Zabrina nodded. She wasn’t going to defend the actions of her ancestors and their dreams of conquest—how could she, when they had planted the Albastasian flag on disputed territory, which they had claimed as their own and which was now being returned to its rightful owner?
‘I know all that,’ she burst out. ‘I just wish I wasn’t being offered up as the human sacrifice in all this! If you really want the truth, I wish I wasn’t getting married to anyone—but certainly not to a total stranger.’
The look he shot her was pensive. ‘But you will gain a massive financial package as a result of the marriage,’ he observed. ‘Plus, you understand all the privileges of royal life as well as its constraints. And do not most princesses want to marry a king?’
‘It was a decision made for me by someone else.’
‘Alas, that is one of the drawbacks and also one of the strengths of an inherited monarchy. That the needs of the country are put ahead of personal need.’
‘And the King is perfectly happy with this arrangement?’ she questioned tentatively, thinking that satisfactory somehow sounded insulting.
‘The King is governed by facts, not emotion. He knows perfectly well that a marriage of blue blood is preferable,’ said Constantin, a sudden harshness entering his voice.
‘The King’s father married a commoner, didn’t he?’ probed Zabrina as she found herself remembering things she’d heard about him, and when he didn’t answer, she persisted a little more. ‘Was that one of the reasons why they had that terrible divorce? When he was so young? Didn’t she leave, or something?’
The bodyguard’s mouth twisted, as if he had just tasted something unspeakably sour. ‘Something like that,’ he agreed bitterly, before his face cleared and he looked at her with that oddly detached expression, as if it had been wiped clean of all emotion. ‘Such an experience inevitably scarred him, but some say that boyhood pain makes for a powerful man.’
It was an aspect of the King’s reputed character which Zabrina had never considered before, but there was another one which she had. One which naturally made her wary. ‘Is he cruel?’ she questioned suddenly.
He didn’t answer straight away. His dark brow knitted together and his eyes narrowed, as if he had seen something outside on the horizon he wasn’t sure he recognised. ‘No.’
‘You sound very sure.’
‘That’s because I am sure and, believe me, I know him better than anyone. It is true that some women have gone to the press and given interviews which imply cruelty,’ he said eventually. ‘But maybe that’s because he has been unable to provide them with what they most desire.’
‘And what do women most desire?’ she questioned, into the silence which followed, feeling suddenly out of her depth.
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘S-sex?’ she questioned, with more boldness than she had ever displayed in her entire life.
‘No, not sex,’ he said softly, with a short laugh. ‘Sex is easy.’
Zabrina blushed. ‘What, then?’
‘Love,’ he said, and when she made no comment, he carried on. ‘That nebulous concept which drives so much of the human race in hopeless pursuit and brings so much misery in its wake. I find that women are particularly susceptible to its allure. How about you?’ He arched his black eyebrows questioningly. ‘Do you rate love very highly, Your Royal Highness?’
‘How would I know how to rate it when I have no experience of it?’ she said quietly.
‘Then you should consider yourself fortunate, for some say it is nothing but a madness and others do not believe in its existence at all,’ he asserted, before giving his head a little shake. ‘But forgive me, for I digress. I don’t know how we got onto this subject. Were we not supposed to be talking about the King?’
‘Yes,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘I suppose we were.’
‘You will find Roman exacting and demanding at times, as most highly successful men are,’ he continued. ‘But he asks of people no more than he is prepared to give himself. He certainly drives himself too hard—his people often say that he defined the term workaholic before the word became widely used. But, at heart, he is a good man.’
Zabrina was aware that her lips had grown dry and that her heart had begun to skitter and suddenly her lack of desire to meet the King was growing. ‘That’s hardly the most glowing recommendation I’ve ever heard.’
‘I am trying to be honest with you, Princess. Did you wish for me to spin you a fairy tale—to make him into the kind of man you would wish him to be? You are not being promised rainbows and roses, no, but something far more solid. You will be embarking on the tried and tested situation of the arranged marriage, which offers the highest chance of success.’
‘And so, in order to guarantee this “highest chance”, I am to be immersed in your culture, without outside influence. I am being taken to Petrogoria, without family or servants to comfort or reassure me. I am being prepared for your ruler, as a chicken would be prepared for the pot.’
She had spoken without thinking but, surprisingly, the comment made him laugh and Zabrina was shocked by how much that sexy sound affected her. It whispered over her skin like rich velvet. It made her want to curl up her toes and sigh.
‘Ah, but an uncooked chicken is cold and lifeless,’ he said softly as he removed his gun from its holster and laid it on the low coffee table in front of the sofa. ‘While you are warm and very, very vibrant.’
The unexpected compliment shocked her and made her react in a way she hadn’t been expecting. It made her breasts tighten beneath her sloppy sweatshirt and her heart begin to pound. She knew that what was happening was inappropriate, but somehow Zabrina had absolutely no power over what her body was doing. She looked into the steely gleam of his pewter eyes and felt a clench of something low in her gut. She’d experienced something like this a bit earlier, but this felt different. It was more powerful. It seemed to be eating her up from the inside and suddenly she was overcome with an aching regret that she would never know what it was like to be held within the powerful circle of Constantin Izvor’s arms, or to be kissed by him.
She thought of all the photos she’d seen of her future husband. On horseback, wielding a sword. At an official function in New York with presidents and other dignitaries, or wearing a black tie and tuxedo at some glittering charity event. She’d seen images of him dressed in ceremonial robes and army uniform, and others of him working hard at his desk.