Claimed for the Desert Prince's Heir Page 11

  He curled his fingers into fists, clenched his teeth so tight he was surprised his jaw didn’t crack, and waited for the storm of destructive, counter-productive emotions to pass. Or pass enough for him to think clearly.

  He knew how to conduct a negotiation. But he had blown this one, by letting her see how much he wanted this marriage. He had shown his hand too early and then allowed his frustration, his need to distract him from his goals.

  They would be married. That much was non-negotiable. But bullying her and shouting at her was not the answer. It was how his father had always behaved. And it made him less of a man.

  He could hear her getting dressed in the bedroom. A part of him, a very large part of him, wanted to stalk in there and stop her from leaving. As he was sure she intended to do—because running away was her default.

  But instead of doing so, he stalked to the sink and turned on the tap.

  He washed his hands and face, threw cold water on his chest, to contain the anger—and the passion still rioting through his body and evident not just in the pounding pain in his head but the stiff column of flesh stretching his boxers.

  When he had finally calmed himself enough to control the fury, the passion and the pain, he walked out of the bathroom.

  The bedroom was empty, as he had suspected it might be. A scrawled note lay on the bed, propped on the unkempt sheets where they had devoured each other during the night. He picked it up. As he read the note, some of the writing smudged with what had to be her tears, the fury and frustration twisted his gut again.

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the baby last night. That was wrong of me. And I apologise.

  But the reason I didn’t was that I feared exactly this reaction from you. We cannot be wed. Because love means everything to me and nothing to you. I want this child very much and I love it already. Rest assured it will never be a bastard to me.

  Once it is born, we can speak again.

  Until then, please don’t contact me.

  Kasia

  He crushed the note in his fist. He would contact her again, and soon. She could not run far this time, only to the college he already had the power to control with the funding he had offered.

  He refused to give up on the necessity of marriage, as he had far too easily before, because much more than just his honour was at stake now.

  His child grew inside her. That gave him rights and responsibilities he could not shirk. Rights and responsibilities he would not shirk.

  He could not allow his child to be born defenceless, without his name, his wealth and the legacy he had fought so hard to create. But neither would he turn into his father to get what he wanted.

  So he must figure out a strategy to force Kasia to see what was right in front of her eyes.

  No child deserved to be born without its father’s name, its father’s protection.

  Love was not enough. It couldn’t feed you or clothe you, it couldn’t fight your enemies for you or shelter you from a storm.

  He could not change her fanciful, foolishly romantic notions, but she was smart and intuitive and she wanted him—as much as he wanted her—so he would find a way to persuade her that marriage was the only option.

  If that meant charming her, bribing her, seducing her, blackmailing her or even kidnapping her, dammit. He would do it. He could not fail.

  Because the one thing he would never do was abandon his child.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ms Salah, please come to my office immediately.

  KASIA STARED AT the text from Dean Walmsley. The dropping sensation in her already over-sensitive stomach exacerbated the tangle of anxiety.

  She took a sip of her tea and a tentative nibble of the dry crackers she had been advised to snack on by her doctor, then gathered up her backpack and the textbooks she was returning to the library.

  She would speak to Dean Walmsley on the way.

  She had been expecting this confrontation for over a week, ever since she had returned from London. All she could do now was pray that he hadn’t been informed of the full extent of her unprofessionalism at the funding event. He’d been furious when he’d called her to his office on the Monday morning to inform her that Alice Evershot had emailed him to say the funding had not been forthcoming from the donor she had met.

  Given that the donor was Raif, she was not remotely surprised at the decision to withdraw the offer. That she would have to wait to hear if she would receive the funding she needed for her PhD seemed somehow fitting in the circumstances as payback for the mistakes she’d made. She could not accept the funding from Raif now anyway, because it would give him a hold over her that could cause massive complications given their personal relationship.

  Not that they had a personal relationship, she thought wearily as she made her way through the campus buildings towards Dean Walmsley’s office. The only thing that connected them now was the baby.

  She’d had no word from Raif in the last week, which she should have been glad about. He must have read her note, realised she would have made him a terrible consort and decided not to contact her again until after the baby was born.

  So why was she so disappointed? She didn’t want to have another confrontation with him on the question of marriage. But at the same time she couldn’t ignore the deep well of sadness, the yearning in the last week every time she woke in her single bed after another night spent dreaming about him and missed that leaping joy when she had woken up on the Saturday morning to find his arms around her.

  Perhaps it was simply that, despite their terrible row, she knew Raif, for all his cynicism about love, was not an insensitive man—because of the dreadful cruelties he had suffered as a child, not in spite of them.

  Regret tightened her throat.

  It’s just the pregnancy hormones, Kaz, messing with you again. Even if you could have loved Raif, he could never have loved you back.

  He had spent his whole life guarding against making himself vulnerable. And without vulnerability how could you have love? No matter how sensitive or intelligent he could be—the heat glowed in her stomach—or how attuned to he was to her sexual needs.

