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 was of humble birth. Not unlike him.
‘Until I became Cat’s assistant,’ she added, the hint of pride unmistakeable.
‘Cat? Who is Cat?’
‘Catherine Smith, who is now Queen Catherine Ali Nawari Khan—you know, the Sheikh’s wife,’ she said, her chest puffing up. ‘She is my best friend. It is because of her I have spent the last five years studying abroad.’
‘Not because of yourself?’ he asked, annoyed by her willingness to give someone else the credit for her achievements.
Zane’s wife was beautiful and accomplished. But no more so than this woman. The only difference was that Catherine Khan hadn’t had to fight for her education, the way he would guess Kasia had.
The girl’s gaze flashed to his—direct and irritated at his observation.
The heat in his groin surged. Her golden gaze sparkled enticingly when it wasn’t shadowed with guilt or shame.
‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘But…Cat is the reason I sought an education. And she and Zane…’ She sank back on her heels, finally having finished caressing his biceps. ‘They made it possible for me to study abroad in a place called Cambridge University.’
A place called Cambridge University!
Did she think he had never heard of the British institution? What did she take him for? A savage?
His pride bristled—but he bit down on the urge to correct her.
She had been away from her homeland for five years, meaning all she would know of him was that he was the Sheikh’s bastard son—a primitive warlord, an unprincipled womaniser.
The rumours had some truth behind them, especially when he’d been a younger man, and he’d been more than happy to foster them because they had always given him a power and mystique he could use to his advantage—in politics, in business and in his bed.
Being the Bad-Boy Sheikh had been an advantage with women, because they loved the allure of the forbidden, the wild.
Why not exploit Kasia’s misconceptions about him? He had never been ashamed of that unloved child, who had been strong enough to survive thirst and starvation in the desert, or the angry teenager who had been savage enough to defeat the Kholadi’s greatest warriors and become Chief. His past still lived inside him—and defined him in many ways. It always would. Wasn’t it to reconnect with those parts of himself that he had returned to the desert?
Adrenaline raced through his bloodstream. This woman had seen him helpless, something that had made him uneasy. But being the womanising warlord would put the power back in his hands.
She took a tube of antiseptic cream out of the medical box. ‘I noticed some scrapes on your back, where you fell off the horse,’ she said as she unscrewed the cap. ‘Turn around and I’ll dab some of this on them.’ She held up a finger covered in ointment. ‘Before they get infected.’
‘Enough.’ Raif captured her wrist, satisfied when he felt her pulse pummel his thumb.
‘But I should treat the scratches,’ she said.
‘It’s not my back that hurts.’ He interrupted her nonsense.
Taking the hint, her gaze dipped to his lap. The blood pounded into his groin. He was as aroused now as he’d been during the depths of his nightmares.
She lifted her head.
Her pupils dilated, obliterating the rich amber of her irises. She was as aroused as him.
‘I…I see what you mean,’ she stuttered, desire colouring her skin.
‘We have had enough foreplay,’ he said.
He preferred to be open and honest with women about his appetites. When it came to sex, he never played games.
‘If you want me as much as I want you, we can take this ache away.’ He touched her cheek, not able to keep his hands off any longer, the heat rising at the way her breath hitched. ‘If you don’t, I will escort you back to the palace.’ He let his hand drop. He wasn’t usually so abrupt with women, but something about her made it hard for him to be subtle about his needs. ‘What is your choice?’
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