For the Sheikh’s Pleasure

Annie West

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Michael Newton for his contribution to this work

ISBN: 978-0-008-90661-0

FOR THE SHEIKH’S PLEASURE

© 2019 Annie West

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To my friend Vanessa: a talented writer and

a girl who knows the value of best-quality

chocolate. Thanks for the unexpected supply

that powered this story.

I owe you!

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

THERE she was.

Arik adjusted the binoculars a fraction to bring her into clearer focus.

A slow smile stretched his mouth as the early light limned her figure with gold.

Surprising to realise how disappointed he’d been just moments ago, thinking she wouldn’t arrive. She’d become the highlight of each tedious day as she appeared on the beach, a lone, perfect Aphrodite with her long rippling hair, her delicious curves and her air of innocent allure.

Even at a distance of five hundred metres, the sight of her tightened each muscle in his lower body, turned his blood sluggish as his heartbeat slowed to a heavy anticipatory thud.

He lowered the binoculars and scrubbed his hand over his face.

Hell! What had he come to? Six weeks in plaster and he was reduced to playing the voyeur. Maybe he should have accepted one of the offers of feminine companionship he’d received while he recuperated.

But he’d been impatient to get this leg healed. He didn’t want any fawning women around, fussing over him and nurturing false hopes of domestic bliss, staying here in his home. He’d seen the look in Helene’s eyes just a couple of months ago and had known immediately it was time to end their relationship.

A pity. Helene was clever and witty, as well as sleekly seductive and with an appetite for sex he found rare in a woman. Their time together had been stimulating, satisfying and fun. But once she’d started dreaming about happily-ever-after, it was over.

He worked hard and played hard, seeking out women who’d enjoy the fast-paced ride with him. He wasn’t into breaking hearts.

No, what he needed now was a diversion, a short, satisfying affair that would keep his mind off the frustration of being cooped up here.

He lifted the binoculars again and was rewarded with a sight that made him lean forward, elbows braced on the parapet.

His golden girl had put up her easel, positioned for the view along the beach to the next rocky headland. But, instead of concentrating on her paints, she was unbuttoning her shirt.

Arik’s heart jolted in expectation. Yes! Her hands skimmed quickly down the shirt, then she shrugged it off, revealing smooth shoulders and arms and a curvaceous body that made him want to discard the wheelchair and hobble down to help her undress. Slim at the waist but full-breasted: she’d be a delicious handful, he decided as he watched her bend to strip off her trousers. A ripe peach of a derrière, invitingly curved hips and slim shapely legs.

Just as he’d suspected. A woman worth knowing better.

He watched her walk down to the waves curling in on the sand. Saw her pause as the water frothed about her ankles. It would be warm, caressing her skin. The current in this part of the Arabian Sea kept the temperature inviting.

His gaze roved appreciatively down her back, her legs and up again to the swell of her breasts as she turned. Abruptly her chin lifted and she stared straight up at him, as if she could make him out among the shadows on the long terrace.

A frisson of something shot through him.

Recognition? No, that was impossible.

And yet the illusion that their eyes met and held for one, two, three long pulse beats was strong enough to jerk him out of his complacent speculation.

He lowered the glasses and stared at her. But already she’d turned away, stepping out into the shallows till the waves lapped around her dark one-piece swimsuit.

She’d look better in a bikini.

Or best of all, nude.

He watched as she waded out further, then, with a sinuous shallow dive, swam out with an easy stroke into the bay. He leaned back in his seat, relieved to see she was clearly at home in the water. There’d be no need for any emergency rescue.

She swam for twenty minutes then waded ashore. The first rosy light of dawn had dissipated as the sun rose higher and brighter. It lit her to perfection, slanting off a body that made him itch to be rid of the full-leg plaster and down on the sand beside her. Close. Touching. Learning the texture of those smooth limbs, her scent, the taste of her skin against his lips, the sound of her sighs as she surrendered to pleasure.

Heat roared through him, a blaze of wanting so strong he shifted in his seat, fully aroused and impatient that he couldn’t get what he wanted immediately.

If they’d been alive a hundred years ago, he could have snapped his fingers and had her brought instantly before him. It was a shame some of the old ways had died. There were definite drawbacks to the march of progress. To being a civilised man. Especially when there was something utterly uncivilised about the feelings this woman sparked in him.

Who was she? Where was she from? With that long swathe of blonde hair she was no local.

He leaned back in the chair as he contemplated the possibilities.

A girl: gorgeous, alone, tempting.

A man: bored, frustrated and intrigued.

Another smile curved his lips. He wasn’t the sort to sit and wonder. He was all for action and that was exactly what he planned to get.

