The Royal Collection. Rebecca Winters

only then did he step away.

      “What’s wrong?” she asked.

      “It is a very good thing, I feel, that you are fascinated with me. For it seems to be important to you. Still, I think consummation will wait until after our wedding.” He felt nothing when he said the words, because he did not allow himself to think of what they meant.

      “That’s a very old-fashioned view.”

      “Values have nothing to do with this. It is about focus. I do not intend to split that focus. Mine or yours.”

      “I hardly think I’ll have a difficult time seeing to daily tasks simply because we’re in a physical relationship. You’re a handsome man, but I’m not sure I’d find you quite that distracting,” she said. “Though I see there is no harm in the two of us getting to know each other better. Sleeping with a stranger has never been my thing.”

      He looked at the feminine creature he had agreed to marry and realized that there was a very great divide between the two of them. He had seen things, terrible things. The harsh and horrible realities of life that no one should ever have to face. He had endured unimaginable, unspeakable pain that would have destroyed most men. And yet, he knew nothing of people. Nothing of relationships and connections. Nothing of heat. Nothing of passion.

      She contained those secrets beneath all of that soft skin. Mysteries wrapped in mysteries that were unknown to him. They sparkled in her eyes, and he had a feeling she would share them if he but asked.

      And yet, when he made the decision to add such things to his life, it truly had to be his decision. Something he controlled. Something he was certain wouldn’t take away from his aims. He did not allow his body to be ruled by need. Not need for anything. Not even for the need to be relieved of pain.

      And certainly not by the need for physical satisfaction.

      Coming to grips with that had been more difficult when he was a boy. But he was a man with years of practice at denying unnecessary appetites. And he would continue to do so until he was certain he was in absolute control.

      “I do not know if there will be a time when you won’t consider me a stranger,” he said, “but there will be a time when you will call me husband.”

      “Then, I suppose whichever comes first, you being known to me or you being married to me, will be the benchmark for when we begin a sexual relationship.”

      “I suppose.”

      She blinked rapidly, taking a sharp breath before straightening. As though she had been off balance, and had righted herself. “You are not what I expected.”

      “What did you expect?”

      “A man,” she said simply.

      “In what regard?”

      “I have never known a man to be so resistant to being touched. I should have thought you would consider being with me a perk of our union. Perhaps I was a bit too egotistical?”

      He sensed a strain of vulnerability beneath her words, and he couldn’t fathom why. She was, he gathered, hurt in some capacity by what she felt was indifference on his part.

      He was not indifferent. But he felt the need to become so.

      “I apologize, my queen,” he said. “I have spent too many years away from people to know how one usually responds to anything.”

      She regarded him closely. “Somehow we’ll make that work to your advantage, Tarek. I’m not entirely certain how we’ll make it work to ours.”

      She gave him one last look, lingering boldly over his body, then turned and walked out of his room. Leaving him half-dressed in clothes that made him feel like another man.

      Or perhaps it was Olivia who made him feel that way.

       CHAPTER SIX

      OLIVIA WAS RESOLUTE in her decision to stay away from Tarek when he was shirtless. Because every time he stripped down, he seemed to cast her common sense to the floor right along with his clothes. She was at war with herself. Somewhat horrified by her actions while at the same time feeling completely justified in them. If he was going to be her husband, they would have to come to an agreement on this. But she would feel more comfortable if she wasn’t half as invested in the agreement. If she didn’t feel quite so out of control of her actions when he was near.

      If she didn’t want him quite so much. That was the part that horrified her. Not because she was ashamed of wanting him, but because it was exposing to desire someone like that. And to show them that you did.

      She knew better than that. You played games to protect yourself. Acted a little bit coy to make sure that the man felt the same. Even when she and Marcus had been married she’d played those games. But he had, too.

      She had loved her husband very much, but they had their own lives. Their own bedrooms. There were things about him she didn’t know, things she didn’t want to know.

      She kept herself guarded. Which was just good sense.

      Because she knew the alternative far too well.

      Still, for some reason, keeping guarded with Tarek was difficult.

      Which confounded her, since she had loved Marcus. Known him. In that way you could know people. She had none of those things with Tarek. She had a fascination for his body. So different from her husband’s. Which was a thought that made her deeply uncomfortable.

      She supposed, had she had a list of lovers, the temptation to compare wouldn’t be present. But as she had been with only one man, the sight and feel of another man’s body was more exceptional than it might have been otherwise.

      And today was speechwriting day. She was torn between the desire to spend time with Tarek, to try to understand the man she had agreed to marry, and the desire to avoid him to stop herself from making any other stupid moves.

      Today, there would be no avoiding. Today, there was a speech to consider.

      She smoothed the front of her plum-colored sheath dress, then patted her blond hair, neatly secured in a bun. She looked much more collected and calm than she actually was. She had ensured that was the case before she left her quarters. She took a fortifying breath, pushing open the doors to Tarek’s office. He was expecting her. She didn’t see the point in knocking.

      When she saw him standing there in front of his desk, his head bent low, his expression one of intense concentration, she wished that she could go back and allow herself a few more moments to fortify herself. To prepare herself.

      His suit, apparently, was ready. And he was wearing it. Fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscular thighs.

      She had been right—there was no amount of expert tailoring or expensive fabric that could make him look the part of royalty. He did not look like an aristocrat. He looked like a man who had risen straight from the desert. And yet, something about the attempted civility made him appear all the more dangerous. Highlighted the ruthless lines of his face, accentuated the fearsome strength in his muscles.

      “You look like you’re ready to tear out someone’s throat,” she said, attempting to diffuse the tension that was rioting through her. A tension he was likely oblivious to.

      “Always,” he said. “I do what I must.”

      “Terrifying, Tarek. Very terrifying.” She was being dry, and yet she sensed his words were true.

      The thought sent a shiver through her body, and she couldn’t work out whether it was one of fear, or one of arousal. There was a thin line separating the two when it came to Tarek. She found it unnerving.

      “Unless you mean to harm my country in some way, you have nothing to fear from me.”

      Somehow