Claimed for the Desert Prince's Heir

by Heidi Rice

  Plus, the food she managed to conjure up—an eclectic mix of Middle Eastern, African and other ethnic flavours from her travels around the local neighbourhood shops—was quite simply the best he’d ever tasted. So much so he’d managed to regain nearly all the weight he’d lost while lying flat on his back at the Golden Palace.

  ‘Sarma, moutabal and hummus to start,’ she announced proudly. ‘Then lamb tagine, whipped garlic mash and Armenian salad. I hope you’re starving. The bread is from an amazing Lebanese bakery I found in Tribeca.’

  After popping the pitta breads in the toaster, she produced a tray of colourful dishes from the fridge.

  ‘Please tell me you didn’t walk all the way to Tribeca.’ He’d cautioned her before about not taking the car and driver.

  ‘Then I won’t tell you,’ she said, the flirtatious wink making it hard for him to be annoyed with her. Even though she had been defying his express order.

  Dammit.

  ‘Kasia, you must not tire yourself,’ he said, trying to be firm. The nausea still hit every morning like clockwork. And he knew how tired she became in the afternoons, because he’d come back between meetings only yesterday, hoping to surprise her, and had found her fast asleep. ‘Especially not cooking for me.’

  ‘But I like cooking for you,’ she said, disarming him all over again. ‘Tribeca is not that far. And I had a nap this afternoon. So I’m not tired. Plus, the bread is amazing.’ She pointed to a delicious-looking concoction, made with chargrilled eggplant, on the tray of dishes, attempting to distract him. ‘And it goes perfectly with the moutabal. A lovely Lebanese man at the farmers’ market on Hudson told me how to make it.’

  ‘I don’t want you talking to strange men either,’ he said, frowning, as she whisked the pitta out of the toaster, chopped them up with a few efficient strokes of a very large knife and sprinkled them with some aromatic spice.

  ‘He was ninety if he was a day, Raif.’ Her eyes flashed with the rebellious spirit he had become captivated by. Taking the dish off the tray, she presented it to him with the plate of prepared bread. ‘Now, stop talking nonsense and taste it, so you can tell me what you think.’

  It wasn’t nonsense, he thought grumpily, but then he tasted the dish. The flavours exploded on his tongue, lemon and sesame and garlic perfectly combined with the savoury charcoal flavour of the charred aubergine. A moan came out before he could stop it.

  ‘Good?’ she said, the eager smile making his heartbeat thicken.

  ‘Excellent,’ he was forced to admit.

  ‘Sit down and sample the other dishes while I finish the mash.’

  He did as he was told, perching on the stool on the other side of the bar as he had become accustomed to doing for the past week. He would ask her about her latest research, and the progress of her PhD, which the Kholadi Corporation was helping to fund after setting up the scholarship programme at Devereaux College. She would often ask him about his work, what he had been doing, and tell him what else she’d done during her day—which usually involved making friends with people she didn’t know. And walking miles after he had told her not to.

  But it was hard to chastise her when she enjoyed it so much. Kasia, he had discovered, was a naturally sociable person, who thrived on meeting new people and exploring new places.

  Her stories enchanted him. And disturbed him.

  How could anyone be so trusting? So devoid of cynicism? The question had begun to haunt him and make him feel vaguely guilty. After all, he was planning to use her gullibility—her naivety—against her to get her to agree to their marriage.

  She launched into a story about the Lebanese man she’d met at the farmers’ market. Usually he loved listening to what she had been doing all day, because she was an entertaining storyteller, and he found himself fascinated by how open she was. It also gave him no small amount of pride, her instinctive abilities in social situations, yet more evidence of what an excellent princess she would make for the Kholadi people. She had a genuine openness and honesty and seemed to be able to fit in anywhere. People gravitated towards her naturally—even he was not immune.

  But as she talked about the Lebanese great-grandfather and how he had reminded her of her own grandmother, while she was mashing the potatoes, and he tucked into the delicious tray of hors d’oeuvres, the question that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for days popped out of his mouth.

