Kitabı oku: «Claimed For The Desert Prince's Heir / A Shocking Proposal In Sicily», sayfa 2
‘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.
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.
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