Claimed For The Desert Prince's Heir / A Shocking Proposal In Sicily. Heidi Rice

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