Commanded by the sheikh

‘Let’s try it again, shall we?’ Aziz murmured, his smile seeming to wind around her heart, which thumped harder.

‘I’m nervous,’ she muttered, and he nodded.

‘It’s understandable.’

Except that she wasn’t nervous for the reason he thought: the upcoming appearance; the charade. She was nervous because of him: because of his nearness and this all-consuming attraction that was getting so very hard to fight. Because of these feelings and desires that were flowing up and out of her, impossible to ignore or resist.

‘Assalam akaylum,’ he said again and she forced herself to repeat it as best as she could. Aziz gave a little nod. ‘Good. Now this one is a little longer.’ He smiled, his gaze warm and encouraging. ‘Motasharefatun bema refatek.’

Olivia’s eyes widened. ‘Motashar—what?’

Aziz laughed softly, the sound no more than a breath. ‘I know, I know, it’s a mouthful. Try again.’ He said the words again, and Olivia did her best to repeat them. ‘Good. One more time.’ She did and he smiled and nodded, reaching over to squeeze her knee covered by the heavy gown.

Olivia felt as if she’d been branded. She lurched upright, sparks zinging through her system, making her feel more agonisingly alive—all because he’d touched her knee.

Aziz glanced down at his fingers, still wrapped around her knee. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured but he didn’t sound at all repentant. ‘I guess I got carried away.’

He was teasing her, Olivia knew. He was a playboy, after all, hidden depths or not. How many women had he taken to bed? How many had he kissed? He probably didn’t even remember their names, and here she was, quivering because he’d touched her knee through a thick robe. He must think she was pathetic. Her desire for him must be horribly, humiliatingly obvious.

‘What does it mean?’ she managed, and was thankful her voice came out sounding normal—almost.

‘“Pleased to meet you”.’ Aziz paused and Olivia braced herself for him to say something embarrassing, like I know this is difficult, when you’re so obviously attracted to me. Not, she acknowledged, that Aziz would ever say such a thing. She didn’t think he’d ever intentionally humiliate her. But the knowledge she saw in his eyes was bad enough. The moment passed and he just smiled and asked, ‘Shall we try it again?’

Olivia nodded.

They went through a few more Arabic phrases, no more than pleasantries that Aziz assured her she wouldn’t be expected to say faultlessly—which was a good thing, because she was still having trouble concentrating on anything at all.

‘Did you speak Arabic growing up?’ Olivia asked when they’d finished. ‘Is that why you’re so good at it?’ Her head was buzzing from all the words she was afraid she wouldn’t remember, and also from this impossible awareness of Aziz. During their little lesson her heart rate, thankfully, had begun to slow, and it had been easier to breathe. Now, however, she felt everything kick into overdrive for he’d moved closer to her and his thigh nudged hers.

‘Yes, I spoke it as a child.’ He smiled, but she saw that hardness enter his eyes, and sadly she wondered whether he had a single happy memory from his childhood.

‘But you didn’t speak it much as an adult, did you?’ she asked. ‘In Europe?’

He shrugged. ‘Not often. But I think you always remember the language of your childhood.’

‘Well, I’m still impressed,’ Olivia told him. ‘I’m rubbish at languages, always have been. Perhaps you could tell?’

His eyes gleamed with amusement—and maybe something else as well. ‘Not at all.’

‘Every time we moved somewhere new, my father tried to get me to learn the language,’ Olivia continued. ‘But I was hopeless, no matter how hard I tried.’

‘You seem like someone who always does the best she can.’

Except she hadn’t done the best, not when it had mattered the most. She’d been too afraid, too hurt, too weak. Her throat went tight and she shook her head, not wanting to say any more, wondering why she’d said as much as she had.

She kept saying things to Aziz, things she’d kept to herself for so long, and even though it scared her part of her actually wanted to say them. Wanted someone to understand her in a way she’d never let herself be understood.

And more than that: she wanted not just to be understood, but to be resurrected. To be the laughing, carefree girl of her youth; to have her innocence. To be the girl she’d thought dead and buried, whom Aziz had called back to life.

