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.’
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