  She trudged up the stairs of the red-brick building that housed the Dean’s office.

  It’s a good thing he has seen reason—not a bad thing for you and your baby. Stop second-guessing yourself.

  They would reach an accord together once the child was born, but to do that without enmity or anger, they needed a break now, which was precisely why she had asked that of him in her note. That he had respected her decision was a positive sign. He was not intractable, not averse to seeing reason.

  She wanted very much for her son or daughter to know its father, to have a relationship with him and for him to have a relationship with his child. For that to happen, they needed to be able to negotiate with each other in good faith without the spectre of past hurts, past wrongs rearing their heads. To take time out was a good thing. That Raif had seen reason—and hadn’t stalked straight after her—was therefore all good, even if it didn’t feel that good at the moment.

  Of course she felt vulnerable, scared, lonely. She was going to have to bring up her child alone. And find out how to continue her academic career as a single parent. She still hadn’t gained the courage to contact Cat and tell her what was going on.

  She blew out a breath as she reached the top of the stairs and headed down the corridor to Walmsley’s office and the bad news she was sure awaited her about her PhD.

  If only she didn’t feel so tired all the time—the bouts of nausea restricted themselves to the early morning, thank goodness—but the pregnancy, and the difficulty she’d had sleeping since she’d left Raif’s bed, had also taken a heavy toll on her energy. Shifting the books in her arms, she tapped on the door to the Dean’s office. ‘Dean Walmsley, it’s Kasia Salah.’

  ‘Come in, Miss S
alah,’ came the curt response.

  She straightened her spine, hearing the irritation in Walmsley’s tone. Okay, that did not sound promising.

  If the Dean was about to kick her out of the college, she would just have to find another way to get funding. The PhD she wanted to pursue was important to Narabia. And also important to her.

  But the prickle of unease became an explosion as soon as she stepped into the office, and saw the man sitting in front of Walmsley’s desk.

  Raif.

  He stood, his tall frame clad in a designer business suit silhouetted against the sunshine flooding through Walmsley’s window.

  ‘Miss Salah, it’s about time you arrived. Mr Khan and I have been waiting...’ Walmsley began to talk, but his reprimand was drowned out by the pounding in Kasia’s ears.

  Her gaze devoured Raif, the brutal awareness, the painful longing she couldn’t seem to curtail or control only becoming more disturbing as she took in the flare of desire in his dark chocolate eyes and the harsh, unyielding line of his jaw.

  The books in her arms clattered to the floor. But she couldn’t seem to hear that either. All she could hear were the questions in her head peppering her like bullets as she tried to fight her misguided burst of joy at seeing him again.

  Had he come here to demand marriage again? To bully her? To blackmail her? He was an extremely wealthy man—the college depended on donors like him to fund its postgraduate programme—which gave him a power over her career that she hadn’t acknowledged until this moment.

  ‘Miss Salah! What on earth is the matter with you?’ Walmsley’s horrified exclamation didn’t really register either as she stumbled back, unable to take her eyes off Raif as he stepped towards her and bent to scoop up the books she’d dropped.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered as he straightened, his gaze locked on her face. The clean, intoxicating aroma of man and soap suffocated her.

  ‘Mr Khan has come to talk more about the funding initiative,’ Walmsley butted in. ‘I have a lecture to give, so I will leave you two alone,’ the Dean added with a sniff. ‘Make sure you make a better impression this time, Miss Salah,’ he finished, sending her a scathing look as he left the office.

  But somehow she couldn’t seem to engage with the Dean’s censure as the door shut behind him, leaving her alone with Raif.

  ‘Why are you really here?’ she asked again, doubting the funding initiative had anything to do with Raif’s presence in Cambridge.

  ‘You know why, Kasia,’ he said. ‘Did you really believe I would abandon my child so easily?’

  ‘I can’t... I still can’t marry you, Raif, my answer hasn’t changed,’ she said, feeling humiliated by the quiver in her voice.

  He placed the books she had dropped on Walmsley’s desk without replying. Then, to her astonishment, he nodded.

  ‘You do not wish to marry me, because you do not love me? Is this correct?’

  It was the very last thing she had expected him to say. Of course, it wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t marry him. And she wasn’t even sure it was entirely true, because she suspected she was already halfway in love with him. Despite everything. How else could she explain the bone-deep yearning that had gripped her as soon as she had stepped into the office, the needs and wants that went way beyond simple physical desire, or all the dreams she’d had with him as the star player, not just in the last week but also the last month? Or her immediate decision to have this child, which she could now see with complete clarity was not just because she wanted a baby but because this baby was his.

  No, the real stumbling block to a marriage between them wasn’t her feelings, it was his. His refusal to accept that love even existed.

  But as she watched the stark expression on his face, and realised the effort it was taking him to be reasonable, not to simply repeat the demands he had made a week ago, the foolish bubble of hope pressed against her larynx.

  Surely no one’s emotions were ever set in stone, even those of a man like Raif—who had spent years protecting himself from weakness, because of the appalling way he had been treated by his own father.

