Читать книгу Claimed For The Desert Prince's Heir / A Shocking Proposal In Sicily - Heidi Rice - Страница 15

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.

His role as Chief had become a great deal more complex and challenging five years ago, when the decision to mine the huge deposits of minerals had given his people vast riches. Riches that had to be managed and invested to give his tribe a more settled, secure existence. It had been his mission to use the wealth to alleviate the hardships of life in the desert and give the tribe’s younger generation choices he had lacked. But dragging the Kholadi into the twenty-first century, while protecting the traditions that had shaped their lives for generations, was a juggling act, which had only become more difficult as his life abroad had dragged him away from the homeland that had defined and sustained him.

What better way to relax and escape those burdens than to lose himself in a woman, if she were willing? How long was it since he’d had the chance to enjoy such soft fragrant flesh, to explore the pleasures of an angel? Or a witch?

He rose to his feet, and made his way out of the tent. As he breathed in the dry desert air, and the sun burnished his skin, his usual vitality returned.

Once he had washed and eaten, he would wake the girl. And see if she was as open as he was to some harmless fun before he returned her to the palace.

Kasia woke slowly, then shot up so fast she had to breathe through the dizziness.

Where was the Prince?

The bed beside her was empty. Bright sunlight shone through the open flaps of the enormous tent.

She scrambled out of the bedding and raced to the entrance. Had he left her here? Gone for a stroll? How long had she slept?

Guilt assailed her all over again as she recalled bandaging the cut on his arm, listening to the rambling cries of his nightmare, and paying far too much attention to the impressive ridge in his pants.

She shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight, blinking furiously as she headed to the corral to search for her rescuer.

The stallion’s head lifted and it whinnied, before returning its muzzle to the trough full of fresh water. At least he hadn’t ridden away in disgust.

The sound of the spring water tumbling over the red rocks of the oasis beckoned. After giving the stallion’s nose a pat, she edged through the grove of palm trees towards the blue pool created in the rock crevice.

She spotted the bandage first, lying unravelled on the ground, the flecks of dried blood making her stomach hurt. Then the black pants, hooked over a desert shrub. Standing at the edge of the trees, her bare feet sinking into the wet sand by the water’s edge, she scanned the pool.

Heat raged to every one of her erogenous zones as she spotted her patient, standing under the waterfall.

Her nipples tightened, and her thighs weakened, the moisture pooling in her pants like the water gushing from the rock face.

Wow!

Thigh deep in water and with his back to her, Prince Raif was every teenage fantasy she’d ever had made flesh. All strong lines and hard contours, the serpent tattoo coiling over his shoulder, the bruising from the cut on his arm just one of the many scars marring the smooth brown skin. Her gaze dropped to the tight orbs of his backside, which flexed as he scrubbed the water through thick dark hair.

Goodness, he was even more magnificent naked than he had been in full ceremonial wear at Zane and Cat’s wedding.

Kasia stood transfixed, knowing she should move, to leave him to bathe in peace. Hadn’t she already caused him enough trouble?

But instead she watched him, absorbing the beauty of his hard male body. She’d never seen a naked man before. Not one in the full prime of manhood. She’d been asked on dates during her years in Cambridge, but had always shied away from making any kind of commitment outside her studies. She hadn’t partied much because she’d wanted to return to Narabia with an education that would make her an asset to Narabia’s ongoing struggle to become self-sufficient.

Cat and Zane had invested a fortune in her education. Cat had always insisted the money was not important, that Kasia had earned the opportunity after her years at the palace. But she wanted to be worthy of that investment. She was the first native Narabian woman to get such an opportunity. And she intended to be the first of many. Her studiousness had never felt a burden, though, until this moment.

She had no experience of what to do with a physical attraction so intense it scared her a little.

She’d always been curious about sex and excited to explore it—when the time was right. But as she watched the Prince’s butt muscles bunch and flex as he bent to scoop more water over his head, her breath clogged in her lungs and she wondered if it was possible to be too aroused. Too excited. Because the tightness in her nipples, the looseness in her thighs, and the gush of longing in her panties was becoming painful. And her heartbeat was so frantic she was concerned she might pass out.

She breathed, trying to ease the sensations besieging her body, but then the Prince turned and began to wade towards her.

Her gaze devoured his full-frontal male glory.

Oh, my…

Her thundering heartbeat crashed into her throat.

His chest was as broad and heavily muscled as it had appeared last night, but now his skin glowed with health and vitality. He had his head bent, to watch his step as he strode over the rocks in the pool, giving her precious seconds to absorb every inch of him unobserved.

And there were a lot of inches.

He had to be at least a foot taller than her. But as her thirsty gaze drank in the sight of mile-wide shoulders and the washboard ridges of his abdominal muscles, it was drawn downwards.

