Captivated by the Sheikh: For the Sheikh's Pleasure / In the Sheikh's Arms / Sheikh Surgeon

Chapter Two

THE afternoons? Rosalie blinked. Surely she was hearing things.

But, looking up into those lustrous eyes, she doubted it. The devil was there, lurking in the darkness and tempting her to do something stupid like say yes.

But yes to what?

It couldn’t be what she thought. Could it?

‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

‘I will give up my mornings until you have finished your painting if, in exchange, you spend the afternoons with me.’

Simple, his bland expression seemed to say, but his eyes told another story. Their brilliant glitter was too avid, almost hungry.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, edging away a fraction. Who was this man? Suddenly her sense of being crowded by him and his horses took on another, more sinister air. A chill shivered down Rosalie’s spine as memories of the past she’d worked so hard to forget flooded back. The hairs on her arms rose and her mouth dried.

Her fear was intense, immediate and completely unstoppable.

His gaze bored into hers for a long moment, as if he knew what was going on in her mind. She saw his straight brows lift a fraction, his nostrils widen as if in surprise, and then the horses were moving away, parting to leave her standing alone. Without their warm bodies so close, the sea breeze seemed suddenly cool and she shivered.

‘It’s straightforward enough,’ he said as he wheeled the mares round to face her. His voice dropped to a reassuring burr. She assumed it was reassurance she felt—that unfurling heat in her belly that welled and spread as he spoke. It couldn’t be anything else.

‘I’m recuperating from an injury and tired of my own company. Now I’m mobile again but under doctor’s orders not to travel, while I do some physiotherapy and they check my recovery is complete.’ He shrugged and the movement of those wide shoulders seemed unutterably weary, bored even. ‘A few hours of company would take my mind off all the things I want to do but can’t.’

Somehow she doubted he was a man who had to ask a stranger for companionship. Even now, her nerves still jangling from the adrenaline rush of tension, she felt the impact of his attraction. He radiated power and strength and something potently male. Something that made her aware of a small, hollow, yearning ache deep inside.

‘I’m sure you have friends who—’

‘But that’s the problem,’ he murmured. ‘In my arrogance, my impatience to put all this behind me, I warned them off visiting until I was better.’ His lips curled up in a rueful smile that made him look younger, more approachable. ‘Call me proud, but I didn’t want sympathy while I limped about.’

‘Still, I don’t think I—’

‘I’m quite respectable,’ he assured her. And the glint of strong white teeth in that beautiful aristocratic face told her he didn’t usually have to vouch for his respectability. ‘My name is Arik Kareem Ben Hassan. My home is here.’ He gestured to the fortress hugging the cliff behind him.

Rosalie felt her eyes widen. He lived in that massive castle? Somehow she’d thought it must be a museum or national treasure or something. Not a house.

His easy assurance, his air of authority, and the way he handled those purebred horses, as if born to the saddle, made her suspect he wasn’t a servant. And he spoke English so fluently he must have spent a lot of time overseas. So did he own the place?

‘You can ask about me at your hotel if you wish. Everyone knows me—mention the Sheikh Ben Hassan.’

Rosalie’s eyebrows shot up. A sheikh! Impossible that there could be two such stunning men, both with the same title, here in Q’aroum.

‘But I thought the royal prince was the Sheikh.’ Certainly that was how her brother-in-law was addressed, though to her he had always just been Rafiq, the gorgeous man who’d swept her sister, Belle, right off her feet.

The man before her shook his head. ‘The prince is our head of state but each tribe has its own sheikh. My people live in the easternmost islands of Q’aroum and I am their leader.’

He sent her a dazzling smile that made her insides roll over. ‘Don’t worry.’ Even from here she could see the mischief dancing in his eyes. ‘Contrary to popular fiction, and despite the temptation, we do not make a habit of kidnapping beautiful blonde strangers for our harems. Not any more.’

Rosalie opened her mouth to ask if that had ever, really, been the custom, then realised she already knew the answer. This island nation was rife with exotic tales of plunder and piracy. Its famed wealth had grown centuries ago from rapacious attacks on passing ships. The Q’aroumis had long ago earned a reputation as fierce warriors who conversely had an appreciation of not only wealth but beauty. As a result their booty had, if legend were to be believed, included beautiful women as well as riches.

‘But you have me at a disadvantage,’ he continued. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s Rosalie. Rosalie Winters.’ She felt gauche standing here, hands clasped together as she lifted her chin to look up at the superb man controlling those fidgety horses with such lazy, yet ruthless grace.

