Claimed For The Desert Prince's Heir

The sight was imprinted on her retinas as the light died and the shadows returned. High slashing cheekbones, black brows, and sun-burnished skin pulled tight over the perfect symmetry of his features. He had several days’ worth of stubble covering the bottom half of his face, but even with the disguising beard, she’d never seen a man as gorgeous. Even Sheikh Zane couldn’t hold a candle to him, his features less refined than the Sheikh’s but so much more compelling.

So not the point, Kaz. Who cares if he looks like a movie star? He’s still a bandit.

But he was the movie star bandit who had saved her, so there was that.

Gathering every ounce of purpose and determination she possessed, she knelt beside him, close enough to make out his features in the dying light. Why did he look familiar?

Another meteor trailed across the night sky, illuminating his face. Shock combined with the heat burning low in her belly as recognition struck.

She gasped. ‘Prince Kasim?’

Ruler of the Kholadi. He had attended Zane and Cat’s wedding five and a half years ago. She knew all the rumours and gossip about this man—that he was the illegitimate son of one of the old Sheikh’s concubines, thrown out of the palace as a boy when Zane, the Sheikh’s legitimate heir, had been kidnapped from his American mother in LA and brought to Narabia as a teenager. The story went that Kasim had crawled through the desert only to be treated with equal contempt by his mother’s nomadic tribe—until he had forced his way to the top of the Kholadi using the fighting skills he’d honed as he’d grown to manhood.

She’d adored all those stories, they’d been so compelling, so dramatic, and had made him seem even more mythic and dangerously exciting, not that she’d needed to put him on any more of a pedestal after setting eyes on him as a nineteen-year-old at Zane and Cat’s wedding.

Clothed in black ceremonial wear, he’d strode into the palace at the head of a heavily armed honour guard of Kholadi tribesman, and stolen her breath, like that of every other girl and woman there. He’d been tall and arrogant and magnificent—part warrior, all chieftain, all man—and much younger than she’d expected. He must have been in his mid-twenties at that wedding because he’d only been seventeen when he had become the Kholadi Chief. After years of battling with his own father’s army, he had negotiated a truce with Narabia when Zane had come to the throne.

Observing him from afar during the wedding and a few other official visits before she’d left for Cambridge, Kasia had become a little obsessed with the warrior prince. His prowess with women was almost as legendary as his skill in combat and his political agility. She’d adored all the stories that had trickled down into the palace’s women’s quarters after every visit—about how manly his physique was unclothed, how impressive his ‘assets’, how he could make a woman climax with a single glance. Like every other piece of gossip in the quarters, those salacious stories had been embellished and enhanced, but every time she’d had a chance to assess his broad, muscular physique or that rakish, devil-may-care smile from afar, she would fantasise that every word was true—and want to be the next woman on whom he bestowed that smile, and so much more.

He’d been a myth to her then, an object of her febrile adolescent desires, who had been larger than life in every respect. But he was just a man now.

The ripple of heat that she had been trying and failing to ignore sank deeper into her sex.

They didn’t call him the Bad-Boy Sheikh for nothing.

She stared at him, unable to believe she’d pointed a gun at him. Thank goodness she hadn’t actually shot him. Despite his wicked ways, he was a powerful prince. Plus, he’d rescued her. From a sandstorm.

As she pondered that far too romantic thought his eyelids fluttered.

The dark chocolate gaze fixed on her face and the heat in her sex blossomed like a mushroom cloud.

‘Prince Kasim, are you okay?’ she asked, the question popping out in English. She repeated it in Narabian. Did he even speak English?

He grunted again and she noticed for the first time the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and that his gaze, so intense earlier, now looked dazed. Then he replied in accented English.

‘My name is Raif. Only my brother calls me by my Narabian name.’ The husky rasp was expelled on a breath of outrage. ‘And, no I’m not okay, you little witch. You shot me.’

The bullet had hit him?

‘I’m so sorry,’ she yelped. But before she could say more, his eyes closed.

