She supposed it was shock. Or maybe she’d just given up worrying about what she couldn’t control.
There’d been that flash of overwhelming relief right at the beginning, when she’d opened her eyes to see a white coated medical team and a doctor assuring her, each time she asked, that His Highness would live. The knife thrust had missed his ribs and vital organs. Rafiq was safe. She’d closed her eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness as the words sank in.
When she’d woken again she had felt as if she’d been run over by a truck, taped so tight she could barely breathe. But the miraculous news of Rafiq’s survival had overridden her discomfort. And, with the news that the gunshot wound to her shoulder would heal after careful treatment, she should have been on top of the world.
All the medical staff had told her how lucky she was. Dawud too, each time he’d visited, had referred to her courage and her good fortune. And, of course, her mum, being a nurse, had understood exactly what all the medical jargon meant, and had reiterated over the long distance line that Belle was luckier than she had any right to be after throwing herself in front of a bullet.
So why was it she felt nothing?
She sighed and let her gaze roam across the lavish collection of flowers adorning the long shelf beside the window. Her attention was drawn, as always, to the waxy beauty of the deep throated, exotic orchids that had been so reverentially placed by the nurse at the front. À gift from His Highness,’ she’d murmured.
Rafiq.
Belle’s lips firmed and she turned away. She’d seen him twice since the shooting. The first time she’d woken he’d been there, though she hadn’t seen him immediately, as the medical staff crowded round. But as the doctor had assured her that the Sheikh would live, Rafiq himself had shouldered his way forward and grasped her hand. She remembered the intensity of his fathoms deep eyes, and the lingering warmth of his hold against her fingers as she’d fallen again into the swirling darkness.
And the second time had been just last night. He’d looked harsher than she’d ever seen him. His brows drawn in a straight dark line and his mouth bracketed by slashing grooves. For a moment, as he’d walked in the door, her heart had leapt; she’d felt heat rise in her cheeks and her pulse thud faster. But her joy had drained away as he’d looked at her with shuttered eyes. He hadn’t reached for her, but had stood back from the bed, hands clasped behind him.
He hadn’t even taken a seat, but had stood, his expression unreadable, just out of reach.
Not that she’d have stretched her arm out to touch him-not after that first instant of unguarded emotion. Not when he’d looked at her like a polite stranger arid spoken in neutral tones about her upcoming release from hospital and plans for her mother to fly over from Australia.
He’d spoken directly to her, yet somehow he’d managed to avoid meeting her eyes.
Something inside her had shriveled up and died as she’d watched him. She’d realized then at last, with a cool, clear logic that was irrefutable, just how foolish her dreams of shared love had been.
It had been an arranged marriage. She had never been Rafiq’s choice, just a necessary part of a political maneuver.
Listening to his cool, unemotional voice describe how the conspirators had been captured when the armed forces had stormed the oasis, and inform her that their trials had already been scheduled in the high court, Belle had realized just where she stood. The circumstances that had forced their marriage no longer existed.
He didn’t need her any more.
She’d spent the night sleepless, wondering about the Q’aroumi laws on divorce.
`Belle’. She started, horrified to discover that even through the bubble of her emotional vacuum his voice had the power to stir her.
She raised her eyes and there he was, just as breath-stealing handsome as ever. The traditional robes he wore emphasized his aura of power, and his aloofness. For an instant she let herself remember him, glossy hair spilling across his broad, bare shoulders, desire lighting the depths of his green eyes. Then she slammed the lid on such foolishness. It had been an aberration. A few hours that had meant everything to her, but nothing to him.
Now she had to put the memory of it behind her.
`Hello, Rafiq. Have you come to take me to the palace?’ Her voice was calm, lightly enquiring.
He paused in mid-step, his eyes boring into hers. Ì am your husband. Who else would escort you home?’
Of course. It was his duty. And Rafiq never shirked his duty. Not even if it meant sacrificing his future, and hers, to a loveless marriage.