Desert Prince, Blackmailed Bride. Kim Lawrence

troubled the eminent physician, yet as he met the pewter-flecked inscrutable gaze of the Crown Prince of Zantara he felt the roles of patient and doctor were oddly reversed.

      This man—despite the fact he had just dropped the worst news possible on him—was the one in control.

      It was pointless, he knew, to try and understand Rafiq Al Kamil. He was a one-off, a maverick, and neither quality was a feature of his wealth and status—although even for someone like Pierre, who was accustomed to being consulted by the rich and powerful, the sheer scale of the Zantaran royal family’s assets was almost surreal.

      Pierre was out of his professional comfort zone. Shock, denial, anger—there were as many reactions as there were people. But never in his professional life had he encountered anyone who showed such a total lack of response, and he was thrown.

      It was desperately hard to be supportive to someone who appeared not to require any support.

      A nicely timed warm handclasp to the shoulder often did wonders, but in this instance he felt any such attempt would be treated as a sign of disrespect—it might even be treasonable!

      ‘I will have to push you, Doctor.’

      Pierre started, and coloured at the younger man’s prompt.

      For the first time the Prince was showing some emotion—and it was impatience. Such control was daunting. This wasn’t a display of dispassion, it was…Pierre shook his head slightly as his professional vocabulary failed him. It was spooky, he concluded!

      He was conscious of feeling more anger and bitterness than this young man was displaying. He had never been able to deliver this sort of news and not feel failure, and this went doubly so when the person concerned should have had his whole life ahead of him, when he was full of life and vigour. It seemed such a tragic waste.

      It suddenly occurred to the doctor that the Prince’s attitude could stem from the fact that he did not fully comprehend the gravity of his situation. Pierre pushed his glasses further up his nose and angled a kindly look at the tall heir to the throne of Zantara.

      ‘Perhaps I did not explain myself fully, Prince Rafiq?’

      ‘I admit some of the technical language passed over my head.’

      I doubt that, thought the Frenchman, not fooled by the self-deprecating response. The intelligence shining in the younger man’s eyes was one of the first things he had noticed. And even if he hadn’t noticed, it had become clear from the battery of searching questions he had asked that this man had mind like a steel trap.

      ‘Correct me if I am wrong,’ Rafiq invited, thinking, Please correct me. Let this all be a massive misunderstanding. ‘I have a rare blood disorder, and it has reached an advanced stage where there is no hope of cure?’ His dark brows lifted towards his hairline. ‘There is something else I need to know?’ His gesture invited the older man to expand.

      Pierre Henri cleared his throat. ‘You are probably thinking Why me?’

      Rafiq’s broad shoulders lifted as he stood to tuck the hem of his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. He paused to consider the question before replying. At six-five he towered over the seated man. Broad of shoulder and long of leg, Rafiq’s streamlined, muscle-packed frame was athletically formed, and it would have made him stand out even had he not possessed a face of startling, symmetrical male beauty, of the type normally seen on classical statues.

      ‘Why not me?’ Why should he be exempt from the capricious cruelty of fate? Innocents were given far worse to bear, and he was no innocent—but he was a man with a job to do.

      He supposed that everyone in his position felt they needed longer—but he really did need longer.

      ‘Just so. A very…erm…healthy attitude—marvellous philosophy.’

      ‘So, how long do I have?’

      Information was power—so they said. Even information you’d have been happier to remain in ignorance of. In Rafiq’s mind he equated power with control, and that was a commodity in short supply. He could feel it slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. He could definitely use a little top-up.

      The older man’s eyes fell. ‘Well…erm…these things are very hard to gauge with any precision.’

      In other words the news was not good. Rafiq mentally squared his shoulders. ‘Make an educated guess.’

      ‘You can, if you wish, have a second opinion.’

      Many patients confronted by a diagnosis they did not wish to believe did so—especially those who had the finances to fly doctors from Paris by private jet for a consultation.

      ‘Are you not the best in your field?’

      Rafiq was conscious that he ought to be feeling…feeling what? More, he supposed. But after the initial kick in the gut moment when he had realised the truth, he had felt very little except a sense of urgency.

      ‘How long do I have?’

      ‘It is hard to be definitive, but I’d say six…’

      Rafiq recognised the man’s discomfort but felt little sympathy for it. Instead he was conscious of a growing sense of impatience. ‘Days? Weeks…? Months…?’ None would be long enough to prepare his little brother to step into his shoes.

      ‘Months.’

      Nothing in the younger man’s demeanour suggested that he had just been given a death sentence.

      ‘Of course the progression of the disease can vary, and if you accepted the palliative treatment we spoke of…’

      ‘This treatment could affect my faculties, my memory?’

      The doctor conceded the possibility with a nod. ‘It could extend six months to possibly a year, though.’

      Rafiq dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. ‘Out of the question.’

      ‘I can review your case weekly.’

      ‘As you wish, Doctor.’

      ‘I am so very sorry, Your Highness.’

      The offer of sympathy drew a look of cold disdain from the younger man, who sketched a smile and murmured ‘You’re kind’ before excusing himself.

      Out in the corridor Rafiq Al Kamil allowed his mask to slip, and his emotions bubbled to the surface in one vicious, corrosive explosion. With a curse he slammed his clenched fist into an innocent wall.

      Through his closed eyelids he could still see the pity in the Frenchman’s face. Pity. It was one thing that he could not, would not endure. He recoiled from the idea of seeing that same expression on the faces of people when they met him.

      His jaw hardened and a look of steely determination and pride settled on his patrician features. That wasn’t going to happen. Eyes closed, Rafiq expelled the pent-up emotion in one long, sibilant breath. He refused to give way to terror or pity. He would die as he would live—on his own terms. But first there was much to do.

      His face set in lines of ruthless resolve, he made his way out into the sunlight. Half an hour later he found himself in the stables, with no recollection of how he came to be there.

      Hassan, the groom who had put him on his first horse as a boy, approached.

      ‘Prince Rafiq.’ The older man’s manner was deferential but not obsequious as he bowed his head.

      ‘Hassan.’ Rafiq’s smile left his dark eyes bleak.

      ‘You wish me to saddle a horse?’

      Rafiq reached out and touched the flank of the mare in the nearest stall. He nodded and said carelessly, ‘Why not?’

      Riding in the desert was to him the most life-affirming experience possible—and for the moment at least he was still alive. The desert was where he always found himself at times of stress. The sight and sounds of the