Claimed for the Desert Prince's Heir Page 7

Raif had been seriously ill for three weeks because of her. He’d only just recovered. How would she ever forgive herself?

  Guilt and nausea roiled in her stomach, making the fatigue that had been dragging her down for a week weigh on her shoulders like a slab of concrete.

  Placing the letter in the top drawer of the desk, she fished out the cardboard box she’d bought from the chemist’s yesterday.

  She turned the pregnancy testing kit over in her hands and read the instructions. Again.

  She couldn’t put it off any longer. Cat’s letter and the devastating news about Raif’s illness and recovery was a sign. A sign she had to start taking responsibility for her actions. She was convinced her symptoms were psychosomatic—even though he hadn’t pulled out during their lovemaking, she had been at the very beginning of her cycle. And her period was only two days overdue, which wasn’t that unusual for her.

  This obsession with her so-called symptoms—the mild nausea, the tender breasts, the emotional roller-coaster, the bone-deep fatigue that had hit every evening for a week—was some weird psychological hangover from her time in the desert, which she hadn’t been able to get out of her head.

  Every night she dreamed of him. Not just the vivid erotic dreams that woke her up sweaty and unfulfilled, her skin prickling with sensation, her heart thundering, her clitoris slick and swollen from the far-too-real memory of his tongue stroking her to orgasm. But also the much more unsettling visions of him when they had ridden together through the storm, when he’d cried out in his sleep and the harsh frown of disbelief on his face as she’d galloped away from him.

  And now Cat’s letter had made all those symptoms that much more pronounced.

  Something had happened to her at the oasis, something profound and life-changing that went beyond the sex. Something she wasn’t going to be able to come to terms with until she made absolutely sure, once and for all, that she wasn’t pregnant with Raif Kasim Ali Kholadi Khan’s child.

  Emotion caused a lump to form in her throat as she walked into the small en suite bathroom of her room in the hall of residence.

  After unwrapping the test stick, it took her several agonising minutes to manage to pee on it. She placed it on the vanity unit and washed her hands, then sat on the toilet seat and set the stopwatch on her smartphone to the required two minutes to get the result.

  Which turned in to the longest two minutes of her entire life.

  The questions she didn’t want to answer that were roaring around in her head were almost as deafening as the sandstorm she and Raif had survived all those weeks ago.

  She should have done this yesterday when she’d bought the test. Why hadn’t she? Was it because she didn’t want to have a pregnancy confirmed, or the much more disturbing thought that she did? Why would she want to be pregnant by a man she barely knew? A man who appeared to comprehensively lack the sensibilities she had always dreamed of finding in a life partner? Was she really that needy and lonely and insecure that she yearned to have a child, whatever the circumstances of its birth?

  But the combination of anticipation and dread tangling with the nausea in her stomach didn’t feel as if it was just a result of her long-held desire that one day she wanted to be a mother. No, these complex urges were not generic or anonymous, but intrinsically linked to Raif and the intense time they had shared together, every single moment of which she kept reliving.

  Her phone buzzed and she shrieked.

  Okay, it’s official—you are actually going insane.

  But when she looked at the stopwatch she realised her two minutes weren’t up yet. Instead, a message had appeared on the phone screen from the sponsorship team at Devereaux College. She frowned as she read the message.

  Ms Salah,

  We’ve received a request that you attend a black-tie reception tonight in London at eight p.m.

  The guest of honour Mr R Khan—a billionaire businessman from your home region, I understand—is thinking of funding a scholarship programme at Devereaux. We would very much appreciate it if you would agree to attend this event so that you can discuss your current research with him. We are hopeful that a scholarship programme of this nature, if agreed, will help fund your PhD.

  A car will be made available to transport you to London.

  Regards

  Alice Evershot

  Devereaux Scholarship Team

  The request was not at all what she needed right now. But she would have to attend the event tonight and make a good impression—any chance of getting her PhD funded was not something she could afford to pass up.

  But when the alarm on her phone buzzed again, making her jump, she realised Alice Evershot’s request had managed to take her mind off Raif and that one seminal night in the desert for ten full seconds—a record for the last month.

  Drawing a breath into her lungs, she reached for the test stick, finally ready to face what the rest of her life might hold.

  The breath was released in a shattered gasp as she read the result.

  CHAPTER TEN

  KASIA RE-READ HER notes as the car drew into the forecourt of a landmark hotel on London’s Strand.

  She stuffed the creased pages into her clutch bag and stared up at the silver-plated sign on the hotel’s Art Deco frontage.

  She was no stranger to luxury, having lived in the Golden Palace for as long as she could remember before moving to the UK, but—as a uniformed doorman stepped forward to open the heavy glass doors with a flourish and the porter led her through the lobby area resplendent in Edwardian marble and gilt-edged antique furniture—the grandeur took her breath away.

  But, then, she’d been struggling to catch her breath all day, ever since reading the results of the pregnancy test.

  She pressed a hand to her stomach, her palm sliding over the sleek red silk of the cocktail dress she’d found at a second-hand boutique in Cambridge that afternoon.

  She was going to have Prince Kasim’s baby. Raif’s baby.