The darkness was descending fast, but gripping his robe she tugged it away to reveal bare skin beneath. Scars—so many scars—and a tattoo marred the smooth skin, making the bunch of muscle and sinew look all the more magnificent.

She ignored the well of heat pulsing at her core.

So, so not the point, Kaz.

She pressed trembling fingers to his chest, felt the muscles tense as she frantically ran them over his ribs up to his shoulder to locate the wound. Her fingertips encountered sticky moisture. She drew her hand away, her eyes widening in horror at the stain of fresh blood. The metallic smell invaded the silent night.

She swore again, the same word that had made her feel empowered several hours ago when she’d found herself alone in the desert with a broken-down Jeep.

Now she was alone in the desert with a bleeding man. A bleeding, unconscious warrior prince, who had saved her from a sandstorm and whom she’d shot for his pains.

She’d never felt less empowered in her life.

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOU’RE NOT MY SON—you’re not anyone’s son. You’re nothing more than vermin—a rat, born by mistake.’

The angry memory ripped through Raif’s body, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if it would gag him. His father’s face reared up, the cruel slant of his lips, the contempt in his flat black eyes, the cold echo of the only words he’d ever spoken to him cutting through the familiar nightmare like a rusting blade.

‘I clothed and fed you for ten years. You are a man now—any responsibility I had is paid. Now, get out.’

‘No…’ The desperate cry came out of his mouth, shaming, pathetic, pleading.

The crack of his father’s hand sounded like a rifle shot, although the ache wasn’t in his cheekbone this time but his arm. He shifted, trying to escape the cruel words, the bitter memories. The echo of remembered pain, too real and so vivid.

‘Shh… Prince Raif, you’re having a bad dream. Everything is okay, really, it was just a flesh wound.’

Soft words in English drifted to him through the cloaking agony. Something cool and soft fluttered over his brow. Like the wings of an angel.

‘Not a prince…a rat,’ he whispered back in the same language.

An exotic fragrance—jasmine, spice and female sweat—floated through the night on a cooling breeze. His nostrils flared like those of a stallion scenting its mate. The warmth of the night settled into his groin, swelling his shaft. He concentrated his mind on the pulse of pleasure, let it flow through him, to dull the aching pain always left by the nightmare in his heart.

Not a rat. You’re a prince… And a man now, not an unloved boy.

He thought the words but swallowed them, remembering even through his exhaustion that he should never admit to a weakness. Not to anyone.

Soft fingers touched his chin, then something cold pressed against his lips.

The urgent female voice spoke again but he couldn’t hear what it said because of the blood rushing in his ears. And the heat hurtling beneath his belt.

The taste of fresh water invaded his senses. He opened his mouth, gulping as the liquid soothed his dry throat.

‘Slow down or you’ll choke.’ The voice was less gentle, firm, demanding—he liked it even more. But then it took the refreshing water away.

He dragged open his eyelids, which had rocks attached to them.

The pleasure swelled and throbbed in his groin.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered in Kholadi.

The hazy vision was exquisite, like an angel, or a temptress—flushed skin, wild midnight hair, and large eyes the same colour as precious amber, the shade only made more intense by the bruised shadows under them and the wary glow of embarrassment and knowledge.

I want you.

Had he said that aloud?

‘I can’t understand you, Prince Raif. I don’t speak Kholadi.’ The lush lips moved, but the address confused him. Why was she mixing his Narabian title with his tribal name?

‘Beautiful,’ he whispered in English, his fatigued brain not able to engage with the vagaries of his cultural heritage. He wanted to touch her skin and see if it was as soft as it looked, to capture that pointed chin and bring her mouth down to his, trace the cupid’s bow on the top lip with his tongue, but as he lifted his hand, the twinge of pain in his arm made him flinch.

‘Lie still and go back to sleep, it’s not morning yet, Prince Raif.’

Prince Raif? Who is that? I am not Prince to the Kholadi. I am their Chief.

He gritted his teeth as her cool fingers brushed his chest, an oasis in the midst of the warm night.

‘Not an angel…’ he said, trying to cling to consciousness, wanting to cling to her, so the nightmare would not return. ‘A witch.’ Then the sweet, hazy vision faded as the rocks rolled back over his eyes and he plunged back into sleep.