Of course he had no ulterior motive in wanting her company. A man with his looks and, no doubt, wealth, wouldn’t be interested in a very ordinary Australian tourist. He was bored, that was all, and no doubt intrigued to find someone on his beach.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosalie.’ His voice was deep and smooth, rippling across her skin and warming her deep inside. ‘You must call me Arik.’

‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head and stretched her lips into a tense smile, panicked by the thrill of pleasure coursing through her, the impact of his smooth velvety voice.

‘I look forward to our afternoons together,’ he said and Rosalie’s breath caught as his smile disappeared and his hooded eyelids lowered just a fraction. Her instant impression was of brooding, waiting sensuality. It should repel her—she knew it should—but somehow this man’s casually harnessed male power and potent sexuality intrigued her.

She shook her head. Impossible. She’d learned her lesson well. Men and their desires were never to be trusted. She’d come to her senses as soon as he left.

‘I’m sorry but—’

‘You do not wish to spend time with me?’ He sounded astonished, as if he’d never before encountered a refusal. His eyebrows rose in disbelief.

It would do him good to realise he couldn’t smooth talk every woman he met.

‘Thank you for the offer,’ she said, conscious of the need not to offend, ‘but I wouldn’t feel comfortable alone with a man I didn’t know.’ That much was the truth. No need to explain that it was his potent maleness, combined with the gleam of appreciation she’d recognised in his eyes, that guaranteed she could never let herself trust him.

His brows levelled as he stared at her. His scrutiny was so intense she could swear it burned across her skin, invoking an embarrassed blush up her throat. She felt vulnerable, as if he saw too much of her fears and insecurities, as if his scrutiny stripped away layer upon layer of the self-protective armour she’d forged for herself.

‘You have my word, Rosalie, that I would never force my attentions where they were not wanted.’ He drew himself straighter on his mount, every line of his lean, powerful body and every muscle in his face rigid with outraged pride. His strong hands, so relaxed a moment ago, clenched hard on the reins and his horse danced sideways, rolling its eyes as if it sensed its master’s displeasure.

Despite herself, Rosalie felt her blush intensify to a burning vivid crimson, flooding up and over her cheeks. But she stood her ground and met his haughty stare.

‘I appreciate your assurance,’ she said, consciously avoiding the use of his name and the intimacy that implied. ‘And I apologise if I’ve offended you, but—’

‘But you are right to be cautious with men you do not know.’ He nodded and some of the tension left his face. His lips curved in a rueful smile. Once again she felt that throb of awareness between them. Unwanted but only too real.

What was happening to her? He was a chance-met stranger. Despite his good looks and his sex appeal, he should mean nothing to her.

‘I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, but I have to admit I would appreciate your company. I’m obviously a bad patient, not cut out for solitude and quiet recovery.’ Again that shrug of wide shoulders. ‘We could perhaps visit some of the local sights, if that would ease your mind. There are always plenty of people about in the marketplace and the old city. We need not be alone.’

Now she really did feel awkward, as if she’d overreacted to the most innocent of requests.

‘And,’ he added with slow deliberation, ‘the pleasure of your presence would count as suitable recompense for my assistance to your art.’

The sting in the tail, Rosalie realised, watching his shrewd eyes narrow assessingly.

She hesitated, bent and picked up her bulging canvas bag to give herself time to collect her thoughts. This man made her nervous, her damp palms and roiling stomach were testament to that. Yet the trembling sensation still tingling down her backbone in response to his last smile was proof of something more dangerous. Interest, awareness, excitement. That was what really worried her. The fear of the unknown.

On the other hand, there was her painting. The thrill of creative energy she’d experienced this morning was addictive, intoxicating. It promised something wonderful. She’d give almost anything to be able to work again. Maybe this painting would be the key she needed to resume her art. A key that she’d thought gone for ever. How could she pass that up? It could be her last chance to regain something of what she’d lost.

She drew a slow breath and met his eyes. ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate seeing more of the island with someone who knows it so well.’

Simple, easy—she hadn’t committed to anything dangerous. So why did she feel as if she’d just taken a step into the fraught unknown?

His smile was a blinding flash that stalled her breath in her throat.

‘Thank you, Rosalie.’ Her name on his lips sounded different: exotic and intriguing. ‘And I promise that I will never do anything that you do not like. You have only to say the word if you object to something.’

Rosalie stared up at his satisfied expression, his relaxed pose, and wondered if she’d done the right thing. He looked too…smug, as if he’d got more out of the bargain than she suspected.

