Commanded by the Sheikh

‘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.