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.’
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