  ‘Kasia, how did you lose your parents?’

  She stopped mashing abruptly and lifted her gaze. A shadow crossed her face, and he wished he could take the question back.

  ‘I didn’t lose them exactly.’ A resigned smile curved her lips, intensifying his desire to take the sadness out of her eyes. ‘They lost me.’

  He knew he should not pursue this line of questioning, he couldn’t afford to get too invested in Kasia’s past because it had the potential to make him even more conflicted about using her artlessness against her to get what he wanted. For himself, for their child, for his country. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking the obvious next question.

  ‘How did they lose you?’

  * * *

  Kasia’s heart lifted into her throat at Raif’s troubled expression. He’d never asked her about her past before. She could see he was uncomfortable about asking her now. But the fact he wanted to know more about her seemed like another huge step forward, adding to the progress they’d already made since arriving in New York. The apartment his assistant had rented in Gramercy was, of course, a lot grander than what she would have preferred—with four bedrooms, a roof garden and the sort of stark, modern style that wouldn’t look out of place in a design magazine. But the kitchen was magnificent and it hadn’t taken her long to turn the apartment into a home.

  Even though it had only been a week, they’d already slipped into a routine, a routine that involved not just spectacular sex every evening but also private dinners during which Raif devoured her food and discussed his work while taking a genuine interest in hers. But he’d shied away from more intimate conversations—until now.

  As happy as it made her to have him ask, it was also hard for her to revisit that time of her life. But she forced herself not to hold back. They needed to be able to share the truth about who they were and where they had come from. She knew the terrible degradation he’d suffered as a child, so why should she feel inhibited about talking about her own childhood?

  ‘Well...’ She concentrated on mashing the potatoes, not wanting to see his reaction. ‘I never knew who my father was. My mother went with a group of other girls to the mining camps in Kallah to work and came back pregnant, she said by a French mine-worker.’

  ‘So you are also illegitimate?’ Raif murmured.

  ‘Yes.’ Panic twisted in her gut, which made no sense. Why would she be concerned about his reaction to her heritage when she hadn’t agreed to marry him yet? ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe you don’t want a bastard for your princess?’ she said, forcing herself to voice her fears.

  His brows launched up his forehead but then he laughed. ‘The Kholadi have a bastard for their Chief. Do you take me for a hypocrite?’

  She smiled, feeling stupidly shy under that intense gaze. ‘No, I don’t.’

  He picked up a piece of pitta and dipped it into the moutabal, then directed her to continue. ‘When did your mother die?’

  She shook her head. This bit was tougher. ‘She didn’t die. As far as I know, she’s still living, but she decided when I was four that she could no longer live with the shame of being the mother of a bastard. So she left me with my grandmother and never returned.’

  He stared at her for the longest time, swallowing the food, then swore softly in Kholadi. Lifting his thumb, he traced it down the side of her face. The caress was light but very sensual, and the approval—and anger—in his eye
s so vivid she felt as if he was stroking her heart. ‘Your mother was a fool.’

  She’d spent her whole life convincing herself she didn’t need anyone else’s validation, that her mother’s choices were not her own, but why, then, did his support mean so much? She blinked, releasing the tears stinging her eyes. They rolled down her cheeks unchecked as a fear she hadn’t even realised she had been holding inside her—that she might be as fickle and flawed as her own mother when it came to having a child—was defeated by the honest approval in his eyes.

  ‘I am sorry. I have made you cry,’ he said. But as he went to remove his thumb, she pressed her palm over his hand, holding it in place, and leaned into the caress.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said. ‘They’re not sad tears.’

  His lips lifted in a rueful smile. ‘I am glad.’

  Fierce joy pierced her heart—for all his wildness, for all his arrogance and over-protectiveness, the father of her child was a good man.

  ‘I wish to make love to you,’ he said. ‘Will the food wait?’

