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His people loved his bride.
His fake bride. The bride they thought was Queen Elena of Thallia, not a nobody, a housekeeper from Paris.
What the hell was he going to do?
‘We’re very popular,’ he said lightly, giving Olivia a reassuring smile. Her face had gone pale.
‘This could all go horribly wrong,’ she said, her voice low, her gaze still on the crowds outside the window. The car had slowed to a crawl.
‘Not for you,’ Aziz answered. ‘Only for me.’
‘You know I’d be affected.’ She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. ‘I must have been mad to agree to this. Mad.’
Aziz gazed at her, wanting to reassure her but knowing he couldn’t, at least not now. They were in the car; she was dressed as Queen Elena. Calling a halt to the charade now would be disastrous to them both.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said suddenly, and she opened her eyes and looked at him. He held her gaze; it felt as if they were somehow connected.
‘Thank you for saying that,’ she said quietly. Her mouth quirked into a tiny, teasing smile. ‘Even if there’s nothing you can do about it.’
‘Too true.’ He nodded towards the street; they’d left the Old Town and were entering the central square of Siyad’s more modern district. The square was filled with people too, all of them proffering bouquets and gifts. Crowds and flowers. ‘Those people aren’t just going to go away.’
‘No, I don’t suppose they are.’
He leaned over and touched her hand, wanting the contact, needing it, and suspecting she needed it too. ‘You’ll be fine, Olivia. You’ll be wonderful. You’re elegant, lovely and gracious, and you’re warm and friendly when you let yourself relax.’
‘Was that your pep talk?’ she answered with raised eyebrows, but she was smiling. ‘How am I supposed to relax in front of about a thousand people?’
‘If anyone can do it, you can.’ He squeezed her fingers before withdrawing his hand. ‘We’re here.’ The car had pulled up in front of the main gates to the public gardens and several security personnel jumped out of the car in front and cleared a path to their door. Aziz took a breath and gave Olivia a reassuring smile. ‘Are you ready?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Olivia said with an attempt at flippancy that almost worked. Aziz felt a swell of admiration for this woman whom he was coming to realise was courageous, not just capable. She was strong, sweet and incredibly, amazingly, sexy.
‘That’s my girl,’ he murmured and she looked away, trying to hide her smile.
One of his staff opened the door. ‘Let’s go,’ Aziz said and, taking her hand, he helped her out of the car.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FLASHBULBS BLINDED OLIVIA for a moment and flowers fell at her feet, causing her to stumble as she exited the car
Then Aziz slid his hand around her waist, steadying her, and she felt her confidence come back. Someone spoke to her in Arabic, an incomprehensible babble, and Aziz murmured in her ear. ‘Steady, now. Assalam alaykum.’
‘Assalam alaykum,’ she repeated, and managed to force her lips into something like a smile, even though she realised belatedly that no one could see it behind her veil. ‘Assalam alaykum.’ There. That sounded slightly more natural. And the people around her obviously understood what she meant, because their smiles grew wider and another cheer went up.
Olivia kept smiling and nodding; her head felt light and her heart was beating so hard it felt as if it would jump right out of her chest. Aziz stepped slightly away from her and she felt the loss. She needed his strength now. She needed him.
He spoke to someone else in Arabic and an old woman, her face almost completely hidden by her veil, reached for Olivia’s hand and patted it, murmuring something in Arabic. Olivia felt tears spring to her eyes.
She was touched, humbled and ashamed all at once. She felt like such a fraud. She wanted this to be real. Her emotions rose like a tidal wave inside her, drowning out practical thought, capable action.
From somewhere she found the unfamiliar words. ‘Motasharefatun bema refatek.’ She mangled the phrase but the woman understood and beamed. Aziz slid a sideways smile at her, his eyes so warm with approval that Olivia blushed.
Then he took her hand and led her through the crowd to the gates of the Royal Gardens. A red silk ribbon ran across them; someone handed Aziz a rather wicked-looking knife. He made some joke about it in Arabic, for several people laughed and nodded. Then he raised the knife high over his head and slashed the ribbon in two. Everyone cheered. Olivia clapped her hands and smiled at the people around her, who beamed back.