Even no longer erect, his penis did not disappoint, completing the mesmerising picture of strong, sensual masculinity.

She blinked, suddenly aware he was no longer moving.

She jerked her gaze to his face. Flaming heat blasted across her chest, flooded up her neck and exploded in her cheeks.

‘Good afternoon, little witch,’ he said, in perfect English—his deep chocolate gaze sparkling with mocking humour. ‘Are you assessing the damage?’

‘I…’ The word came out on a squeak. She swallowed, folding her arms over her chest to control the ache in her nipples. It didn’t help.

‘I’m so sorry I shot you, Prince Raif.’

And I’ve just invaded your privacy by ogling you naked while you bathe.

She kept the last part of her apology to herself. He didn’t seem bothered that she was seeing him naked. Arrogance and confidence issued from every perfect pore.

‘Prince…who?’ His lips quirked. Even with the beard covering the lower half of his face, the half-smile was devastating. ‘What did you call me?’

‘Prince Raif,’ she said, confused. Had she addressed him incorrectly? Wasn’t that what he’d told her to call him?

From his amusement it was obvious she’d misunderstood. Perhaps she was supposed to kneel? As she once had before Zane, because he was a sheikh?

But as the man before her strolled the rest of the way out of the pool and stopped in front of her, she resisted the urge to drop to her knees.

He didn’t seem particularly outraged by the breach of etiquette. And, anyway, if she knelt down she would be at eye level with his… She jerked her chin up.

Do not stare at his junk again. Haven’t you been disrespectful enough already?

‘Just Raif,’ he corrected her. ‘I am not a prince in Kholadi, only Chief.’

There was no only about it, she decided as he reached past her, his pectoral muscles rippling as he snagged the black pants off the shrub where he’d dumped them.

She inhaled the aroma of desert thyme alongside the salty aroma of his skin, gilded now by the sheen of fresh water instead of sweat. He used the cotton to mop the moisture drying on his magnificent chest and swept it through his hair, before finally putting the pants back on.

Her breath released, the muscles of her neck finally allowed to relax as he drew the loose pants up to his waist.

‘My brother insisted on giving me the title of Prince Kasim when we reached an accord ten years ago,’ he said, bending his head to tie the drawstring. ‘But it means nothing in the desert.’

The comment sounded casual, but she detected the edge in his voice.

She knew the Kholadi and the Narabian kingdom had been at war for several years, before the old Sheikh, Tariq, had been incapacitated by a stroke. As soon as Zane had taken control of the throne, he had negotiated a truce with his half-brother and the two countries had lived in harmony ever since.

But it seemed their fraternal relationship wasn’t entirely comfortable. Her heart stalled as she thought of the scars all over his body, and the nightmares that had chased him the night before. Like everyone else, she’d heard the stories of how he had been kicked out of the palace as a boy to make way for his legitimate brother, and left to die in the desert.

She had no idea how much of the myth was true. And she’d never given a lot of thought to the devastating effect a trauma like that might have, because the legend of Prince Kasim’s survival and battles to lead the Kholadi had been just that, a legend. A fairy-tale. A myth.

But the myth now seemed as real and raw as this man’s scars. Of course, his relationship with his brother would be strained, after being rejected so cruelly by their father.

He might seem strong and invincible, but he could be hurt, just like anyone else.

The wave of compassion washed over her as she took in the torn flesh on his upper arm from the injury she’d caused.

‘I should re-bandage your arm,’ she said, the guilt choking her. But as she went to touch him, his hand shot out and he grabbed her wrist.

‘There is no need,’ he said.

‘But what if it starts to bleed again?’ she said, tears of shame stinging her eyes.

Could he feel her pulse pummelling her wrist in staccato punches? Did he know how aroused she was? Even though he was hurt? And she was the one responsible?

The half-smile returned and spread across his impossibly handsome features, and her pulse sped into overdrive.

He knows.

‘It is barely a scratch,’ he said, releasing her. ‘I have survived much worse.’

‘Not from me,’ she said, appalled at the thought of all the other scars on his body. Was injury a regular occurrence for him? ‘I feel awful that I shot you.’

‘You did not shoot me, you missed. And you were scared. You were defending yourself. It is a natural reaction.’

‘No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘I’ve never shot at anyone before.’ He appeared unmoved.

Because he must live in another world. A harsh, cruel world where people shoot first and ask questions later.

‘Would you let me check the wound at least, Prince Kasim?’ she said, trying to maintain at least a semblance of decorum. Although decorum was the last thing she felt. ‘It would make me feel better.’

He stroked a thumb down the side of her face. ‘You can check the wound if you wish, but only if you agree to call me Raif.’ His hand dropped away, leaving a trail of goosebumps ricocheting down to her core. ‘Given how much of me you have already seen, there is little point in standing on ceremony.’