  Her heart jumped at the intensity in his eyes and she nodded. The mashed potatoes would taste terrible cold, but she didn’t care as he switched off the oven and lifted her into his arms.

  As he carried her into their bedroom and stripped them both naked, she tried to persuade herself it was the pregnancy hormones making her feel so emotional. But as he made slow, sensual, tender love to her, bringing her to an earth-shattering climax with his tongue, before thrusting deep and rocking them both towards another orgasm, she clung to his shoulders, trying to hold the emotion in, to justify and control it.

  But as he worked that spot inside her that he knew would make her shatter, the pleasure slammed into her... And as her body plunged over that high, wide ledge, for better or worse, her heart followed.

  * * *

  Much later, as they sat in bed together, he fed her the cold tagine with his fingers, then licked away the juices from her chin.

  She giggled, her heart lighter than it had been for a long time.

  But then he cradled her cheek and her spirits sobered. His eyes had lost the boyish twinkle she had become so attached to in the past week.

  ‘I must return to Kholadi in four days’ time—the tribe is setting up a new encampment and I need to be there. For a month, maybe longer.’

  She nodded, suddenly bereft that this blissful time together would have to end sooner than planned.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you behind. I wish to take you with me as my princess, Kasia.’

  Her heart expanded even as her head cried it was still too soon for such a leap. She had no guarantee her feelings were returned, or would ever be returned, and her love for him was still so new.

  But when he asked: ‘Will you marry me?’ she was powerless to resist the matching hope in his gaze.

  She didn’t want to be without him for a whole month. He was the father of her child. How could it be wrong to give their love this chance?

  So she said the only thing she could. ‘Yes, I will.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE WHIRLWIND OF activity over the next few days was so overwhelming, Kasia had no time at all to revisit any fears she had about her decision to accept Raif’s proposal.

  They agreed her PhD would have to be put on hold until after the baby was born, but Raif was eager to fund additional research while they were in Kholadi as her work could be of great benefit to his people... Their people.

  As he finished the last of his business in Manhattan, Kasia spent her time reading as much as she could about the Kholadi. She didn’t want to be as ignorant as she had been about their lifestyle when she’d first spent the night with Raif. A licence was arranged at City Hall two days before their departure and they were married the next day on the roof terrace of the Gramercy apartment with his assistant and the building’s supervisor, who Kasia had made friends with, in attendance as witnesses.

  She made a tearful call to Cat that evening to confess all, and her friend had been thrilled at the news. Although she did chastise Kasia for keeping her affair with Raif a secret for so long.

  ‘I cannot believe you’re pregnant and married and I didn’t even get to be maid of honour. You’re also going to have some serious explaining to do to my daughter, who has been dreaming about being your bridesmaid since she was about two. And my husband, who would have wanted to give you away and have a completely inappropriate conversation with your new husband about his responsibilities!’

  The memory of the conversation still made Kasia smile. How silly she had been to wait to tell Cat everything until after the marriage had taken place. Her wobble over whether Cat and Zane would give the marriage their blessing was even more ridiculous. They were her friends, so why wouldn’t they be overjoyed for her?

  Because they know he’s not in love with you.

  She pushed the niggling doubt aside.

  That was her insecurity talking. Cat had only asked her if she was in love with Raif, so she hadn’t had to lie. And maybe Raif wasn’t in love with her yet. But less than a day after their marriage he was already giving a very good impression of an over-protective husband, insisting they stop off in London en route to Narabia to see a Harley Street specialist about her continuing nausea.

  She’d tried to explain to him that it was perfectly normal to be sick and tired. In fact, it was practically a cliché, and she’d also pointed out there were a network of state-of-the-art maternity clinics in Narabia where she could get all the antenatal care she needed. But he had refused to be swayed.

  So here she was, sitting in the elegant Georgian office of one of London’s best obstetricians with her husband, having been whisked from Heathrow in a chauffeur-driven limo and given a series of blood tests by the practice’s nurse.

