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Wasn’t her own soul at stake too? Aziz was bringing her back to life, painful as that was. Maybe, when she returned to Paris, she’d be strong and alive enough again to want; to feel; to try, just as he was trying.
They were helping each other, in a strange and totally unexpected way.
Aziz nodded slowly. ‘If you choose to return to Paris today, I will respect your decision.’
He waited, silent and still, for her answer. An answer, Olivia knew, that she should give immediately and unequivocally.
No. Of course not. This dangerous charade had gone on long enough. She owed Aziz nothing, no matter what she felt for him now. And it was too dangerous to stay here, to spend time with him. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with impersonating Queen Elena...and all to do with her contrary, alive-again heart.
‘Well?’ Aziz asked softly.
Olivia didn’t speak. She stared at Aziz, saw a faint smile curve his lips, yet his eyes, those lovely, grey eyes, were filled with a sorrow that cut right to her heart.
She drew a breath and let it fill her lungs. She shaped her mouth to form the words, ‘No. I’m sorry, Aziz, but I can’t’.
They filled her head, echoed through her, yet the ones that came out of her mouth were different.
‘All right, Aziz,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’ll do it.’
CHAPTER SIX
OLIVIA STARED AT her reflection in a kind of incredulous wonder. If she’d thought she looked different with dark hair, she looked like an utter and complete stranger in the Arabic dress Abra and Mada had put her in. Unfamiliar grey eyes stared back at her in the mirror from above a black gauzy veil that covered her nose and mouth. A hijab hid most of her hair, save for a bit peeking out on her forehead, and her figure was swathed in a voluminous Arabic dress of grey shot through with silver thread.
She could not imagine elegant Queen Elena wearing such a get-up, but she supposed she would have had to, if she were here.
Instead, Olivia was wearing it. And, even though she’d agreed to this, she still felt disbelieving that it was actually happening.
She’d felt a kind of dazed incredulity all morning, from the moment she’d told Aziz she’d do it. The smile he’d given her had been dazzling, melting the last of her inhibitions even as she’d tried to caution herself. Aziz might have woken up feelings inside her, but those feelings didn’t have to be about him. For him.
Yet so many of them were. She liked this man, more than she’d ever expected to. And she was poised to feel a whole lot more, if she let herself.
Which she wouldn’t.
The rest of the morning had been given over to getting her ready: touching up her hair, putting in the coloured contact lenses that made her eyes itch, donning these clothes. Turning herself into a stranger. Yet she’d agreed to it because she wanted to help Aziz.
Because she wanted to be with him. She didn’t just like him; she liked being with him. She liked who she was when she was with him. She felt, amazingly, more like herself. Like the girl she used to be: lighter; happier. More hopeful, and when she’d thought hope had long passed her by.
Don’t you realise how dangerous this is?
A knock sounded on the door of her room and then Malik appeared. ‘Miss Ellis.’ His dark gaze swept over her and he nodded in approval. ‘Well done.’
‘I don’t think anyone would be recognisable under all this,’ Olivia said and Malik’s normally stern face cracked into a small smile.
‘And that is good for us. Are you ready?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Sheikh Aziz would like to go over the particulars of the afternoon with you before you depart. I’ll take you to him.’
Olivia’s robe whispered along the floor as she followed Malik out of her bedroom. She felt so strange, as if she were wearing a costume for a fancy-dress party. She half-expected someone to come up to her and rip the veil away from her face, laughing that she hadn’t fooled anyone.
‘Sheikh Aziz,’ Malik announced, opened a set of double doors and ushered Olivia into an elegant salon. He closed the doors behind him, leaving her alone with Aziz who she saw was also wearing traditional robes and a turban.
‘The dark hair and high heels suited you,’ Aziz said after a moment. ‘And, amazingly, so does this ensemble.’ He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his good humour utterly infectious so that Olivia smiled back, even though she knew he couldn’t see it beneath her veil.
‘Should this be my new housekeeper’s uniform, do you think?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Aziz replied thoughtfully, and Olivia’s smile widened.
‘I feel rather ridiculous.’
‘You look lovely, even so. I wonder, how can a woman still look beautiful when she is completely covered?’
‘You tell me.’
