Claimed for the Desert Prince's Heir Read online

  He flinched, shame making him tense as he ruthlessly controlled the insistent shaft of heat, which had only become more insistent in the last few weeks.

  What kind of a bastard was he that he could lust after his wife when she was nursing their child? And had spent so many agonising hours in labour a scant three months ago?

  ‘Let me put Amal down,’ he said, needing to do something with his hands. He averted his eyes from the display of soft, tempting flesh as he lifted his daughter from his wife’s arms.

  After rubbing Amal’s back until she gave a satisfying belch, he laid her gently in the crib beside her sister’s—amazed all over again at how small and defenceless his children were.

  One day they would lead the Kholadi, because they were as smart and brave and strong as their mother—but as the pride rippled through him, so did the panic.

  He forced his erratic heartbeat to slow down.

  They were not ready to lead the Kholadi yet, or ride horses like his fearless niece Kaliah, thank goodness. He still had a few years at least before he had to worry about diplomatic incidents or broken necks.

  ‘What time is it?’ Kasia asked from behind him.

  ‘Just after ten,’ he said, keeping his eyes on his daughters until he could slow the blood flowing into his groin.

  ‘Are you returning to the Kholadi camp today?’ she asked.

  ‘No, tomorrow,’ he murmured, listening to the rustle of clothing. Was she undressing? The thought of her naked had a predictable effect, so he strode across the room to stare out of the window at his brother and sister-in-law’s suite of rooms across the courtyard.

  Lunch wouldn’t be served for several hours. Perhaps he could interest his brother in a ride? Or maybe he would go alone. He needed to do something to take his mind off sex, and leave Kasia in peace to catch up on the sleep they’d both lost the night before.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘That gives us two whole hours to enjoy ourselves in the bath I had Ahmed draw for us.’

  He swung round, shocked at the seductive tone of her voice. His eyebrows launched up his forehead, and his jaw went slack as a punch of lust hit him firmly in the crotch.

  She stood virtually naked, her lush body covered only by a diaphanous robe. He could see the dark outline of her erect nipples through the fabric, the curls covering her sex. His shaft stiffened to iron.

  ‘Kasia, what the hell are you doing?’

  * * *

  ‘Seducing my husband. What does it look like?’ Kasia watched her husband’s eyes darken with lust as power, excitement and passion surged through her.

  ‘But you must sleep,’ he said, his voice a croak of barely suppressed agony.

  She knew how he felt. She had recovered from the twins’ birth weeks ago, but he had not touched her since weeks before their birth.

  She had acceded to his request that she have her children in the Golden Palace, instead of at their home on Kholadi land. She had even agreed—after much furious debate—to the compromise of staying in Zane and Cat’s home until the twins were four months old, having finally managed to beat him down from six.

  She wanted to return to her own home with her children and her husband. But she understood how much the birth had taken out of him. He had been beside himself when she had been in labour, the fear in his eyes tangible. But she refused to avoid this issue any longer.

  If she couldn’t return home for another month, she could at least have their sex life back. She was the one who had given birth—not him—and the doctor had given her the all clear a couple of weeks ago. But Raif was scared to touch her. She’d tried to give him time, tried to understand. They were both tired, two beautiful but demanding baby girls didn’t leave much time for them. But surely that was why they needed to seize every moment they could.

  She wasn’t tired now, she was hungry. For Raif.

  She untied the robe Cat had lent her for this seduction, and let the silky see-through material glide off her shoulders.

  His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing and his breathing ragged. The pounding length in his pants became all the more pronounced.

  Holding her shoulders back, she allowed him to look his fill.

  Her body had changed. Her stomach wasn’t as flat, her breasts not quite as firm, her hips more rounded—but the shyness deserted her as his eyes met hers, the hunger she could see in the chocolate depths as raw and potent as her own.

  ‘What’s the matter, Raif? Don’t you like what you see?’ she asked, bold and unashamed.

  ‘You know I do,’ he said, his voice husky with need.

  The passion built, weakening her knees but not her resolve.

  ‘Then perhaps you would like to join me in the bath,’ she said, turning and walking into the adjoining bathing chamber, being sure to sway her hips to give him the best possible view of her backside. She heard him swear in Kholadi and smiled.

  Petals floated on the steaming water that filled the bathing pool. She stepped into the fragrant warmth, loving the feel of the heat and essential oils softening her skin and easing the tension in her muscles.

  She’d been planning this seduction for over a week.

  She heard him enter the room, and channelling Salome as best she could, she scooped up some water and ran it over her breasts.

  A string of curses was accompanied by the sound of clothing being removed in a hurry.

  A loud splash was followed by callused but gentle hands clasping her arms and pulling her round to face him.

  His huge erection butted her belly and she ground against it instinctively.

  ‘You little witch, you know I cannot resist you,’ he said—but she could see the shadow of shame in his eyes, as well as the desperation.

  Cradling his hard, stubbled jaw, she pulled him towards her. ‘Then don’t.’

