But his steely gaze was completely lacking in emotion. ‘Not greedy, Zabrina,’ he said calmly. ‘Just practical. We’re both going into this marriage because of what we stand to gain. And I think it’s wise to acknowledge that, don’t you? I read the prenuptial contract thoroughly before signing. I saw the clause your lawyer insisted on inserting—that you would be guaranteed a private income of your own.’
His black brows were raised in arrogant query as if demanding an explanation, but Zabrina was damned if she was going to give him one. She had her reasons for wanting that money, but she wasn’t ready to share them with him and maybe she never would be. He probably wouldn’t believe her anyway. And wasn’t there something a bit sad about someone who insisted on pointing out what a do-gooder they were? She didn’t trust him, he didn’t trust her, so maybe they should just leave it at that.
She shrugged. ‘And I noticed your lawyer inserted a rider to that clause, saying that I would only get the money for as long as the marriage lasted.’
‘Of course he did. Otherwise there would be no incentive for you to make the marriage work, would there? You could just take the money and run.’
He said something harsh beneath his breath, and Zabrina frowned.
‘Did you just say...“just like my mother”?’ she asked slowly.
She spoke without thinking and must have hit a raw nerve because a flash of something dark ravaged the carved beauty of his face. It was as if he’d put on a savage mask which made him almost unrecognisable, but it was gone in an instant, his features shuttered and emotionless again—as if he was all too aware that the prying lenses of the cameras were trained on them.
‘I had forgotten that you spoke fluent Petrogorian,’ he bit out. ‘Perhaps I would do well to guard my tongue in future. But even so, do you consider this is an appropriate time to ambush me with such questions?’
Zabrina was aware that she had either hurt or angered him but she hadn’t meant to do either. It hadn’t been intended as a point-scoring exercise, or a desire to catch him off-guard—she’d just wanted to find out more about the man she was to marry.
‘Roman—’
‘Let’s just concentrate on what we’re supposed to be doing, shall we?’ he interrupted, his lips barely moving as he edged out the words—presumably to foil any would-be lip-readers. ‘And smile. No, a big smile, Princess. Act like you really mean it. We’re here.’
The powerful car drew to a halt in front of the applauding palace staff and Zabrina glanced up to see figures clustered at upstairs windows high above, capturing the image on their cell-phones. Roman leapt from the car and opened her car door himself and as he held out his hand to help her down, Zabrina was aware of two things. Firstly, that the brief touch of his fingers was enough to send soft shivers of desire rippling down her spine, making her wish he would lift them to his lips and kiss them. But he didn’t.
Because the second thing she noticed—and this was the one which stayed with her for the rest of the day—was that the grey eyes which were turned in her direction were as empty and as cold as ice.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SOFT SUNLIGHT FLICKERED over the profuse spill of roses, bathing the famous gardens in a rich golden glow as Zabrina stared out of the vast windows.
But no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on the beauty outside, or on the small dish of fruit on the table in front of her, it was difficult to focus on anything other than the devastatingly handsome man who was seated opposite. The morning light was glinting on his cropped dark hair, making her realise how much it had grown, and his snowy white shirt emphasised the muscular width of his shoulders.
Suddenly he pushed his empty coffee cup away and leaned back in his chair to study her. Was he aware she’d been watching him with a hungry desire which wouldn’t seem to go away? And did that fill him with a sense of triumph—and power?
‘Today’s the big day, isn’t it?’ he said.
Zabrina gazed at him blankly. The only ‘big day’ which seemed to be on everyone’s lips wasn’t for another three weeks—unless somebody had brought the wedding forward and not bothered to tell the bride. She hoped not, because there were still what looked like five million seed pearls to sew onto her traditional Petrogorian wedding dress and sequins which needed to be scattered all over her tulle veil. She picked up her silver spoon, still trying to get used to the enormous emerald and diamond engagement ring which felt too heavy for her finger. ‘Big day?’ she repeated.
‘Your horse,’ he said. ‘What time does it arrive?’
‘He. The horse is a he, not an it,’ Zabrina corrected, watching as a servant silently moved forward to refill the King’s cup with inky-black coffee. ‘And his name is Midas.’
‘Ah!’ He picked up a sugar cube. ‘Named after the king who wished for an excess of gold and almost ruined his life in the process?’
‘That’s the one.’
He lifted his dark brows in arrogant query. ‘Perhaps there is an allegory in that story for us, Zabrina.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ she said darkly.
A brief smile curved the edges of his lips as he dropped the sugar into the cup and began to stir and Zabrina found herself mesmerised by the circular movement of his fingers, wondering how he could make such a simple action look so insanely sexy. But then, he made just about everything he did look sexy. Was that deliberate? Was he taunting her? Reminding her of that heart-punching intimacy they’d shared on the Petrogoria-bound train, which was now being put on hold until they were married?
Stop it, she thought. Just stop it. You are supposed to be having a polite breakfast conversation about the day ahead.
The kind of measured diary conversation they’d been having every morning since she’d arrived in Petrogoria last week. This was the public face of their formal engagement, as opposed to the private anxieties which plagued her every night when she was alone in bed.
Over coffee, fruit and eggs over easy—for him—they would go through the various royal duties which had been mapped out for them by their private offices—some together and some apart. Solo duties she welcomed. In many ways, it was less distracting when Roman wasn’t by her side distracting her with his powerful presence.
Hadn’t she thought—hoped—that he would go back on his determination for their nights to be spent separately? But she had been wrong. He hadn’t and now she had started to wonder if his reluctance to touch her meant he was having second thoughts about the wedding. But rejection was something she wouldn’t countenance—not now—and so she threw herself into her new charities with fervour, hoping that her engagements would make her fit in and feel easier about her place here.