He walked towards her, his gaze sweeping slowly over her. ‘You are beautiful, Olivia. You are very beautiful.’ He smiled, his eyes glinting, inviting her to share his good humour. ‘I should be comparing you to flower petals, I suppose.’
She let out a little gurgle of laughter. ‘Now, that would be a bit stale. I think you need to find some new flattery, Aziz.’
‘Is it flattery if it’s the truth?’
Pleasure flared deep inside. The truth was, she did feel like a flower, like something once dormant and dry that had finally found sunlight, sought water. ‘That’s not saying much,’ she bantered back. ‘Considering I’ve changed my hair and eye colour and am currently covered from head to toe.’
‘True. I must admit, I prefer you in the evening gown you wore last night.’
Another flare of pleasure, deeper, fiercer.
She nodded towards his own robes, a turban covering most of his dark hair. ‘And is your outfit part of this plan to show respect?’
‘Indeed, yes.’ Wryly he glanced down at his thobe. ‘This get-up is just about as strange to me as yours is to you.’
‘You look good. You should wear it more often,’ she teased, half-amazed at herself, at the humour and happiness Aziz brought out in her, even in the midst of all that was going on. Aziz smiled back, his eyes sparkling.
‘Maybe I’ll surprise you.’
You already do. Aziz’s devotion to his country, his determination to rule, hinted at depths she’d never even guessed at. He was a man she’d thought careless, judged as shallow. And yet, to her surprise, the light, laughing man known as a playboy enchanted her now as much as the deeper, more thoughtful man she was beginning to realise hid underneath. She liked laughing with him, teasing and being gently teased, especially when she now knew there was more to him than his charming façade.
‘So what now?’ she asked. ‘When are we meant to appear at the gardens?’
‘In a short while.’ He smiled and took a step towards her. ‘But first I need to teach you a few phrases in Arabic.’
‘Arabic?’ Olivia stared at him in alarm. ‘Why?’
‘Because the people will expect it, and it will please them to hear you speaking their language.’
‘Except I can’t speak their language,’ Olivia pointed out, unable to keep a high note of panic from entering her voice.
‘No one will expect you to speak it well, or even understand what you are saying,’ Aziz assured her. ‘Elena had learned a few phrases only.’
‘Which is a few more than I’ve learned.’
His mouth curved in the kind of smile that invited her to share the joke. Jump right into it. ‘Hence, our lesson,’ he said, his voice nearly a purr, and then he took her by the hand, causing those sparks to race up her arm, and drew her towards him. ‘Come.’
He led her to a private alcove with a velvet divan and, sitting down, he drew her by the hand so she sat next to him, the folds of her robe spilling over his own. She could see the outline of his powerful thigh beneath the fabric that had drawn taut when he’d sat down, inches from her own leg. She was mesmerised by the sight of his leg; she couldn’t stop staring at it. It was if her brain had slowed down; everything in her focused on Aziz and this incredible, unbearable awareness of him.
Why hadn’t she felt like this when she’d sat with him in the drawing room of the Paris house, going over accounts?
Because she hadn’t been truly alive then. Aziz hadn’t woken her up, made her want.
Want him.
She drew a shaky breath and smoothed her robe over her lap, just to give her hands something to do. She forced her gaze upwards, away from his thigh. His eyes were dancing. ‘So; Arabic. What do I need to say?’
‘Let’s start with hello: “assalam alaykum”.’ His voice, as soft and rich as velvet, caressed the syllables of the unfamiliar words, making them sound as if they were an endearment, even though Olivia knew he was only saying hello. Hello. Her body didn’t seem to grasp that fact.
‘Olivia?’ He raised his eyebrows, expectant, and she realised she’d just been gawping at him, her brain and body both on overload from the simple presence, the sheer masculinity, of him.
‘Assalam alaykum,’ she repeated, fighting a flush, half-afraid that Aziz would be able to guess the nature of her thoughts. Surely he could see her body’s reaction to him? She felt as if everything in her both tingled and ached, and she was afraid she might not be able to control the overwhelming need to touch him. What would he do if she did touch him? If she just reached out and stroked his face, or touched that taut and powerful thigh? Squeezed it...