And maybe that was his gift to her, giving her that desire. Even when they reverted back to their usual roles when she left Kadar, perhaps she could still be thankful that he’d woken her up.

Except she knew waking up meant feeling everything: not just the joy and lightness but the darkness, the despair. The feeling that you weren’t whole, that you were sleepwalking through life, soulless and empty...

‘Olivia?’ Aziz took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. ‘Where did you go?’

She blinked up at him, the memories receding, even though that awful feeling of emptiness remained. ‘I’m right here.’

Aziz frowned. ‘For a few seconds there you looked as if you were lost in your memories, and they weren’t good ones.’

Somehow she managed to summon a smile. ‘I’m okay,’ she said, which was no answer at all, and wasn’t even true.

Aziz stared at her for a long moment, his hands still on her shoulders. Olivia stared up at him, and even with the emptiness echoing inside her she felt her heart start to thud, her bones start to melt. She didn’t want him ever to let her go, and for a heart-stopping second she thought he might actually draw her closer, whether for a kiss or just a hug. In that moment it didn’t even matter; she just wanted him to touch her.

A knock sounded at the door and slowly, reluctantly, Aziz released her. Olivia sat back against the divan, her heart still thudding so hard she thought Aziz might be able to hear it.

‘Enter,’ he called, and Malik came into the room.

‘Your Highness, the car is ready.’

‘Thank you, Malik.’ Aziz turned to Olivia with his usual charmingly wry smile, the intensity of the previous moment seemingly completely forgotten, though its aftershocks still rippled through her. ‘Your chariot awaits, madam.’

Smiling back, trying to stuff all the feelings and memories back down inside, Olivia rose from the divan and followed Aziz from the room.

A dark sedan with tinted windows was waiting in the palace courtyard. The gates were closed, but spectators still lined the other side of the fence, and when they emerged from the palace a cheer went up that nearly sent Olivia reeling backwards.

Aziz steadied her with a firm hand on her lower back. ‘The crowd already loves you.’

Olivia gave a shaky laugh. ‘You mean they love Queen Elena.’

‘How could they,’ he murmured, dipping his head low so his breath fanned her cheek, ‘When she’s not even here?’

‘It’s the idea of her,’ Olivia answered as she slid into the car, arranging the voluminous folds of the robe around her. ‘The idea of your bride. I suppose,’ she mused, ‘It doesn’t really matter who it is.’

She’d just been thinking aloud, but from the sudden stillness, the arrested look on Aziz’s face, Olivia felt as if she’d said something momentous. ‘What is it?’ she asked warily, but Aziz just shook his head.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

* * *

It doesn’t really matter who it is.

The words echoed through him. It doesn’t really matter... It doesn’t really matter... It doesn’t really matter who it is...

All he needed was a bride, a willing wife. Elena had been suitable, certainly, but she wasn’t here now. And, if he couldn’t find her, she wasn’t suitable at all.

But Olivia was.

Part of Aziz was appalled at how quickly he was willing to discard one bride for another; another part of him was amazed he hadn’t thought of it before.

He had two days. Olivia was here. Suddenly it seemed simple.

Of course, Aziz knew it wasn’t really remotely simple. He was considering marriage and, while it had been expedient for both him and Elena, it certainly wasn’t for Olivia. She had no reason, and perhaps no desire, to marry him.

He glanced at her; the headdress and veil were hiding most of her face. Her grey eyes and Arabic clothing might make her look like a stranger but he saw something familiar in the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips.

Lips he’d touched and tasted...

There was an attraction between them, even if she wanted to deny it, as well as a friendship, or at least the beginnings of one. Surely both were a good basis for marriage? At least for the kind of marriage he wanted: one without any emotional risk.

And he suspected Olivia might want that kind of marriage too.

Maybe it could work.

‘Aziz?’ Olivia was peering out of the window and nibbling her lip. ‘Look.’

He looked and saw that the narrow streets of the Old Town were lined with people. Distantly he registered the roar of the crowd. The people were throwing flowers onto the car. He watched a single blood-red rose hit the window and fall to the ground.