The Sheikh's Collection. Оливия Гейтс

knew it was the coward’s way not to listen to Khalil, not to ask what his side of the story was. Would she really want to marry Aziz if he wasn’t the rightful Sheikh?

      And yet he had to be, she told herself as she sat down on the bed. He had to be.

      Because if he wasn’t...

      It didn’t even matter, she reminded herself with a gusty sigh, dropping her head into her hands. She wasn’t going to marry Aziz. No matter how gentle and tender he’d been with her today, Khalil still intended keeping her until the six weeks were up. Soon Aziz would have no reason to marry her.

      Whether she wanted to or not.

      She looked up, her gaze unfocused as she recalled the way Khalil had held her; the soft words he had spoken; the way he’d stroked her hair; the thud of his heart against her cheek.

      She felt deep in her bones that he’d been sincere, and the realisation both terrified and thrilled her. She didn’t have real relationships. She didn’t know how. She’d been shy as a child, her parents distant figures, her only company a nanny and then a governess. Even if she’d wanted, yearned, for such things, she hadn’t known how to go about getting them—and then Paulo had broken her trust and destroyed her faith in other people and, even worse, her faith in herself and her own judgement.

      Was she misjudging Khalil now? Was it simply her pathetic inexperience with men and life that made her crave more of that moment, more tenderness, more contact?

      Nothing about their relationship, if she could even use that word, was real.

      Yet it felt real. She felt as if Khalil understood and even liked her for who she was. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, but whatever her association with Khalil was she knew she needed to know the truth. To ask for his side of the story...and face the consequences of whatever he told her.

      She let out a shuddering breath, the decision made.

      * * *

      A little while later Leila slipped into the tent, smiling and curtseying as she caught sight of Elena. ‘I’ve brought fresh clothes and water for washing. Sheikh Khalil has invited you to dine with him tonight.’

      ‘He has?’ Surprise, and a damning pleasure, rippled through her. ‘Why?’

      Leila’s smile widened. ‘Why shouldn’t he, Your Highness?’

      Why should he?

      His reasons didn’t matter, she told herself. This could be her opportunity to ask Khalil about his claim to the throne. And if she felt a little flare of anticipation at seeing him, at spending time with him, then so be it.

      ‘Look at the dress he has brought you,’ Leila said and, opening a box, she withdrew a dress of silvery grey from folds of tissue paper.

      It was both beautiful and modest, the material as delicate and silky as a spider’s web. Elena touched it before she could stop herself.

      ‘I’m not sure why I need to wear that,’ she said sharply, drawing her hand away as if the fragile material had burned her. The temptation to try it on, to feel feminine and beautiful, was overwhelming.

      Leila’s face fell and she laid the dress down on the bed. ‘You would look beautiful in it, Your Highness.’

      ‘I don’t need to look beautiful. I’m being held captive in a desert camp.’ And she needed to remember that. To stay strong.

      She turned away abruptly, hating that she sounded petulant and childish, and hating even more that she was tempted to wear the dress and have dinner with Khalil.

      Hear his side of the story.

      Quietly Leila folded the dress and returned it to the box. Elena felt even worse. ‘Shall I tell Sheikh Khalil you wish to remain in your tent tonight?’

      Conflicted, Elena turned back to Leila. ‘I don’t—’ She stopped, took a breath. She was being a coward, hiding in her tent. She needed to face her fears. Face Khalil. If she learned just what his side of the story was, she’d be able to make a more informed decision about her own future. She’d know all the facts. Know her enemy.

      Even if he didn’t feel like her enemy any more.

      ‘You may tell Khalil I’ll eat with him,’ Elena said. ‘Thank you, Leila.’ She glanced down at the dress, an ache of longing rising in her. It was such a lovely gown. ‘And you may leave the dress.’

      An hour later Leila escorted Elena to Khalil’s private tent. Her heart started thudding and her palms felt damp as she stepped inside the luxurious quarters.

      She felt self-conscious in the dress Leila had brought, as if she were dressing up for a date, but she also enjoyed the feel of the silky fabric against her skin, the way it swirled around her ankles as she moved. And, a tiny, treacherous voice whispered, she liked the thought of Khalil seeing her in it.

      Everything in her rebelled at the realisation. She shouldn’t want to please Khalil. She couldn’t start to feel something for him. It would be beyond stupid—it would be dangerous.

      As she came into the tent, she saw candlelight flickering over the low table that had been set with a variety of dishes. Silk and satin pillows were scattered around it in the Arabic style of dining, rather than sitting in chairs as she was used to.

      Khalil emerged from the shadows, dressed in a loose, white cotton shirt and dark trousers; he’d taken off the traditional thobe she’d seen him in before. With his golden eyes and midnight hair, his chiselled jaw glinting with dark stubble, he looked like a sexy and dangerous pirate. Dangerous, she told herself, being the operative word.

      Elena swallowed audibly as Khalil’s heated gaze swept over her. ‘You look lovely, Your Highness.’

      ‘I’m not sure what the point of this dress is,’ Elena retorted. ‘Or this meal.’ She was feeling far too vulnerable already, and attack was her best defence. She’d learned that in the Council Room; it had helped keep the crown on her head for four years.

      When Markos had mocked her plans for better childcare provision, saying how women didn’t need to work, Elena had come back with the percentages of women who did. When he’d belittled her idea for an arts festival, she’d pointed out the increased tourist revenues such events would bring. She’d refused to back down, and it was probably why he hated her. Why he wanted to end her rule.

      Khalil had been walking towards her with graceful, predatory intent, but he stopped at her sharp words and raised an eyebrow. ‘You complained this morning about being kept in your tent like a prisoner. I thought you would enjoy having company, even if it is mine.’ A smile flickered over his face and died. ‘Likewise, I thought you might prefer a dress to the admittedly more suitable khakis. I’m sorry if I was wrong.’

      Now she felt ridiculous and even a little ashamed, almost as if she’d hurt his feelings. Khalil waited, his expression ironed out to blandness. ‘This is all very civilised,’ Elena finally managed.

      ‘It’s meant to be civilised, Elena,’ he answered. ‘I have told you before, I am neither a terrorist nor a thug. Your stay here is, I’m afraid, a necessary—’

      ‘Evil,’ she filled in before she could help herself.

      ‘Measure,’ Khalil answered. Suddenly and surprisingly, he looked weary. ‘If you are going to fight me all evening, perhaps you would prefer to eat in your tent. Or will you try to set fire to this one?’

      Elena knew then that she didn’t want to fight any more. What was the point? Khalil wasn’t going to let her go. And she was wearing a beautiful dress, about to eat a lovely meal with a very attractive man. Maybe she should just enjoy herself. It was a novel concept; so much of her life as queen, and even before she’d ascended the throne, had been about duty. Sacrifice. When had anything been about pleasure?

      She gave him a small smile and glanced consideringly at the creamy candles in their bronze holders. ‘That would make a big enough