  Her breath seized all over again as it had so many times since that morning.

  So many uncertainties and challenges awaited her in the weeks and months ahead—and most of them seemed insurmountable at the moment.

  Somehow she would have to tell Cat and Zane that Raif was the mystery tribesman. That his burst appendix was her fault. And eventually she would have to tell the desert prince himself about her pregnancy. He had a right to know he was going to become a father.

  But all the reasons she had run from him and her homeland a month ago still applied. In fact, this development would make them even tougher to negotiate.

  Raif had obviously decided not to pursue marriage once he had recovered, but he might well insist on it again when he discovered she was going to have his child. And how could she expect Cat and Zane to protect her from such a union when they might be conflicted, too? Especially Zane. After all he had insisted on marriage with Cat when she had become pregnant with his child. And Raif was his brother. Where would his loyalties lie? With her—however close she was to the Royal household—or with his own blood?

  Overwhelmed didn’t even begin to describe how she had been feeling about her condition ever since she’d seen the fat red plus sign. But despite all the questions and uncertainties, and the impact her baby would have on her academic career, the one thing she did know was that she wanted this baby. Raif’s baby. Very much.

  She pushed the recurring questions to one side, or tried to, her clutch purse instinctively guarding her belly as the porter directed her through the inlaid silver doors of a lavish ballroom.

  At least she had time to consider her options. Once she’d told Cat, she could talk the situation through with her best friend, figure out how best to break the news to Raif and when. Luckily, having Raif thousands of miles away gave her a buffer zone from having to confront anything before she was ready.

  Right now, a
ll she had to do was absorb the surreal joy at the prospect of becoming a mother in approximately eight months’ time. Something she’d always dreamed of being. Maybe she wouldn’t have planned for it to happen this way, but once she got over the shock—and worked out how and when to tell the father to avoid an all-out war on the Narabian peninsula—she could embrace the awe. Luckily, she’d always been a positive, self-sufficient person who knew how to think on her feet—or she would be, once she got over the feeling that the rug had just been pulled out from under said feet.

  As she stepped into the crowd of elegantly dressed guests—the men in tuxedos and most of the women in ballgowns—she recited her speech again in her head while searching for the Devereaux College representative she had been told would be there to introduce her to the potential donor.

  She walked through the room, faking confidence. With her wild hair tamed and curled after an hour spent with her trusty curling irons, the high heels she’d borrowed from another post-grad student and her newish dress, at least she knew she looked good.

  She took a moment to calm her erratic heartbeat. She needed to remember the speech she’d worked on to charm the billionaire donor she wanted to impress. Securing funding for her PhD was very important now, or her future—and her baby’s future—would be even more insecure.

  French doors lined one side of the high-ceilinged hall, affording the guests a stunning vista of the Thames at twilight. Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament were spotlighted from the balcony at the far end, while the London Eye lit up the Georgian splendour of the old County Hall building across the water.

  The clink of glasses and the hum of polite conversation covered the delicacy of a Brahms concerto being played by a string quartet in one corner while discreet wait staff passed around gold trays of canapés and vintage Champagne.

  The scene really was breathtaking. Who knew there was this much money—and glamour—in university funding initiatives?

  ‘Miss Salah? You made it.’ The familiar face of one of Alice Evershot’s assistants popped up beside her.

  ‘Yes. Hello, I—’

  ‘Come this way.’ The young man interrupted her attempt at polite introductions to direct her through the crowd. ‘Mr Khan is impatient to meet you and I really don’t want to keep him waiting any longer,’ he said as he moved swiftly through the throng.

  She had to speed up to keep pace with the young man. Her heartbeat became erratic again as they stepped out of the French doors. A man stood at the far end of the balcony alone, in an expertly tailored tuxedo, his tall muscular frame silhouetted against the Houses of Parliament. This was the donor? She’d expected someone much older. Even from behind this man looked young and fit.

  And oddly familiar.

  It’s not Raif. Are you mad? You have to forget about him, at least for tonight.

  Goosebumps ran riot over her skin. Which was strange. It was a warm late-summer evening and there was no breeze to speak of.

  ‘Mr Khan,’ the assistant called from behind her. ‘I have located Ms Salah for you.’

  The music and laughter and the hum of polite conversation was drowned out by the thud of her own heartbeat and the low rumble of the traffic along the Embankment as she walked towards the donor with the assistant at her side.

  Her heels echoed in the night, but her heartbeat became deafening. Even his stance reminded her of Raif. So proud, so arrogant. His close-cropped black hair shone blue in the lights from the reception.

  He hadn’t turned, and she wondered if he was annoyed she had arrived a little late as his stance seemed tense. Not a great start to this schmoozing initiative.

  She swallowed down the strange feeling of unreality as she approached him, but the goosebumps continued to run riot over the bare skin of her arms. And a heavy weight sank low into her abdomen. Hadn’t he heard the assistant?

  ‘Mr Khan, I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said.

  The man turned at last, bringing his face into the light. And dark chocolate eyes bored into her soul.

  Recognition slammed into her and she staggered to a stop.