  But before she could claim the kiss she ached for, he drew back.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘The only way you could hurt me,’ she said, taking pity on him, ‘is to deny us what we both need.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said, his desire finally outstripping the panic and caution.

  Gripping his broad shoulders, she launched herself into his arms, laughing as he caught her hips and she wrapped her legs around his waist. The head of his erection butted against the wet folds of her sex.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, as she sank down, taking him in to the hilt.

  They groaned in unison.

  The glorious feeling of having him back where she needed him spread through her like wildfire. Her heart floated into the cosmos at the thought of all they had achieved together... And the glorious journey still to come.

  ‘Now make love to me like you mean it,’ she said. ‘Before our daughters wake up.’

  He buried his face in her hair, pressed her back against the mosaic tiles of the bath and proceeded to work her eager flesh in sure, solid, overwhelming strokes.

  For once, he was doing exactly what he was told.

  * * *

  If you found yourself head over heels for Claimed for the Desert Prince’s Heir you’ll love these other stories by Heidi Rice!

  Bound by Their Scandalous Baby

  Carrying the Sheikh’s Baby

  Claiming My Untouched Mistress

  Contracted as His Cinderella Bride

  Available now!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Billionaire’s Wife on Paper by Melanie Milburne.

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  Billionaire’s Wife on Paper

  by Melanie Milburne

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAYLA CAMPBELL WAS placing dust sheets on the furniture in the now deserted northern wing of Bellbrae Castle when she heard the sound of a firm footfall on the stairs. Goosebumps peppered her skin like Braille and a cold draught of air circled her ankles like the ghost of a long-dead cat.

  No such things as ghosts. No such things as ghosts.

  Her old childhood chant wasn’t working any better than when she had first come to live in the Scottish Highlands castle as a frightened and lonely twelve-year-old orphan. Taken in by her great-aunt, who had worked as housekeeper for the super-wealthy aristocratic McLaughlin family, Layla had been raised in the kitchen and corridors of the castle. In the early days, downstairs had been her only domain, upstairs out of bounds. And not just because of her limp. Upstairs had been another world—a world in which she did not and could not ever belong.

  ‘Is anyone th-there?’ Her voice echoed in the silence, her heart thumping so loudly she could hear it booming in her ears. Who would be coming up to the north tower at this time of day? Logan, the new heir to the estate, was working abroad in Italy, and last time Layla had heard, Logan’s younger brother Robbie was doing a casino crawl in the US. Fear crept up her spine with ice-cube-clad feet, her breathing coming to a halt when a tall figure materialised out of the shadows.

  ‘Layla?’ Logan McLaughlin said, with a heavy frown. ‘What are you doing up here?’

  Layla clasped her hand against her pounding chest, sure her heart was going to punch its way out of her body and land at his Italian-leather-covered feet. ‘You didn’t half give me a fright. Aunt Elsie told me you wouldn’t be back until November. Aren’t you supposed to be working in Tuscany this month?’

  She hadn’t seen him since his grandfather’s funeral in September. And she figured he hadn’t seen her even then. Layla had tried to offer her condolences a couple of times before and after his grandfather’s service and at the wake, but she’d been busy helping her great-aunt with the catering and Logan had left before she could get a chance to speak to him in private.

  But the upstairs-downstairs thing had always coloured her relationship with the McLaughlins. Logan and his brother and grandfather were landed gentry, privileged from birth, coming from a long line of aristocratic ancestors. Layla’s great-aunt and her, by default, were downstairs. The staff who were meant to stay in the background and go about their work with quiet dedication, not share intimate chit-chats with their employers.

  Layla could never quite forget she was the interloper, the charity case—only living there out of Logan’s grandfather’s pity for a homeless orphan. It made her keep a prickly and prideful rather than polite distance.

  Logan scraped a hand through his hair as if his scalp was feeling too tight for his head. ‘I postponed my trip. I have some business to see to here first.’ His dark blue gaze swept over the dust-sheeted furniture, the crease in his forehead deepening. ‘Why are you doing this? I thought Robbie was going to hire someone to see to it?’

  Layla turned to pick up one of the folded dust sheets, flapping it open and then laying it over a mahogany table with cabriole legs. Hundreds of disturbed dust motes rose in the air in a galaxy of activity. ‘He did see to it—by hiring me. Not that I want to be paid or anything.’ She leaned down to tuck the edge of the dust sheet closer around the legs of the table and flicked him a glance. ‘You do realise this is my job now? Cleaning, sorting, organising. I have a small team of people working for me and all. Didn’t your grandfather tell you? He gave me a loan to get my business started.’

  One brow came up in a perfect arc. ‘A loan?’ There was a note of surprise—or was it cynicism?—in his tone.

  Layla pursed her lips and planted her hands on her hips like she was channelling a starchy nineteenth-century governess. ‘A loan I paid back, with interest.’ What did he think she was? An elder abuser? Exploiting an old man dying of cancer with requests for money she had no intention of paying back? She might share the genes of people like that but she didn’t share their morals. ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to the loan otherwise.’

