going to talk about? And why did Zayed want her there?
Anna fetched her in the afternoon and Olivia looked in surprise at her bedroom which, it seemed, had been transformed into a beauty spa.
‘Prince Zayed thought you would enjoy some spa treatments,’ Anna said with a smile.
Olivia spent the next few hours being pampered and massaged, tweezed and trimmed. When she finally emerged from the bathroom in a huge terry-cloth robe, she felt as if she were glowing from the inside.
Anna had laid out an evening gown, a column of deep blue, with a diamanté belt and detailing on the hem. Diamanté-studded high heels matched the outfit. It was the most gorgeous dress Olivia had ever seen.
Anna helped her slip it on and zipped up the back, then one of the beauty stylists came to do her hair in a loose chignon, a few dark tendrils slipping down artfully to frame her face.
‘I feel like Cinderella,’ Olivia said with a little laugh, but inside she felt a pulse of both disappointment and longing. She needed to give herself the reminder, because she was Cinderella. It was going to turn midnight on her very soon...if she wasn’t pregnant.
And if she was...
‘Come,’ Anna said as she handed her a matching gauzy wrap. ‘Prince Zayed and Monsieur Serrat are both waiting.’
With her heart starting to thud in anticipation, Olivia followed Anna from the bedroom to a small, private salon on the ground floor, its arched windows overlooking the back gardens that had been developed on the mountainside, surprisingly lush and green.
‘Ah, here she is.’ Zayed turned as she entered the candlelit room, giving her a smile that was both reassuring and devastating. He wore black tie, and the crisp white shirt and midnight tuxedo jacket suited him perfectly, the ultimate foil to his bronzed skin and ebony hair. Olivia became breathless just looking at him. ‘Monsieur Serrat, please let me introduce Miss Olivia Taylor.’
Olivia turned to the second man, who looked to be in his forties, with thinning hair and a kind smile as he nodded at her. ‘Pleased to meet you, mademoiselle.’
‘And you, monsieur,’ Olivia answered in French. ‘It is a pleasure.’
Pierre Serrat’s face lit up. ‘You speak French.’
‘Mais bien sûr,’ Olivia answered with a laugh. She came further into the room, her dress swishing about her ankles. She felt so beautiful in this dress, beautiful and confident in a way she never had before. She extended her hand, and with a grin Pierre Serrat kissed it. Olivia glanced at Zayed and saw a flash of something turn his eyes silver—admiration and perhaps even pride. An answering emotion fired through her, buoying her confidence all the more.
It wasn’t just the dress that made her feel this way. It was Zayed. Knowing that he’d needed her, that he wanted her here at his side...it felt like the ultimate empowerment.
The member of staff who was quietly serving them handed Olivia a glass of champagne, and the conversation flowed easily, from where Olivia had learned her French to the places she’d visited in France.
‘And what do you think of Kalidar?’ Serrat asked as they were seated at a small, intimate table laid for three. ‘It is quite different from Europe.’
‘I’ve been living in Abkar for several years,’ Olivia replied. ‘So I am used to this part of the world. And I find Kalidar to be quite beautiful, even if it is a harsh beauty.’
‘Well said,’ Serrat answered, raising his glass, and Olivia tilted her head in acknowledgement.
The conversation continued through five courses of a meal that could have been served in a Michelin-starred restaurant in Paris and, as Zayed had promised, Serrat did not ask any awkward questions about who she was or what she was doing there. Neither did he talk of politics or policy. Olivia suspected that would come later, when she wasn’t present, if it hadn’t already happened.
As she sipped her wine she let herself drift into a daydream that this was her reality—that Zayed had been restored as King and she was his Queen. That they were entertaining together, as they often would, a partnership, a team. It was such a pleasant daydream, but it also created an ache in her that was painful. It hurt to let herself imagine things that would never come to pass. Even if Zayed insisted on keeping her as his Queen, she knew instinctively that he would not want the kind of loving partnership she dreamed of. But perhaps it would come in time...
Was it foolishness to hope for such a thing? Madness? Yet she did. To her own weakness and shame, she did, because she wanted to be pregnant with Zayed’s child so she could live as his Queen...whatever he felt for her.
* * *
Olivia sparkled like the most brilliant jewel. All evening Zayed had trouble keeping his eyes off her and so, he’d noticed bemusedly, did Serrat. He’d made the right decision in having Olivia attend. Serrat had relaxed, seeing the western influence in Zayed’s life, speaking his own language. Their discussions that afternoon had been tenuous and wary; France was willing to support Zayed against Malouf but wanted to be reassured that Zayed would take Kalidar in a different direction—and what better way to prove that than by taking a western wife?
When Jahmal had told him that Sultan Hassan had sent Halina away and was refusing to accept his message or his gifts, Zayed had realised he needed to think seriously about an alternative. And he had, quite suddenly, realised that Olivia was the alternative, and a good one at that...even if she wasn’t pregnant.
Admittedly, he would have preferred a wife with further-reaching connections, but Olivia’s background as a diplomat’s daughter, her ease with languages and the fact that she was European were all points in her favour. If she was carrying his child, so much the better.
It was after midnight when Serrat said goodnight, and left Zayed and Olivia alone in the dining room, the room flickering with shadows and candlelight. Zayed ached just to look at her, her slender body encased in the sheath-like evening gown, the diamanté details making her sparkle so she looked like a blue flame.
‘You were lovely tonight,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Perfect.’
‘I didn’t do much,’ Olivia answered with a little laugh. ‘Just made small talk.’
‘Which was exactly what was needed.’ Zayed had a desperate urge to make love to her. He’d been fighting it all evening; he hadn’t touched her in ten days, since that madness had overtaken them both in his study, and he’d had her on his own desk. Even now he couldn’t believe how quickly and completely he’d lost control, yet it had felt so good. So right. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of her—and why should he? She was his wife. And she could stay his wife.
‘Do you think France will support your claim?’ Olivia asked. Her eyes were wide as she looked at him and Zayed knew she felt it too. The desire twanged between them; the air felt electric. He reached forward and took her hand, her fingertips sliding along his.
‘I hope so. Serrat will return to his government with a very favourable report, I have no doubt, and in no small part thanks to you.’ He drew her towards him and she came hesitantly, a question in her eyes. ‘I want to make love to you, Olivia,’ Zayed said, a ragged note entering his voice. His need was too great to hide it. ‘I’ve been wanting to make love to you all evening. For ten days, in fact. I’m in agony.’
She
