Commanded by the Sheikh. Кейт Хьюит

      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.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      WITHIN SECONDS MALIK had returned to the room and Aziz was speaking to him in rapid Arabic. Olivia felt as if she’d entered into some alternate reality. How on earth could she actually impersonate Queen Elena?

      She’d been reluctant to agree, but she also saw the wisdom in going along with Aziz’s outrageous plan. Aziz held her livelihood in his hands and, while he hadn’t outright bribed or blackmailed her, Olivia had still felt the tit-for-tat exchange he was offering: do this and you’ll have a job for as long as you want.

      And her job, the life she’d built for herself in Paris, was all she wanted now. All she hoped to