  ‘So, Mrs Khan...’ Ms Siddiqui, the consultant, smiled at Kasia, her expression both kind and fiercely competent.

  Mrs Khan.

  ‘I’ve reviewed the notes sent from your GP in Cambridge and your blood tests. Everything looks good, although you are a little anaemic, so I would suggest we increase your iron. I understand from my conversation with your husband that your morning sickness has been quite pronounced and you’re often exhausted?’

  Aware of Raif’s eyes on her, Kasia replied, ‘I’m sure it’s nothing out of the ordin—’

  ‘Kasia, you are violently ill every morning—surely this is not normal, Doctor?’ Raif interrupted her, his concern palpable.

  ‘Every pregnancy is different, Mr Khan,’ the obstetrician replied in a soothing but also firm tone. Kasia’s tension eased. While it was wonderful to have Raif worry about her, she really didn’t want him to worry quite so much. ‘But let’s do an ultrasound to check everything and put everyone’s mind at rest,’ she finished.

  Excitement stirred in Kasia’s blood as they were led into the ultrasound room. Five minutes later she was lying on the bed, the cold jelly smeared on her abdomen and the obstetrician pressing the wand into the small baby bump.

  The sound of a heartbeat beating in double time echoed around the room as Kasia watched the monitor, the indistinct shapes making her blink back tears. This was her and Raif’s child. The lump in her throat grew and she gripped his fingers. He squeezed back, instinctively answering her sudden need for reassurance.

  ‘Aha,’ Ms Siddiqui said, as if she’d just made an important discovery. ‘I think we have the source of your nausea and the exhaustion, Mrs Khan.’

  ‘Please call me Kasia,’ she said as the obstetrician circled two of the shapes on the screen with a wand.

  ‘You’re carrying twins, Kasia,’ Ms Siddiqui replied with a benevolent smile.

  Twins?

  ‘There are two babies?’ Raif released her fingers, his voice raw.

  ‘Yes, Mr Khan.’ She pointed to the two shapes she’d circled. ‘Here and here. And can you hear th
at slight echo on the heartbeat? That’s because there are actually two heartbeats but they’re beating almost in unison.’ The obstetrician continued to press the wand into Kasia’s belly, moving it around to get a better view of their babies.

  Their two babies.

  Kasia’s stomach leapt and jiggled along with her heartbeat. She’d always wanted to be a mother and now she was going to be a mother twice over. She couldn’t think of anything more wonderful.

  But as the doctor took a series of measurements and answered all her eager questions about the pregnancy, Raif remained silent and tense.

  Ms Siddiqui was fantastic, both pragmatic and kind, reassuring them that while the babies were big for the dates and a twin pregnancy was always more of a hormonal shock to the mother’s system—which probably explained the nausea and the tiredness—Kasia was strong and healthy and once her body adjusted, everything should settle down. Raif did not look convinced.

  ‘Are you okay, Raif?’ Kasia asked, after he had helped her into the waiting car, as if she were a hundred and two years old and made of spun glass and might fracture into a thousand pieces at any minute.

  He didn’t reply to her question, his body language still painfully tense as he stared out of the car window at the passing scenery, lost in his thoughts. They were staying in a hotel in Cambridge tonight, so she could supervise the packing of her belongings in the morning, then leave for Narabia tomorrow evening to visit Cat and Zane and their children before heading into the desert and the Kholadi encampment in a few days’ time.

  She knew arrangements were already under way for a royal wedding ceremony—their marriage wasn’t legal in Kholadi, according to Raif, unless they said their vows in front of his people.

  ‘Raif, is something wrong?’ she repeated as the car turned onto Euston Road. ‘You’re not unhappy about it being twins, are you?’

  He swung round, finally having heard her. ‘No, of course not,’ he said, but the muscle in his jaw was twitching so violently she was surprised he hadn’t got lockjaw, and the expression in his eyes—hooded and wary—reminded her of the man she had first met in the desert. The man who had suffered a gunshot wound without saying a word.