  A giddy rush of desire followed as she devoured his rugged features, the thick brows drawn into a sharp line, the clean-shaven jaw revealing the tense muscle bunching in his cheek.

  It can’t be him. I’m hallucinating.

  Her hand covered her stomach as if she could shield the child already growing inside her from the shock.

  His shuttered gaze roamed over her, entitled, assured, alight with barely suppressed fury... And undisguised desire.

  Her breath cut off, the weight plunging down to throb and ache in the sweet spot between her thighs. Her already tender breasts squeezed into hard peaks, her nipples thrusting against the satin.

  ‘Raif?’ Her mouth formed the word, while everything inside her rebelled.

  The assistant began to make the introductions but she couldn’t hear a word of what the eager young man was saying. And it seemed neither could Raif, his gaze fixed firmly on her burning face.

  He’s not real. He can’t be. This isn’t happening.

  How could the Desert Prince be standing in front of her, handsome and indomitable and completely at home at an elite high-society reception in the heart of London, his pristine white shirt making his skin look even darker?

  His lips lifted on one side in a sarcastic half-smile, both sensual and brittle. And the memories she had been holding so carefully at bay for four weeks bombarded her all at once.

  ‘Hello, Kasia.’ His rough, accented voice scraped over every one of her nerve endings.

  The assistant stopped talking abruptly, then cleared his throat. ‘Mr Khan, I had no idea you already knew Ms Salah.’

  What are you doing here?

  Her mind screamed. The painful breath left her lungs as she struggled to engage with the evidence of her eyes.

  This was Raif, but not as she had known him. This man was still the Desert Prince, she could feel his strength, his authority, still pulsing under his skin, barely contained. But he looked as comfortable in the tailored suit as he had on an Arabian stallion.

  ‘We have met before,’ he said, stepping closer as he glanced at the assistant. ‘I wish to speak to Ms Salah in private, if that is all right with her,’ he said, his intense gaze challenging her to deny him this intimacy.

  But how could she? He’d nearly died on her account. Racing across a desert to find her when he’d been gravely ill. And he was the father of her child.

  ‘Ms Salah?’ the assistant said, clearly confused now. ‘Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, as sensation rippled over her skin and gathered in her sex, telling her, in case she had ever doubted it, that she still wanted him.

  The assistant left swiftly, probably feeling like the fifth wheel he was, and closed the balcony doors behind him.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked, at last.

  ‘I think you know,’ he said, stepping closer, filling her lungs with the intoxicating scent of him—man and musk and clean pine soap. ‘I deserve answers. And I intend to get them.’

  His chin lifted and she heard voices behind her. A couple had walked out onto the balcony. Her heart bounced into her throat as he swore under his breath at the interruption. ‘It’s like a train station here,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me to my suite?’

  She should say no, she was still in shock from seeing him again, and going to his suite would hardly enhance her reputation. But her body refused to yield, the yearning to be with him again almost painful as she imagined him near death in Narabia.

  She nodded.

  ‘Good,’ he murmured, then captured her hand and marched down the balcony. Entering the ballroom, he hauled her behind him. She had to lengthen her stride to keep up as he made his way through the crowd.

  ‘Mr Khan, Ms Salah, how is the discussion going?
’ The young assistant rushed towards them, blocking their path to the exit.

  ‘Very well,’ Raif replied, impatience rippling through him as he was forced to stop. ‘I am inclined to agree to fund the scholarship initiative,’ he added to the assistant, disconcerting Kasia again.

  Raif was the billionaire donor? Really? But how? And why? The Kholadi were a nomadic tribe, they had no wealth, no riches, their ancient lifestyle and customs based on barter and trade, not money. Or that’s what she had always believed as a teenager.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ the assistant said, his cheeks flushing with pleasure. ‘Can I get you both a drink?’

  Raif tensed, and she could sense his frustration at the assistant’s interruption almost choking him now, but instead of demanding the man get out of their way, he turned to Kasia. ‘Your choice, Ms Salah,’ he murmured. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  The words shot through her, reminding her of another choice he’d given her a month ago. A choice that had ended in the baby now growing inside her.

  Despite his fury with her, his obvious sense of grievance, he was giving her a choice again. A choice she had accused him of denying her all those weeks ago.

  A choice to escape his questions, or face up to this discussion—a discussion she had avoided the last time by running away.

  Gathering her courage, she turned to the assistant. ‘It’s okay, Devon,’ she said. ‘We’re going to go to Mr Khan’s suite to discuss the proposals for the scholarship in more depth.’

  Devon looked delighted. ‘Wonderful. Don’t let me stand in your way, then,’ he said, stepping aside to let them pass. ‘I’ll let Ms Evershot know about your discussion,’ he shouted after them as Raif led her through the crowd.

  But Alice Evershot and the scholarship initiative flew out of Kasia’s mind as Raif marched her out of the ballroom and up a sweeping staircase to the next level. Nodding at two bodyguards, he shoved open a door marked ‘Royal Suite’.

  She found herself in a luxury suite of rooms, the sitting room decorated in cream silk and dark mahogany. The panoramic view of the river from a large terrace beyond the suite was even more spectacular than the one from the ballroom below.