That had to be her perennially suspicious mind. She’d conditioned herself to be wary. Now she’d forgotten how to take people at face value. Perhaps this was her chance to rectify the balance, relax a little on her holiday and learn not to freeze up when she was with a man.

‘Thank you…Arik. I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning.’

Arik watched her turn and walk away, barefoot along the damp sand.

The sound of her soft voice saying his name, the sight of her lush mouth forming the word, had pulled the muscles tight in his belly. He felt a gnawing ache there, a greedy hunger that had grown in intensity once he’d come close enough to see her properly.

From a distance Rosalie Winters had been desirable, tempting and intriguing. Close up she was stunning.

Her eyes were wide and surprisingly innocent, more alluring than those of most women he met, with their consciously seductive glances that invited flirtation. Her skin looked soft as a petal, making him eager to experience it for himself. Her heart-shaped face, her perfect pink bow of a mouth and her rose gold hair, like gilt with the hint of a blush, were all superb.

Yet there was something else at the core of her attractiveness. Not her air of vulnerability—that had been a surprise and it had evoked in him a sudden surge of protectiveness so strong he’d wondered if he should shelve his plan completely. Turn around and leave her.

But he wasn’t into self-denial.

Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t immediately tried to pursue him. He’d had women chasing after him since he’d reached puberty. He had to do no more than indicate his interest to have whatever woman he wanted. Even the discovery that he was a sheikh, a leader of his people, had failed to arouse anything more than mild curiosity in her. That news had, in the past, led to some women becoming almost embarrassingly fascinated. They were so busy fantasising about his sex life they had no concept of his real life: his responsibilities and his manic work schedule.

Not that he objected to the right woman taking an interest in his sex life.

At the moment Rosalie Winters was the right woman.

She was a new phenomenon: gorgeous, naturally seductive, but with no apparent awareness of her own devastating sex appeal. That air of innocence was incredibly alluring, even to a man who’d never been interested in deflowering virgins. For a moment he’d almost believed she’d never been with a man—till he read the knowledge, the wariness in her eyes. They told him she’d known at least one man far too well and had been disillusioned by the experience. Her caution had even, for an instant, verged on fear. And, with that realisation, searing pain had stabbed through him.

Who was she? How had she got under his skin so completely? And why did he feel that seducing her would be an unforgettable experience?

Arik was determined to uncover her secrets, would delight in discovering what went on in her mind almost as much as he’d enjoy possessing her sleek, ripe body.

She was a challenge unlike any he’d met. Already his blood ran hot in expectation of gratification to come. He would make her burn for him too, sigh out her desire for him, her need for fulfilment that only he could provide.

He watched her disappear round the rocks at the end of the beach. Not once had she glanced back. As if she’d known he sat here, watching her, anticipating tomorrow with barely concealed impatience.

He thought of his promise to her: not to do anything she didn’t like. He grinned. Of course she’d enjoy what he had in mind. He was no untried youth, nor a selfish hedonist seeking nothing but his own release. He was a man who fully appreciated the pleasure a woman’s satisfaction could bring. Whose lovers never had complaints about his ability to arouse and satisfy.

No, despite her caution, he was sure Rosalie Winters would never say the word that would prevent them both enjoying the ultimate pleasure together.

Rosalie paused at the headland. It marked the end of all that was safe. The point of no return. Far behind her lay the town, still slumbering in the dawn light.

Ahead lay the private cove with its ancient fort, and danger. She felt it in her bones. But what sort of danger? Yesterday she’d surely overreacted, overwhelmed by her excitement to be painting again and by her response to him.

She drew a deep breath. Did she really want to do this? All yesterday afternoon, while she was busy with Amy, her thoughts had returned to the man she’d met beyond this next headland: Arik Ben Hassan, and his invitation. He was a man unlike any she’d ever met.

Unbidden, a curl of excitement twisted low in her belly. The same sensation that had teased her all yesterday, reminding her that, despite the way she chose to live her life, and the needs she’d so long suppressed, she was, above all, a woman. With a woman’s weakness for a man who epitomised male power, strength and beauty.

That had to explain her restless night. The disturbing dreams that had her tossing in her sleep. She’d awoken time and again to find her heart pounding and her temperature soaring.

The first time she’d put it down to stress. Her mother and Amy had left for the capital that afternoon to stay with Rosalie’s sister, Belle, and her family. Originally Rosalie had planned to go too. She’d never spent the night away from Amy, not since her daughter was born, and the wrench had been just as hard as she’d expected. Not that Amy had been fazed—she’d been too busy looking forward to visiting the palace again and seeing her baby cousin.