  If she was already half in love with him, didn’t she owe it to herself and their child to at least give him a chance, give them both a chance to find a compromise?

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘That’s part of the reason.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could love me if you got to know me better. And we could be married, is this not also correct?’

  But it’s not just about me loving you, Raif.

  The qualification screamed inside her head, but she could see the flicker of wariness he was trying to hide. And she couldn’t bring herself to challenge his interpretation of the obstacles to their marriage. Not yet.

  This was a man who had never known love, had persuaded himself he didn’t need it or want it. That it didn’t even exist. At least not for him. And because of the terrible things he had confided in her, she knew why he felt that way. But still he was here willing to talk about it to her. Willing to take her needs seriously.

  Yes, she would have a mountain to climb to persuade him he did need love in his life. And she didn’t want to put herself in the position of trying to make him love her, because that way could only lead to heartache. She knew how painful and pointless such an endeavour was because she had blamed herself for her mother’s absence. She had finally grown up enough to realise her love could never have been enough to make her mother stay—that she couldn’t hold herself responsible for her mother’s choices.

  But what choice had Raif ever had to understand and embrace the importance of love if no one had ever loved him unconditionally? Perhaps he would never have the ability to do that with her, but she wanted so much for him to be able to find that with their child. Surely as long as she protected her own heart, there was nothing to be afraid of, or not much.

  She let the bubble of hope expand in her throat. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

  ‘Then I have a suggestion,’ he said.

  Anticipation leapt under her breastbone.

  ‘I have important business to attend to in Paris and New York over the next three weeks,’ he began as he planted his hands in his pockets and turned back towards the sunlight, breaking eye contact as he spoke. His devastatingly handsome profile made her heartbeat accelerate.

  Not fair.

  ‘Business I cannot ignore and that was neglected while I was recovering at the Golden Palace.’ He mentioned his illness with pragmatism, making her sure he hadn’t intended to make her feel guilty, but she felt the pang nonetheless. ‘But there will be some free time between meetings when we can spend time together...’ He turned, the desire in his eyes intensifying as his gaze fixed on her face, direct and dogmatic and as overwhelming as always.

  She ought to be wary of his request. Spending three weeks with this man had the potential to seriously endanger her heart. But then his Adam’s apple bobbed.

  He was nervous, or at least apprehensive, about her answer and trying extremely hard not to show it.

  It was the first time she’d ever been able to read him, the first time she’d seen a crack in the wall of confidence he presented to the world.

  The bubble of hope swelled to the size of a hot-air balloon in her chest.

  This was progress. Maybe it was only baby steps, but still it felt important and exhilarating in a way she would never have believed possible. And it felt like enough, for now.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ he asked, his tone curt. But the edge of uncertainty made the hot-air balloon bob under her breastbone.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, fighting her own fears to give them both a chance.

  ‘Good.’ He whipped his hands out of his pockets, cradled her cheeks between rough palms and captured her lips with his.

  The kiss was deep, hungry and demanding. His tongue explored the recesses of her
mouth, commanding her response—which rioted through her body on a wave of emotions she couldn’t even begin to control.

  But when they finally parted, the line of his jaw had softened, and along with the hunger, the satisfaction, the cast-iron confidence she could see the flicker of relief, and it was enough to steer the hot-air balloon full of hope towards her heart.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  KASIA SIGHED AS she stepped onto the balcony of the Parisian hotel’s penthouse suite. The Eiffel Tower seemed close enough to touch, its elegant steel beams lit by a million tiny lights in the sunset, while it watched over the warren of streets like a benevolent giant.

  ‘Wow.’ She spun round as Raif joined her on the terrace, having just tipped the battalion of porters who had brought up their luggage. ‘This view is incredible.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve.’ He wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her back against his body. His lips found the rapidly beating pulse in her neck—the pulse that hadn’t stopped fluttering since he’d arrived at her hall of residence in a chauffeur-driven car three hours ago. The pulse that had been going a little haywire ever since: when he’d escorted her aboard the Kholadi Corporation’s private jet; when they’d been picked up by another chauffeur-driven car at Orly Airport; when he’d pointed out the cluster of iconic landmarks they’d passed on the drive through the Eighth Arrondissement to their hotel.

  She had sighed over the elegance of the Élysée Palace, gawped at the splendour of the Grand Palais, fed her passion for people watching as they’d cruised down the Champs-Élysées and almost got a crick in her neck as they’d passed the Arc de Triomphe. She’d never been to Paris before, had never really been outside Cambridge during her five years in Europe, having been far too focused on her studies.

  But her elevated pulse as she took in the magnificence of the City of Light for the first time had more to do with the man beside her and the thought of spending three whole weeks in his company.

  She had made a decision the day before, after they had parted in Walmsley’s office and he had contacted her later that day with details of their trip, that she would embrace the chance he was giving her to get to know him. He wanted this trip to end in marriage, she understood that. And she had no doubt at all that he would pull out all the stops to make that happen.