Beautiful.

Kasia stared down at the man she’d been lying beside for several hours now.

Lifting the cloth out of the bowl of warming water beside the bed, she squeezed out the excess liquid with cramping fingers. Placing it on his chest, she brushed it over the contours of muscle and bone shiny with sweat. The now familiar prickle of awareness sped up her arm as she glided the cooling cloth over the taut inked skin of his shoulder.

The red and black serpent tattoo that curled around his collar bone and covered his shoulder blade shimmered in the flicker of light from the kerosene lamps she’d lit as night fell.

She blinked, forcing herself to remain upright and focused. His cheeks above the line of his beard were a little flushed but he didn’t have a fever, thank goodness. Surely the rambling that had woken him up had just been a nightmare.

As he sank back into sleep, his breathing deepened.

He’d managed to swallow a fair portion of the water this time.

She re-dipped the cloth and continued to sweep it over the broad expanse of his chest, her gaze drawn to the scars that had made her wince after wrestling him out of his bloodstained robe the night before.

How could one man have sustained so much damage in his life? And survived?

Heat flushed through her as she followed the white puckered mark of an old wound into the sprinkle of masculine hair that tapered into a fine line and arrowed beneath his pants.

Her gaze connected with the prominent ridge pressing against the loose black cloth—the only piece of clothing she hadn’t been brave enough to take off him.

Soaked with sweat, his pants didn’t leave much to her imagination as they clung to the long muscles of his flanks and outlined the huge ridge she’d noticed several times during the last few hours.

A sight that managed to both relieve and disturb her in equal measure. Surely he couldn’t be badly hurt if he could sport such an impressive erection? But what kind of man could be aroused after getting shot, however superficial the wound had turned out to be?

Look away from the erection. Maybe it’s a natural state for a man suffering from exhaustion? How would you know? You’ve never slept with a man before, and you’ve certainly never shot one.

The blush burned as she dipped the cloth once more and concentrated on wiping the new film of sweat from his skin. And not getting absorbed again in his aroused state.

She ought to be used to that mammoth erection by now. After all she’d spent rather a lot of time trying to gauge its size.

Seriously? Look away! And stop objectifying a stranger.

She forced her wayward gaze back to his upper torso.

The bandage she’d applied several hours ago remained unstained.

Thank goodness the bullet had only grazed his upper arm. Her first-aid skills did not extend to conducting emergency surgery in a tent. She’d lost her own phone when he’d rescued her. And she hadn’t been able to find anything resembling a satellite phone or communication equipment in the tent.

Although tent was far too ordinary a word for the lavish construction where they had been cocooned since nightfall.

She glanced around the structure, astonished all over again by the luxurious interior she’d discovered after managing to rouse her patient to get him off the desert floor and into his dwelling.

A dwelling more than fit for a desert prince.

Rich silks covered the walls of the chamber that held the large bed pallet and an impressive array of hunting equipment, chests full of tinned and dried goods, clothing and even a battery-powered icebox packed with meat and perishable food. Thankfully she had also discovered medical supplies, which she’d used to clean and bandage his wound. She had even found a goat tethered at the back of the encampment where there was a corral and a shelter for his horse and a smaller pack pony.

How long had Prince Raif, or Prince Kasim, as she had always heard him addressed before he had corrected her, been living here, and why was he living here alone? Or was this simply an emergency shelter the Kholadi kept stocked for tribespeople caught alone in the desert?

Stop asking questions you can’t answer.

She dumped the cloth in the bowl and sat on her haunches, a wave of exhaustion making her feel light-headed.

She examined her patient, and pressed the back of her hand to his brow. She released a breath. Still normal, no sign of any adverse effects from his wound.

After several hours of getting intimately acquainted with this man’s face and body, hearing the strange plea she couldn’t understand in his nightmares, she had no desire to hurt him more than she already had.

The guilt had crippled her at first. But as the minutes had stretched into hours, her vigil had morphed into something strangely cathartic.

