that casual lift of his shoulders. “Not my business.”
She struggled to find the words to begin to tell him. To explain her sudden overwhelming sense of suffocation and irrational fear. Standing at the altar—was it only a couple of hours ago?—and listening to the priest had forced her to see the rest of her life stretching out before her. None of it being as she’d planned.
Sure, as Burton’s wife she’d still be heavily involved in her research—finding refuge in facts and figures and analysis—and she’d finally hold the position she’d craved for years. When it had come to negotiating their prenuptial agreement—a clinical document designed to appoint Shanal as head of research within the facility and to outline the terms of the large monetary settlement to be made to her upon their marriage—she’d had one thing only on her mind. Security. Not happiness. Not love—well, except for the love she bore for her parents, and her desire to lift the strain and sorrow from her father’s frail shoulders for the life he had left.
While everything had been under discussion and was being fine-tuned by their legal counsel, it had seemed to be a reasonable trade-off. Financial security for her parents and job security for herself in exchange for marriage to a handsome, wealthy, charming man who she simply didn’t happen to love. But perhaps love would come later, she had thought at the time.
Burton had made no secret of his attraction to her from the day she’d started working at the research facility that bore his name. They’d had the occasional date now and then. Nothing serious—or so she’d thought. But then he’d surprised her with his proposal of marriage. Shanal had avoided giving him an answer straightaway, certain that she’d have to tell him no, but wary of what her refusal might do for her chances of advancement within Burton International. But then her mother had taken her aside one day and disclosed the dire position that she and Shanal’s father were in.
Shanal knew that the medical-negligence claim against her dad about five years back had cost him heavily. A proud man, proud in particular of his skill and sterling reputation as a physician, he’d hidden the early symptoms of motor neuron disease, to his cost and, even worse, to the cost of the life of one of his patients. After that dreadful episode, he’d been forced to give up his cardiovascular practice. No one wanted a surgeon whose muscles were systematically wasting away, leading to unexpected twitching. And certainly no one wanted a man who’d let his pride stand in the way of someone’s life.
His malpractice insurance had covered some of the costs of the suit that had been brought against him. But bowed by guilt, and with his funds tied up in long-term investments that were time-consuming and expensive to convert into cash, her father had taken out a short-term loan to make a large private financial settlement on the family of his deceased patient. Using his home as security had seemed a good idea at the time, and he’d had every intention of paying the loan back out of investment income. Until the truth about his investments had been revealed.
He’d trusted his old school friend who ran a financial-planning company. A friend who had, unfortunately, turned out to be running an intricate Ponzi scheme. Shanal’s parents had lost every last dollar. Shanal had given up her rental and moved back home immediately to help them out.
While she earned a good salary and had some savings, she knew it wouldn’t support the three of them forever. For the time being, they were able to afford the loan payments and living expenses, but those expenses would soon rise beyond what she could handle, especially as her father’s disease took greater hold on his body and he grew more dependent upon assistance. It struck Shanal as cruelly ironic that while her father had paid dearly to buy security for his patient’s family, everyone in his own was now paying for it.
In a weak moment she’d shared her worries with Burton, who’d immediately proposed marriage again, saying he’d planned to make her his wife all along and that the timing was perfect now, since as her husband, he’d be able to help her and her family. For starters, he’d insisted on taking over her parents’ mortgage and offering a financial settlement to relieve her and her parents’ stress when they married. She had honestly believed she could go through with it.
The reality, however, had been an unwelcome shock. Once she’d agreed to become his wife, Burton had shown himself to be intent on taking over much more than just her parents’ mortgage. The overwhelming sense of loss of self that had struck her when she’d been standing at the altar still lingered like cold, bony fingers plucking at her heart—at her mind. She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head to try and rid herself of the sensation.
When she opened them, Raif was looking at her again with those piercing blue eyes. She felt as if he looked right through her, but at the same time couldn’t see what twisted and tormented her inside. She wanted to break free of that gaze—to do something, anything, to keep herself busy, even if only for a couple minutes.
“I’ll make us some coffee, shall I?” she said, her voice artificially bright.
“Sure. Black for me.”
Of course his coffee would be black. Deceptively simple, like the man himself, yet with hidden depths and nuances at the same time. Shanal familiarized herself with the well-appointed kitchen, finding the coffeemaker and mugs tucked neatly away.
“How long have you known Mac?” she asked, determined to fill the silence that spread out between them.
“About five years.”
She waited for him to be more forthcoming, but may as well have been waiting for the polar caps to melt.
“How did you meet?” she persisted.
“We did some skydiving together, some canyoneering.”
Shanal was well aware of Raif’s interest in adventure sports. For a while it had seemed he was always hurling himself off some high peak or out some airplane, or kayaking down a wild river. The activities seemed a perfect match for the man he was—physical, daring and impulsive. But Raif’s interest in such activities had waned suddenly after the death of his girlfriend, Laurel, in a canyoneering accident a few years ago.
“Did he know Laurel?” Shanal blurted, without really thinking.
“She was his daughter.”
“Oh.” Her hands shook as she went to put her standard spoonful of sugar in her mug, and the white granules scattered over the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”
“It’s okay,” he replied, his voice gruff. “I don’t mind talking about her.”
Shanal flicked him a glance, noted the way his hands had tightened on the wheel, his knuckles whitening. “That’s the hard thing about losing someone, isn’t it? People often don’t know what to say, so they say nothing at all.”
Raif grunted a noncommittal response. Shanal finished making the coffee, thinking about what she’d said. She’d discovered the same thing applied when people suffered other tragedies—like illness. No one really wanted to face the issue, and conversation usually skirted around things. At least that’s what she’d found with her father. As the motor neuron disease ravaged his body, piece by piece, he’d lost his independence and ability. Their friends, not knowing what to do or how to help, had slowly withdrawn.
It hadn’t helped that her dad was such a proud and private man. He’d hated being forced into retirement because of his illness—still hated every lost ability, every task that he could no longer complete on his own that forced him to depend on the care of others. He had always taken such