It was Rosalie’s mum who’d convinced her to stay. Maggie Winters had been thrilled to discover her daughter had taken her art supplies out during the early hours while Amy slept. She’d insisted Rosalie stay on for a few more days in the house Rafiq had arranged. The time alone would do her good, she’d insisted. Rosalie had never had a break from the demands of single parenthood. She needed time to herself and it would be good for Amy too, experiencing something different for a few days.

Her mother had been so insistent, but more, so upset when she’d planned to leave the island, Rosalie hadn’t had the heart to persist. After all, she owed her mum so much. She was her rock.

Rosalie shuddered, recalling that day over three years ago when she’d stumbled from a taxi into her mother’s outstretched arms. She’d been falling apart, shaking and nauseous, barely coherent in the aftermath of shock, but her mum had taken it all in her stride, not even pressing for details till Rosalie was ready to talk. And then it had spilled out—the Friday night date, the crowded party, the spiked drink and Rosalie waking in a strange bed to the realisation she’d been assaulted. Raped.

Even now the memory made her feel ill.

She knew it was her mum’s loving support that had given her the courage to put the past behind her and create a new life for herself. Especially since her new life included Amy, legacy of that disastrous night.

Yet, despite the progress she’d made, the wonderful fulfilment of motherhood and her determination not to look back, she knew her mum secretly fretted over her.

Was it any wonder Rosalie hadn’t admitted that her attempts to rekindle her artistic skills were an abysmal failure?

Until yesterday, that was. It had all come together then, the sure light touch that had been her trademark in the days when she’d dreamed of making a name for herself as an artist.

Even then she’d been tempted to turn her back on what could be a false promise. Far safer to travel with her family to Q’aroum’s capital than take a chance on the unknown. Who knew whether she really could paint?

And was she up to dealing with a man like Arik Ben Hassan? A man who probably had the world at his feet and who on a whim had decided he wanted her company. Given her background, she was the last person to keep him amused with casual small talk and witty observations, if that was what he expected.

He hadn’t a clue about her. And that was the way she preferred it. Especially since he’d invaded her thoughts, even her dreams, in the twenty-four hours since she’d met him. He was dangerous to her peace of mind. To the delicate balance of her life.

But he was the key to her art. At least for now, until she worked out whether yesterday had been a fluke or a new start.

She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and made herself walk on.

He came to her like a prince out of a fairy tale—strong, silent and commanding. The epitome of maidenly longings, Rosalie decided, trying to make herself smile to unwind the tension coiling tight in her chest.

It didn’t work.

The sight of him: tall and devastatingly attractive, this time in lightweight beige trousers and another white shirt, weakened her knees. Closer he came, the muffled thud of hooves a vibration on the sand more than a sound. The wind caught his shirt and dragged it back, outlining the lean strength of his torso and wide, straight shoulders. The gleam of dawn gilded his face, throwing one side into deep shadow that accentuated the remarkable angles of his face, drawing the eye to those stunning cheekbones and the severe angle of his jaw.

Rosalie swallowed hard, then reached for the water she’d brought. She was parched, her mouth dried by the sight of him and by the sudden longing she experienced. A yearning that was strange and new and appalling.

This was a mistake. A disastrous mistake. But it was too late to leave. He’d seen her the moment he’d ridden down on to the beach. And she had too much pride to turn tail now and leave him wondering why she was scared of him. Especially when she didn’t know the answer to that herself.

‘Saba’a alkair, Rosalie.’ His face was gravely courteous as he inclined his head, his voice the deeply seductive tone she remembered from her dream. She shivered.

‘Saba’a alkair.’

‘Your pronunciation is excellent.’

‘Thank you.’ No need to tell him she’d learned her few words of Arabic from her brother-in-law, another local and a man of immense patience with her faltering efforts.

‘You slept well?’ His scrutiny was intense, sweeping over her like a touch, so the blood heated beneath her skin.

‘Thank you, I did,’ she lied. ‘Only one horse today?’ She was eager to change the subject.

He shrugged, drawing her attention once more to the spare power of his torso. She wished she could look away.

‘I thought one would be enough for your purposes. But if you want—’

‘No, no. That’s fine.’ It was the magic between rider and mount that she wanted to capture. She turned away, as if to busy herself with her gear, but a sudden movement made her turn back. It was him, Arik, swinging his leg over the horse and dismounting.

‘What are you doing?’ The words were out before she could stop them. She heard her squeak of horror echo even now as the silence reverberated between them.

His eyebrows tilted up as he looped the reins in his hand. ‘I thought that was obvious,’ he said and took a single long step closer.