted, understood what he had to do, and love didn’t come into it at all.

‘Queen Elena and I have discussed the nature of our marriage,’ he informed her. ‘We are both satisfied with the arrangement.’

‘That isn’t really an answer,’ Olivia replied, and Aziz smiled and spread his hands.

‘We barely know each other, Olivia. I’ve met Elena twice. I have no idea if I could love her or not.’ ‘Not’ being the operative word. ‘In any case, I’d rather talk about you. I’m sure you’re far more interesting than I am.’

She shook her head rather firmly. ‘I most certainly am not.’

‘You’re the daughter of a diplomat. You must have grown up in all sorts of places.’ She conceded the point with a nod and Aziz pressed, ‘Where would you call home?’

‘Paris.’

With a jolt he realised she meant his house. No wonder the job meant so much to her. It was probably the longest she’d lived anywhere.

‘Not just because of now,’ she explained. ‘I spent some time in Paris as a child—primary school years. I’ve always liked it there.’

‘And where did you spend your teenaged years?’

The slightest hesitation. ‘South America.’

‘That must have been interesting.’

A tiny shrug, the flattening of her tone. ‘It was a very small ex-pat community.’

Which was a strange response. She had secrets, Aziz thought. He thought of that rich laugh, the anguished piano music. She hid all her emotion, all her joy and pain—why?

Why did he hide his?

Because it hurt. It hurt to show your real self, to feel those deep emotions. They were both skimming the surface of life, he realised. They just did it in totally different ways.

‘And if I recall your CV, you only spent one year in university?’

‘One term,’ she corrected, her voice giving nothing away. Her face had gone completely blank, like a slate wiped clean. ‘I decided it wasn’t for me.’

Her knuckles were white as she held her fork, her body utterly rigid. And even though he was tempted to press, to know, Aziz decided to give her a break. For now. ‘I’m not sure if it was for me either,’ he told her with a shrug. ‘I barely scraped a two-two. Too busy partying, I suppose.’

He saw her relax, her fingers loosening on her fork. ‘A playboy even then?’

He shrugged. ‘It must be in my genes.’ And there could be some truth to that, considering how many women his father had had. But Aziz knew that, genetics aside, his decision to pursue the playboy life had been deliberate, even if it was empty. Especially because it was empty.

‘You’re clever, though,’ Olivia said after a moment. ‘You started your own consulting business.’

‘I’m fortunate that I have a way with numbers,’ he said dismissively with a shrug. In truth, he was rather fiercely proud of his own business. He hadn’t taken a penny from his father for it, although people assumed he had. In reality he hadn’t accepted any money from his father since he’d left university. Not that he went around telling people that, or about the percentage of his earnings that he donated back to Kadar to support charities and foundations that helped women and children, the vulnerable and the oppressed. He wasn’t going to brag about his accomplishments, or try to make people like him more.

Except, maybe he needed to, if he wanted to keep his throne.

‘What about you, Olivia? Did you ever want to be anything other than a housekeeper?’

Her eyes flashed ire. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a housekeeper.’

‘Indeed not. But you’re young, intelligent, with the opportunity of education and advancement. The question, I believe, is fair.’ He waited, watching the play of emotions across her face: surprise. Uncertainty. Regret.

‘I intended to study music,’ she finally said, each word imparted with obvious reluctance. ‘But, as you know, I dropped out.’

He thought again of her playing the piano, the passion and hopelessness he’d seen on her face. ‘You never wanted to take it up again?’

She shook her head, decisive now. ‘There was no point.’

‘Why not?’

She pressed her lips together, her gaze turning distant. ‘The music had gone,’ she finally said. ‘The desire, along with the talent. I knew I couldn’t recapture it even if I tried, which I didn’t want to do.’ She sounded matter-of-fact but he felt her sadness like a palpable thing, like a cloak she was wearing that he’d just never seen before, never seen how it suffocated her.

For beneath that cool, remote exterior, Aziz knew there hid a beating heart bound by pain. A woman who had suffered...but what? And why?

He wanted to know but he kept himself from asking. She’d shared enough, and so had he. They both had secrets, and neither he nor Olivia wanted them brought to light. Yet he could not keep himself from wondering. He’d touched something dark and hidden in Olivia, something he shouldn’t let himself feel curious about, yet he was.

He wanted to know more about this woman.

* * *

Olivia shifted in her seat, avoiding Aziz’s penetrating stare, and focused on her salad. He was asking too many questions, questions that felt like scabs being picked off old wounds.

She’d put her memories in a box in her mind, sealed it shut and labelled it ‘Do Not Open. Ever’. Yet with his light questions, his curious tone, Aziz was prying off the lid.

She didn’t think about her dreaded term at university when she’d been like a sleepwalker, only half-alive, if that. She didn’t think about her music, although she’d surrendered to the desire and even the need to play a couple of times in the last few years. Playing the piano was like a blood-letting, all the emotions and agonies streaming out along with the notes.

She’d needed the release because the rest of the time she kept herself remote, distant, from everyone and everything, even her own feelings, her own heart.

Life was simpler, and certainly safer, that way. She’d fallen apart once, overwhelmed by emotion, by grief, guilt and pain, and she had no intention of letting it happen again. If she gave those dark feelings so much as a toe-in they’d take over everything. They’d swamp her soul. And she might never come up for air again.

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