Prince Raif fascinated her, he always had even from afar. But he fascinated her even more now, bandaged and virtually naked, flushed with what she suspected was a mild case of heatstroke from their exhausting escape and with the evidence of his own mortality—and the harsh reality of his life—visible in those scars and that striking tattoo. Awareness prickled and glowed, making her skin tighten over her bones and her heart thump against her ribs.

The crack of a log in the fire outside the tent made her jump. She shook her head, trying to dispel the fugue state into which she seemed to be descending.

He’d called her a witch and—while he had a valid reason to think she was one, after all she had shot him—she’d also seen hunger in his eyes. A hunger that had disturbed her as much as it had excited her.

The visceral intimacy that had been created by his rescue and her recent vigil was an illusion.

Prince Raif was famous, or rather infamous, for seducing any woman he wanted and then discarding her.

Another crackle from the fire forced her tired mind to unlock.

Getting a bit ahead of yourself there, Kaz.

Worrying about how she was going to explain shooting him when he woke up made more sense than worrying about how she was going to resist a seduction that hadn’t happened.

She forced her gaze away from his mesmerising body and out towards the desert. The shimmer of light on the horizon as dawn began to seep over the dunes was gilded by the orange and gold flames leaping from the fire pit.

The desert was another world, wild and beautiful and sophisticated in its own way—especially its eco-system. But it was a world she had never been a part of, cocooned as she had been in the Sheikh’s palace and then the world of UK academia.

She had never known a man like Prince Raif, however well she might once have wanted to know him, or how well she now knew the contours of his harsh body, the design of his tattoo.

Forcing herself to her feet, she stumbled out of the tent, absorbed the glorious beauty of another desert sunrise, then walked to the corral, watered the horse and brought back an armful of wood. She fed the fire, aware the temperature would remain low until the sun rose fairly high in the sky.

As she staggered back into the tent her gaze tracked inexorably to the Prince’s broad chest. She watched it rise and fall in a regular rhythm, the nightmares no longer tormenting him. The serpent tattoo coiled around his shoulder in the flicker of lamplight—as vibrant as the man it adorned.

Her heart lifted and swelled with relief. He would be fine. She hadn’t hurt him too badly.

He looked peaceful now—or as peaceful as a man as large and powerful as he was could ever look.

She lay down, curled up beside him and dragged the soft blanket over the T-shirt and shorts ensemble she’d been living in for nearly twenty-four hours as the night’s chill seeped into her weary bones.

She needed sleep. And however frivolous or foolishly romantic the urge, she wanted to stay beside him, just in case he had another of those nasty nightmares.

She placed her hand over his heart. She absorbed the steady rhythm and the sharp tug of awareness. She could feel the puckered skin of an old wound. Okay, maybe she didn’t want to lie beside him just for the sake of his health or well-being. But what harm could it do?

She’d never get another opportunity to touch him like this, and maybe she owed this much to the fanciful girl she’d been, the girl she’d thought had died during all those hours of reading and studying, a world away. She was glad that girl hadn’t died completely, because she’d always liked her.

‘Sleep well, Prince Raif,’ she whispered.

As soon as her lids closed, she dropped into the deep well that had been beckoning her for hours. Vivid erotic dreams leapt and danced like the flames in the fire pit and the shooting stars in the desert night, full of heat and purpose, both dazzling and intoxicating.

But the dreams didn’t disturb her any more, because with them came the fierce tug of yearning.

CHAPTER FOUR

RAIF JERKED AWAKE, then slammed his eyes shut again as the light from the sun shining into the tent seemed to burn his retinas.

Why was he lying in bed at midday?

But as soon as he shifted, he felt the twinge in his arm, and he knew. The memories assailed him all at once. The deafening sound of the storm, the pop of gunfire, the sharp recoil as a bullet glanced off his flesh. The scent of jasmine and sweat during the endless ride to safety, the long night of exhausted sleep and nightmares, the sound of voices—his father’s sneering contempt from many years ago and the pleas of an angel to lie still, to drink, not to drink too fast…

She’d been quite a bossy angel now he thought about it.

