Heidi Rice - Claimed For The Desert Prince's Heir

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.

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.