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‘Okay.’ She didn’t understand the ins and outs of the politics, but she accepted that Zayed did, and if he wanted her there, she would go. ‘How...how are you going to introduce me?’
‘Simply as my companion. I do not think Pierre Serrat will ask any awkward questions. He is a diplomat, after all.’
Olivia nodded, unsure how she felt about any of this. It was so unexpected, yet the last few weeks had been filled with unexpected things.
They’d been exciting, she acknowledged, and she’d known more happiness here than she ever had in the Sultan’s palace, a fact which made her feel a little sad. When and if Zayed sent her away, she would do something different with her life, she vowed. She would go to Paris, get a job, live independently as she never had before. The prospect made her wilt inside. She was falling in love with him, she acknowledged despondently. With every moment, every second she spent in his company, she tumbled a little bit further. And there was nothing she could do about it.
‘I’ll send Anna to you later,’ Zayed said. ‘To prepare for tonight.’ Olivia nodded, and he paused in the doorway. ‘Thank you, Olivia.’
‘You’re welcome.’ The words were squeezed out. Zayed nodded once, then he was gone. She stared at the empty doorway for a moment, wishing she knew what was in his head. Was he hoping that she wasn’t pregnant, so he could get rid of her as soon as possible?
Of course he is, you ninny.
No matter how pleasant the last two weeks had been, and they’d been very pleasant for her, Zayed was a man on a mission, one he’d explained to her himself, one she understood and sympathised with. He needed Sultan Hassan’s cooperation too much to jeopardise it by staying married to her.
She was so foolish, half daring to dream about a life with a baby and a husband at her side. A man, she reminded herself ruthlessly, who would be there only by duty, not by desire. Far better for her as well as for Zayed if she hadn’t fallen pregnant. She knew that, even if in her weaker moments she didn’t feel it.
Olivia spent the morning as she had intended to, proofreading some correspondence in French. It was wordy stuff, about support for Kalidar’s social programmes, and made Olivia wonder about Serrat’s visit. What exactly were he and Zayed 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.