Not an angel, a witch. She’d tried to shoot him—the fierce look in her eyes as she’d pointed the pistol at him both arousing and infuriating. A rueful smile edged his mouth, but then he hissed as his dry lips cracked.

He closed his eyes and became one with his body—a process he’d learned as a boy through brutal experience—to assess his injuries.

His arm was a little stiff, but not as stiff as when he’d been kicked by his stallion Zarak a week ago on his first trip back to the tribal lands in over five months.

The gap had been too long since his last return, and the stallion—always high-spirited—had thrown a temper tantrum.

Zarak had missed him, but not as much as he’d missed Zarak, and the landscape, the culture, the people who had saved him as a child—and turned him into a man.

But this trip had been fraught with surprises. After leaving the desert encampment, in the outskirts of the tribal lands, to spend time alone at his private oasis, to enjoy the challenge of being a man again—instead of a chieftain, or a prince, or a business tycoon—the sandstorm had struck.

He moved his arm, testing its limits. The mild ache that had woken him during the night was gone now. Unlike the more pressing ache in his groin.

A gust of breath raised the hair on his chest and made the pounding in his groin intensify. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the light, and turned, to see the vision he had encountered the night before.

It was her. The angel. The witch.

She lay beside him, fast asleep. Her wild hair, tied in a haphazard ponytail, accentuated her exquisite beauty—high cheekbones, kissable lips, and those large eyes, closed now as she lay sleeping.

How old was she? Early twenties? Definitely more a woman than a girl. Bold enough to aim a gun at him.

And where was she from? The dust-stained T-shirt stretched enticingly over her breasts bore the insignia of the same British university Catherine, the Queen of Narabia, had attended. With her colouring, the girl could be a native of this part of the world, but she was dressed like a student in LA or London.

The swell of arousal grew as he examined the toned thighs displayed by her shorts.

The colour in her cheeks heightened and her breathing became irregular. Her eyelids flickered, the rapid eye movements suggesting she was having a vivid dream. Could she sense him observing her?

He had to stifle a smile when she moaned—the sound so husky it seemed to stroke his erection. Was she dreaming about him? He hoped so, because he had dreamed of her.

She mumbled something in her sleep, shifted and then her small hand, which had been resting on the bedding, reached out to touch his chest. He gritted his teeth as her fingertips slid over his nipple and down his ribs, trailing fire in their wake, and turning his erection to iron, before getting tantalisingly close to the waistband of his pants. Her touch dropped away abruptly as she rolled over—giving him a nice view of her pert bottom.

He wetted his lips, struggling to quell the brutal pulse of unrequited desire and ignore the stab of something else at the loss of her touch.

Disappointment? Regret? Longing?

He remembered the same feeling from the night before when he’d had the recurring nightmare, and he’d clung to her compassion. Which was not like him. He didn’t need tenderness from anyone.

He’d been alone all his life, had been shot at many times and had survived much worse than a sandstorm. He had made it his mission never to rely on the kindness of others. If his life had taught him one thing—both as a boy in the desert and as a man in the boardrooms of Manhattan—it was that no one could be trusted. That life was brutal and survival was all that counted. That weakness would destroy you.

Dragging his gaze away from the girl’s perfectly rounded backside, he sat up. Taking a deep breath, he got a lungful of his own scent.

Damn, he smelt worse than Zarak after a day-long ride. His stomach growled so loudly he was surprised he didn’t wake the girl. He must eat and wash. And tend to Zarak, and the goat and the pack pony. He could decide what to do with the woman later. If she came from the Golden Palace, the seat of his brother Zane’s power in the neighbouring kingdom of Narabia, he supposed he would have to return her at some point.

He tugged off the blanket covering his lap, then risked another rueful smile at the evidence of his arousal.

He’d been forced to rescue the woman when he’d spotted her stranded by her Jeep. But maybe having her here didn’t have to be bad. These few days alone were supposed to be an escape from the burden of leadership, a chance to reconnect with the basics of his life before he had become Kholadi Chief well over a decade ago at the age of seventeen.