  His navy-blue eyes narrowed. ‘Seriously? He offered you a loan?’

  Layla moved past him to pack up her cleaning basket. ‘For your information, I have never taken your grandfather’s largesse for granted.’

  Feather duster. Tick. Soft polishing cloths. Tick.

  ‘He allowed me to live here with my great-aunt rent-free and for that I will be grateful for ever.’

  She shoved the furniture polish bottle in amongst the other cleaning products in her basket. She had become closer to the old man in his last months of life, coming to understand the gruff exterior of a proud man who had done his best to keep his family together after repeated tragedy.

  Logan let out a long breath, still frowning like he didn’t know any other way to look at her. Story of her life. One look at her scarred leg and her limp and that’s what most people did—frowned. Or asked intrusive questions she refused on principle to answer. Layla never talked about what had happened to her leg, not in any detail that is. ‘A car crash’ was her stripped-down answer. She never said who was driving or why they were driving the way they were, or who else had been injured or killed.

  Who wanted to be reminded of the day that had changed her life for ever?

  ‘Why didn’t he just give you the money?’ Logan asked.

  Layla’s old friend pride steeled her gaze and tightened her mouth. ‘Oh, you mean because he felt sorry for me?’

  Logan’s covert glance at her left leg told her all she needed to know. Just like everyone else, he saw her damaged leg first and her later—if at all. Layla was fiercely proud of how she had made something of herself in spite of impossible odds. She didn’t want to be seen as the orphaned girl with the limp, but the gutsy woman with gumption, drive, ambition and resourcefulness.

  ‘No.’ His tone was weighted. ‘Because he was a wealthy man and you’re practically family.’ He moved away to look at some of the boxes she’d packed earlier. He peeled back the cardboard flaps of one box and took out a leather-bound book, fanning through the pages, his features set in lines of deep thought.

  Practically family? Was that how he saw her? As a surrogate sister or distant cousin? At six feet four with a lean and rangy build, dark brown loosely styled wavy hair, a chiselled Lord Byron jaw and deep blue eyes the colour of a Highland tarn, it would be a crying waste if Logan McLaughlin were her brother or cousin.

  It was a crying waste to women the world over that he hadn’t dated since the tragic death of his fiancée Susannah.

  Not that he would ever date Layla. No one had ever dated her...well, not since she was a teenager. And she deliberately tried not to think of that one and only date and the excruciating embarrassment it had entailed. From that day on, she had decided her career plans would always be more important. More important than trying to go to parties or nightclubs in short dresses and heels that drew even more attention to her leg. More important than being told by a guy she wasn’t good enough. Could never be good enough.

  Logan closed the book with a little snap and placed it back on top of the others. He turned to look at her.

  Yep, with a frown.

  ‘Where will you and your aunt go if this place is sold?’

  Layla’s eyes widened and her chest developed a tight, can’t-take-another-breath ache. ‘Sold? You’re selling Bellbrae?’ She could think of no bigger tragedy...well, she could because she’d lived through one big hell of a tragedy, but still. Selling B
ellbrae was way up there on the list. Who would she be without the shelter of Bellbrae watching over her? Her identity had been formed here, her sense of security and safety honed within the fortress-like walls of the centuries-old castle. ‘How could you do that, Logan? Your grandfather left it to you as his eldest male heir. Your dad is buried here along with your grandparents and generations of ancestors. You surely don’t need to sell it for the money?’

  His expression went as blank as one of the dust sheets on the furniture, but his tone was jaded. ‘It’s not about money. I am unwilling to fulfil the terms of my grandfather’s will.’

  Layla frowned like she was in competition with him for Best Frown in Show. ‘Terms? What terms?’

  He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and moved to look out of one of the mullioned windows, his back turned to her. Layla could see the tension in his shoulders even through his clothes. The breadth of his shoulders had always secretly fascinated her.

  She had often seen him rowing and swimming in summer on the lake on the Bellbrae estate when he’d come home to visit. Tall and lean-hipped with abdomen muscles ridged with strength and endurance, she had been fascinated by his athleticism as it had been in such stark contrast to her young broken body. And when he’d brought Susannah home for visits, Layla had watched them both. Susannah had been supermodel stunning, slim and glamourous. Never had Layla seen two people more perfect for each other or more devotedly in love. It had set a benchmark for her to aspire to. An impossible benchmark perhaps, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

  Logan turned to look at her, his jaw set in a taut line. ‘Unless I marry within three months, the entire estate will pass to Robbie.’

  Layla licked her carpet-dry lips, her heart suddenly flapping like a loose window shutter in a stiff Highland breeze. ‘Oh...’

  He drew in a breath and released it in a gust of frustration. ‘Yes. Oh. And we both know what he will do when he gets his hands on this place.’

  Layla couldn’t allow her mind to even go there. No two brothers could ever be more disparate. Logan was the strong, silent type—hard-working and responsible. Robbie was a loud party boy with a streak of recklessness who had already brought shame on the family too many times to count. ‘You think he’d sell it?’