They wanted to like her, she realised, just as they wanted to like Aziz. How could he not see that? How could he not see that his people were ready and waiting to accept him?
Because he doesn’t accept himself.
Someone spoke to her in Arabic, smiling and gesturing to her veil, which Olivia guessed had met with people’s approval. They wanted to see Aziz’s bride, but appreciated the sign of respect for the old ways, as Aziz had said they would.
She smiled wryly back and patted her hijab, trying to convey how strange and yet acceptable it was to wear it. Somehow this actually worked, for the woman she was talking to clapped her hands and crowed with laughter.
Olivia felt something unfurl in her soul. Hope. Happiness. She’d cut herself off for so long, she’d actually forgotten how much she missed being with people. Besides talking to workmen and the concierge across the street, she’d lived the last six years in virtual isolation—and by choice.
Maybe now she would finally have the strength to choose differently. Maybe that would be Aziz’s legacy to her, his gift.
* * *
Finally Aziz reached for her hand and drew her towards the garden. They stepped through the gate and it closed behind them, leaving them blissfully alone in an oasis of beauty and scent.
‘Is no one coming in with us?’ Olivia whispered and Aziz smiled and shook his head.
‘No, this is our private time. As a couple.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s a relief, I suppose.’
‘I think you fooled them.’
Olivia bit her lip, remembering the way the old woman had smiled at her and touched her hand. ‘I feel like such a fraud. Like a liar.’
Aziz was silent for a moment, his gaze on the brick walkway in front of them. ‘I know,’ he said finally. ‘I do too.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ she said impulsively. ‘You’re not pretending to be someone else.’
‘Aren’t I?’
She shook her head. ‘I think you believe you are somehow, but your interest is genuine, Aziz. I can tell. So can they. You may not see it, but the people want to accept you. To love you.’
His mouth twisted. ‘The people of Siyad, maybe. And only because they think I’m sophisticated and glamorous.’
‘Well,’ she answered, daring to tease, ‘You are sophisticated and glamorous. You’re the Gentleman Playboy, after all.’
‘On the surface, maybe. That’s not who I really am.’
She stopped walking and nearly stopped breathing. ‘Then who are you, Aziz? Really?’
He paused mid-stride and for a moment she thought he’d say something real, something important. Then he turned to her with a teasing smile. ‘Well, I’m not answering that question until you answer it too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can’t tell me you’re an open book, Olivia. You’re hiding something.’
‘Not hiding,’ she answered stiltedly, unnerved by his perception. ‘Just—not thinking of it. Why dwell on bad memories?’
‘Why indeed? I’m in a beautiful garden with a beautiful woman.’ His eyes glinted teasingly. ‘What should I compare you to? Not rose petals, since you’ve heard that one before.’
‘You’ll think of something, I’m sure,’ Olivia answered.
‘Just give me a moment.’ He strolled down the path, his hands behind his back. ‘In any case, I actually mean it, Olivia. You don’t act as if you know it or believe it, but you really are a beautiful woman.’
‘Is that another line?’ Olivia answered back, unnerved by the sincerity in his voice, and he turned to face her, all levity and artifice gone from his face.
‘No, it’s not.’
He looked so serious, so intent. Olivia’s mouth dried and her mind spun. She licked her lips and shook her head. ‘Aziz...’ She didn’t know how to articulate what she felt, all the hope and fear. She loved being with him, loved his attention and interest, but she was also afraid. Being woken up to all these feelings was scary. It meant you could get those same feelings hurt.
‘Just a simple statement of fact,’ Aziz said with a smile. ‘I can’t help but notice.’
‘Always charming,’ Olivia answered, half-teasing, glad to retreat back to banter. ‘No wonder you’re called the Gentleman Playboy.’
‘Such a silly nickname.’
‘How did you come to get it, then?’
He studied a crimson flower intently while Olivia waited. ‘One of the gossip magazines gave me the nickname a few years ago and it stuck.’
‘Why did they give you it?’
