The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

aroum now she was safe. She’d spoken to Rosalie too, her heavily pregnant sister. Rose had sounded better than she had in months, as if she’d come to terms with her impending single parenthood.

Belle promised herself that soon, after the birth, she’d organize some time off from the expedition so she could visit her family.

She paced the room, too wound up to settle with a book or magazine. Her eye lit on an ornately carved rosewood screen at one wall. Sure enough, it slid aside to reveal a huge plasma screen television. She was flicking through the array of international cable channels when an image caught her eye and she stopped, transfixed.

It was a local news item. She didn’t understand the reporter’s excited Arabic, but she did understand the English subtitle. Shaq’

ara. Where Rafiq had gone so many hours ago.

Her mouth dried as she stared at a huge crater in a wide street.

Debris lay all around, the mangled wrecks of vehicles, the shattered remains of a shop front. Then images of ambulances speeding along a road, sirens blaring.

An icy shiver of horror rippled through her. The images were all too familiar these days. A bomb blast. That was all it could be.

But in Q’aroum? She shook her head in disbelief. The country was renowned for its stability.

The scene changed abruptly to a close up of two men. One old and bearded, his head swathed in an elaborate turban. He reached out to another man who clasped his arm.

Rafiq! For a moment she hadn’t recognized him, wearing long, traditional Q’aroumi robes and with his head covered in a simple white headdress. But she couldn’t mistake that commanding profile or the assertive jaw. Even on film Rafiq made her stomach clench and her pulse stutter.

In front of the two men a crowd of people had gathered, arms raised in applause, chanting something. She thought she heard Rafiq’s name repeated several times.

Frustrated, Belle switched off the television and resumed her pacing. Whatever had happened in Shaq’ ara, the main town on the nation’s second most populous island, Rafiq was needed there to support and comfort his people.

Anxiety bit harder now. He’d deliberately walked into a dangerous and volatile situation. There could be no guarantees of his safety.

Of course that wouldn’t have mattered to him. She understood him enough to realize he had an ingrained sense of duty he wouldn’t think twice about his safety if others were at risk. As hers had been four days ago. Not for him the option of command from a distance.

That should have impressed her. Yet she felt nothing but churning apprehension. Would he come back alive?

Belle had all but worn a track in the luxurious antique carpets when, around eleven o’clock, she heard a swift, sure stride she recognized. Her heart thumped in her throat and she swung round towards the door.

He paused in the doorway, filling her vision. He was dressed as she’d seen him on the television, in long pale robes over boots and trousers, with a heavily embroidered vest that made him look exotic and utterly romantic. The headdress was gone and his dark hair was pulled back, accentuating the bold inter play of bone and muscle that made up his aristocratic face.

He looked spectacular.

`Rafiq!’ Her voice was a hoarse croak. Àre you all right?’

Òf course I’m all right, Belle. Why aren’t you in bed? Is something wrong?’ His gaze sharpened, laser bright, and she felt it graze her skin.

`No, nothing’s wrong.’ She paused to catch her breath. Her breathing was short and shallow, as if she’d been sprinting. Her skin prickled. `No one seemed to know when you’d be back. I was…worried.’

Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze, then gasped and surged forward, her hand outstretched. `You’re injured.’ She pointed to the splash of blood on one wide sleeve.

Rafiq held up his arm and looked at the stain, frowning, then shook his head. `Not me, little one. I’ve been visiting people in hospital.’

`The bomb blast,’ she whispered, and his eyes met hers, dark now, like the chill depths of an abyss.

`You know about that?’

Ìt was on the television news.

He reached out and closed his hand around hers. His heat seeped into her skin, his hard strength supporting her. But she suspected it was he who needed the support, though he’d never admit it. It must have been a harrowing day.

It didn’t matter that he was the Sovereign Prince of Q’ aroum, fabulously wealthy and lord of all he surveyed. Right now he was simply Rafiq, the man who’d saved her, protected her, who needed solace. She ignored the inner voice that warned he’d become far too important to her in a few short days. That her relief at his arrival was out of all proportion to the circumstances.