Читать книгу Commanded by the Sheikh - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 8

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.’