“The only way to be what you want is through marriage, Olivia?” He studied her closely as he spoke. “What a frustration that must be for you. You have so little control. Or at least, this requires you to share it. Your future is dependent on my decision.”
He could see Olivia’s pulse fluttering at the base of her neck. Like a panicked bird trapped in a cage. He had the overwhelming urge to place his thumb over the top of it. To feel the intensity with which it beat, the velvet softness of her skin.
That simple, brief fantasy did much more to heat his blood than anything Serena was doing with the tape measure.
“Do I have to try on everything, or will your measurements suffice?” he asked Serena.
“There is plenty I can do with the measurements,” she said.
“Then, that will be all. Leave us. Olivia and I have much to discuss.”
Serena scrambled to obey his command. He was accustomed to such things. To people obeying his word. He functioned in life-or-death situations. And he was the one that the tribes looked to for safety. The one his men watched to ensure that this mission was not their last.
In this, at least, he was comfortable.
“I can fetch the suit later,” Serena said. She grabbed hold of the rack and made a hasty exit.
Once the door closed behind her, he and Olivia were alone. Facing each other.
He began to undo the top buttons of the shirt, and he watched as her eyes followed the motion. He was fascinated by this. By the fact that the effects he was experiencing were so closely linked to Olivia, rather than just the female form. Serena had been lovely. Dark haired, with more dramatic curves than Olivia possessed. Though he was not entirely certain if that was more enticing to him. He had given it little thought. Still, it was not outside the realm of possibility that Serena’s touch could have set his blood on fire in the same manner that Olivia’s had.
“From where I’m standing, my sheikh,” she said, her tone icy, “your future, and whether or not you are able to reestablish your nation, is closely linked to me. There was no one else here helping you. Who do you have on your side? Your brother’s old advisers? Those you have recently employed who are new to this position? They were going to let you attend a coronation looking as you did when I first arrived. Your people would have thought you insane. Would have thought you were a man who didn’t know how to dress. One who could not be bothered to shave and represent himself as the face of the nation without looking like an overgrown bush. Have they coached you on how to deal with the press?”
For the first time, Tarek felt a bit of discomfort. For the first time, he felt lost at sea in a different way. He had been focused on acclimating to palace life. To his new position. But he had a plan. He knew what he wanted for his country, and he was confident that he was morally everything Tahar needed in a leader. But the press, a ballroom full of people... He did not know what he would do under those circumstances. He did not know how to carry on a conversation in a civil manner, much less conduct an interview, much less give speeches. He knew how to strike terror into the hearts of his enemies. Could carve a swath of death and destruction through an opposing army with a flick of his sword.
But these things? They were foreign to him.
As foreign as the heat he felt when Olivia’s fingertips brushed against his skin.
He was a man who held command of life and death. A man who had survived bloody battles and great torture.
But he was, in many ways, not a man. He was all that he had been created to be. But he had not been created for this.
He would have to be remade. Again.
Sheikh Tarek al-Khalij had survived immense pain. Had faced down situations that would bring certain death, and triumphed. Very few things frightened him. But the prospect of being melted down again, reformed, did. Ice replaced the blood in his veins, a sick sensation washing over him.
He looked at Olivia, her slender form, her delicate hands. Hands that had already touched his skin. Before Olivia, how long had it been since anyone had touched him? He had had wounds bandaged at the various Bedouin camps. And before that...before that every touch had been agony. Designed to destroy.
But he could not remember the last time anyone had ever touched him so gently.
Perhaps being reformed in Olivia’s hands would be a different experience.
And perhaps she was correct. Perhaps she was all the hope he had.
She had been honest with him. Pain had radiated from her blue eyes as she had spoken of having no place. She needed him. Maybe admitting he needed her would not be so terrible.