Claimed For The Desert Prince's Heir. Heidi Rice

       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.