The Sheikh Who Blackmailed Her. Susan Mallery
to tense, but ignored the question and successfully diverted her attention by declaring, ‘I have decided that you would be a suitable bride for my brother.’
Gabby blinked. ‘Is that meant to be some sort of twisted joke? My God, you never had any intention of helping Paul, did you?’ Throwing him a look of disgust, she folded her napkin with slow deliberation and got to her feet. ‘What do you and your friends do for after-dinner entertainment? Watch traffic accidents?’
Rafiq rose to his feet and stood there towering over her. ‘You asked me about the succession. You are correct. I am next in line, but I will not be King, Miss Barton.’
An expression of overt suspicion in her narrowed eyes, she folded her arms across her chest. What was this? she wondered. Another example of his warped sense of humour?
‘Why not?’
A man born to be King, he looked the part—which was pretty rare in royal circles. He was regal down to his fingertips, and on the evidence so far he’d have no major problem with the ordering-people-around element of the job.
Before she had finished reflecting on his princely attributes, he had covered the space between them in two easy strides. Planting a hand on the wall behind her head, he leaned over her.
His sheer physical presence was incredibly intimidating, but Gabby was determined not to give him the satisfaction of showing him how painfully aware of him she was.
‘I need your word that what I am about to tell you will not leave this room.’
The intensity of his manner unnerved Gabby even more.
‘Or what?’ she squeaked.
He arched a brow and gave her a look of mock surprise. ‘You are in a position to threaten me?’
Gabby, who was in a position to fall in a shaking heap at his feet, shook her head and gulped. Barely audibly, she forced her response past her frozen vocal cords.
‘No.’
‘I am next in line of succession. My father was not young when I was born, and five years ago he had two heart attacks. The second was fairly major and he had surgery. He could live for a long time or he might not.’
Gabby was unsure how to respond to this information. She ducked under his arm and put some distance between them. ‘The same could be said of everyone.’
‘Not of me.’
‘Why? Are you going to live for ever?’ She gave a scornful laugh and began to turn. ‘I am dying, Gabby.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
HIS words made her swing back. ‘You’re sick, all right—sick in the sense of humour department.’ She pointed at her face. ‘Does it look like I’m laughing?’ She stopped.
He wasn’t laughing either. Conscious of a knot of something close to panic building in her chest, she scanned his face, her unease growing.
‘My God!’ The colour drained from her face and her hand came up to cover her trembling lips. ‘You’re telling the truth!’
‘I have perhaps six months to live. I have that time to prepare my brother for the role which will be his.’
Gabby shook her head in a negative motion and staggered backwards, until the back of her knees hit a chair. She slid into it. ‘But there must be something?’
‘No.’ His closed expression made it clear that he found the subject uncomfortable.
‘But you’re young and fit …’ she protested, her eyes travelling the long, lean length of him. She had never actually seen anyone who looked more alive.
‘This is not something we need to discuss. The facts are clear—not to accept them would lack … dignity.’
She was utterly bemused by his attitude. ‘Dignity?’
‘There is nothing that can be done.’
She felt something snap inside her. Suddenly Gabby was so angry that for several heartbeats she couldn’t speak. ‘How can you be so calm about it?’
Rafiq shrugged in response and looked visibly taken aback by her reaction. ‘Why should it matter to you? We are strangers.’
The question and the shrug fanned the flames of the anger that held her in its grip. Hands on the arms of the chair, Gabby pulled herself to her feet.
She tilted her head back to look into his dark, impassive face, and as she studied the strong, cleanly sculpted lines and planes of his symmetrical features she thought, He can’t be dying! It simply wasn’t possible. It had to be a mistake. She had never seen anyone look less weak or more invulnerable.
Vitality seeped from every gorgeous pore—or was that nervous energy? she wondered, the indentation between her bows deepening as her glance lingered on the dark smudges beneath his spectacular eyes.
‘There must be something—’
He cut her off with a flat, ‘There is not.’ Looking irritated by her insistence, he added with horrid finality, ‘I am dying.’
Their eyes met, and her hand went to her mouth as a tiny cry was wrenched from her throat. ‘But you can’t be ill. You don’t look ill,’ Even as she spoke she was seeing the shadows under his eyes, the lines of strain bracketing his mouth.
‘I do not at present feel ill.’ The doctor had explained that this was the reason why so many people who presented with this disease were already beyond treatment. The onset was insidious, and the symptoms were often limited to general fatigue, night sweats, and weight loss—not specific.
‘But that’s a good sign, isn’t it? They are making advances in medical science every day of the week. Things that once seemed impossible—’
A muscle clenched in his jaw. ‘There is nothing that can be done beyond the occasional blood transfusion as a short-term fix later on, when my energy levels drop.’
‘How can you accept it this way?’ she reproached him incredulously. She looked at him—tall, vital-looking, the embodiment of masculine vigour—and shook her head in utter rejection.
Rafiq’s lashes dipped to hide the emotion that flared hotly in his hooded eyes. A nerve clenched in his jaw. Accept? Did she imagine he had any choice? Did she imagine he would not have preferred to yell and bellow?
He could not allow himself the indulgence. He needed to focus and do what had to be done for his country. His chest lifted as he expelled a deep breath and subdued the sudden irrational impulse he had to shake her or kiss her or both.
‘It is a path we are all on, Gabriella.’
‘Spare me the homespun philosophy, please,’ she begged, rolling her eyes. In the grip of emotions she didn’t even recognise, she was barely conscious that she had laid her hands flat against his chest. ‘I don’t call it brave—I call it defeatist and pathetic. Aren’t you angry? God, if it was me I’d be furious!’
Rafiq lifted his eyes from the small hands that lay against his chest. ‘You appear to be furious.’
His impassive manner further ignited her passion. ‘I am,’ she gritted.
‘There is little point railing against fate.’
‘I’m not mad at fate, I’m mad with you!’ she exploded. ‘You’re just so, so … passive. It’s feeble! You should be fighting! You’re acting like you’re dead already! But you’re not.’ Flexing the fingers pressed against his chest, she fixed him with a fierce sapphire stare. ‘I can feel your heart beating …’ She began to beat out the tattoo of the steady thud in his chest.
There was no conscious thought behind her action as she reached up impulsively, grabbing his head in her hands and dragging