She shook her head, mesmerised by the husky tenor of his voice and the effect it was having on her.

It was only five minutes later, as he sat on the edge of his bed and she knelt beside him to bandage the wound again, that she realised her error.

Because the memory of his body, wet and naked, only made being with him in his bedchamber, inhaling the intoxicating scent of man and desert, all the more overwhelming.

So much so, she wasn’t even sure this was reality any more, because it felt like all her teenage fantasies come to vibrant, vivid life.

‘What is your name?’ Raif asked, needing a distraction as the girl’s fingertips brushed his biceps while she wound the new—and entirely unnecessary—bandage around his arm.

She’d been tending him for two minutes—and controlling the surge of heat to his groin each time she touched him had become excruciating.

Did she know the effect she was having on him? Surely she must.

‘Kasia. Kasia Salah,’ she said, concentrating on the bandaging. But he noted the bloom of colour darkening her cheeks.

‘You are Narabian?’ Why did that seem important? He’d slept with women of many different nationalities. He didn’t judge women by their geography but by how much he wanted them. And he wanted this woman, very much.

‘Yes, I was brought up in the Golden Palace. My grandmother worked there as a cook. I was one of the domestic staff.’

Something unlocked inside his chest. So she was of humble birth. Not unlike him.

‘Until I became Cat’s assistant,’ she added, the hint of pride unmistakeable.

‘Cat? Who is Cat?’

‘Catherine Smith, who is now Queen Catherine Ali Nawari Khan—you know, the Sheikh’s wife,’ she said, her chest puffing up. ‘She is my best friend. It is because of her I have spent the last five years studying abroad.’

‘Not because of yourself?’ he asked, annoyed by her willingness to give someone else the credit for her achievements.

Zane’s wife was beautiful and accomplished. But no more so than this woman. The only difference was that Catherine Khan hadn’t had to fight for her education, the way he would guess Kasia had.

The girl’s gaze flashed to his—direct and irritated at his observation.

The heat in his groin surged. Her golden gaze sparkled enticingly when it wasn’t shadowed with guilt or shame.

‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘But…Cat is the reason I sought an education. And she and Zane…’ She sank back on her heels, finally having finished caressing his biceps. ‘They made it possible for me to study abroad in a place called Cambridge University.’

A place called Cambridge University!

Did she think he had never heard of the British institution? What did she take him for? A savage?

His pride bristled—but he bit down on the urge to correct her.

She had been away from her homeland for five years, meaning all she would know of him was that he was the Sheikh’s bastard son—a primitive warlord, an unprincipled womaniser.

The rumours had some truth behind them, especially when he’d been a younger man, and he’d been more than happy to foster them because they had always given him a power and mystique he could use to his advantage—in politics, in business and in his bed.

Being the Bad-Boy Sheikh had been an advantage with women, because they loved the allure of the forbidden, the wild.

Why not exploit Kasia’s misconceptions about him? He had never been ashamed of that unloved child, who had been strong enough to survive thirst and starvation in the desert, or the angry teenager who had been savage enough to defeat the Kholadi’s greatest warriors and become Chief. His past still lived inside him—and defined him in many ways. It always would. Wasn’t it to reconnect with those parts of himself that he had returned to the desert?

Adrenaline raced through his bloodstream. This woman had seen him helpless, something that had made him uneasy. But being the womanising warlord would put the power back in his hands.

She took a tube of antiseptic cream out of the medical box. ‘I noticed some scrapes on your back, where you fell off the horse,’ she said as she unscrewed the cap. ‘Turn around and I’ll dab some of this on them.’ She held up a finger covered in ointment. ‘Before they get infected.’

‘Enough.’ Raif captured her wrist, satisfied when he felt her pulse pummel his thumb.

‘But I should treat the scratches,’ she said.

‘It’s not my back that hurts.’ He interrupted her nonsense.

Taking the hint, her gaze dipped to his lap. The blood pounded into his groin. He was as aroused now as he’d been during the depths of his nightmares.

She lifted her head.

Her pupils dilated, obliterating the rich amber of her irises. She was as aroused as him.

‘I…I see what you mean,’ she stuttered, desire colouring her skin.

‘We have had enough foreplay,’ he said.

He preferred to be open and honest with women about his appetites. When it came to sex, he never played games.

‘If you want me as much as I want you, we can take this ache away.’ He touched her cheek, not able to keep his hands off any longer, the heat rising at the way her breath hitched. ‘If you don’t, I will escort you back to the palace.’ He let his hand drop. He wasn’t usually so abrupt with women, but something about her made it hard for him to be subtle about his needs. ‘What is your choice?’