Soon—very soon—he’d satisfy his curiosity about her. And more…

Rosalie tucked her hair behind her ear and critically surveyed her landscape. After days of effort she’d made pathetically little progress. Despite every attempt, the scene still eluded her. She’d sketched the outline of beach and headland, attempted a watercolour and toyed with oils. But nothing had worked. Nor had the photos she’d taken captured the spirit of the place, the sheer magic of it.

The translucent ripple of the early morning tide, the impossible blush-pink of the fine-grained sand marking the long crescent of beach, the sheer vertical drop of the blue-shadowed headland, like a brooding sentinel. And the Moorish fantasy of angled walls, perfect arches and deep terraces that comprised the ancient ochre-coloured fort dominating the cliff line.

From the first morning she’d rounded the point and discovered this bay, she’d felt the unfamiliar fizz of excitement, of anticipation in her veins. It had taken her by surprise. A sensation she’d never thought to experience again.

The stark beauty of the place had made her long to paint once more. And surely it was inspirational enough to reawaken her long-neglected talent, coax and inspire her into achieving something at least passably encouraging.

It had given her the courage to open the art supplies her mother had smuggled hopefully into the luggage.

But years of inactivity had taken their toll. Whatever artistic talent Rosalie had once aspired to, it would clearly take more than this spectacular scene to reawaken it.

Perhaps she’d lost it for ever—that joyous gift of translating what she saw into something worth keeping on canvas.

Three years ago she’d accepted the loss with a sullen stoicism. It hadn’t even distressed her, given the fact that her whole world had shattered around her. Three years ago she hadn’t wanted to paint any more. It had been left to her family and friends to fret over the change in her.

But now, to her surprise, something, a tentative hope, a flutter of excitement, had flared into life. Only to be extinguished by disappointing reality.

She ripped the page from her sketchbook in disgust. There was something missing.

Her lips curved in a cynical smile. Talent, obviously.

But something else too, she realised as she scrutinised the view. Despite the rolling surge of waves on the shore and the slow whirl of a falcon high over the cliff ahead, the scene lacked life.

She stood and stretched her cramped muscles.

It didn’t matter. She couldn’t do it justice anyway.

She was no artist. Not any more. She firmed her lips to counter the sudden absurd wobble of her chin as devastation rocked her.

Stupid, stupid, to even hope to regain what she’d lost. That part of her life had gone for ever.

She sucked in a deep sustaining breath. She was a survivor, she’d dragged herself out of fear and fury and grief and got on with living. More than that, she’d found peace and joy in her new life. A happiness she’d never thought to experience. She was a lucky woman. What did it matter if she’d never be an artist?

But her hands trembled as she gathered her gear, carefully stowed each item in her bag. Somehow the truth was harder to bear now after that brief surge of hope and inspiration.

She wouldn’t walk this way again and torture herself with what she couldn’t have. Instead she’d concentrate on other things. Sightseeing in the quaint old coastal town with its souk and its minarets. Maybe take a trip into the desert. Get back into swimming each day and finally open the paperback mystery she’d brought on her holiday.

She’d forget the haunting beauty of the deserted bay and its Arabian Nights fortress.

Her bag was almost packed when something, some distant sound or flash of motion, made her look up.

At the far end of the beach something moved. Something that resolved itself into two shapes, white-gold in the early light. Shapes that moved towards her with a steady pace, then plunged suddenly towards the sea.

Rosalie stared, recognising the beasts now. How could she not, since her brother-in-law was an enthusiastic breeder of horses? These two weren’t just any horses; they were Arabs, finely proportioned with arched elegant necks and a sure gait. A colour somewhere between palest dove-grey and white, she decided as they approached, dancing a little as a wave coursed in around their hooves.

She heard a whinny and saw one toss a long mane. The man on its back leaned forward as if speaking to it, his dark hair ebony against the equine paleness. She saw the horse’s ear flicker back, its head turn a fraction.

It was hard to tell where man ended and beast began. He wore white: trousers and a loose long-sleeved shirt, the neck open to reveal a V of dark bronzed skin. There was no saddle and he sat with the easy grace of one who’d grown up on horseback. His powerful shoulders and long frame seemed at odds with the lazy grace of his hands—one on the reins and one holding the second horse’s lead.

Without any perceptible direction from the rider, both horses wheeled as one and picked their way through the shallows towards deeper water.

By the time they were fetlock-deep, Rosalie had her sketch-book in her hands, automatically following the graceful curve of necks and powerful haunches, such a contrast to the lean hard lines of the man with them. He was in profile now and for an instant her hand faltered at the pure masculine beauty of him. Too far away to read the details of his face, but even from here there was something arresting about the tilt of his head, the angle of his nose, the long, burnished column of his throat.

Her heart beat faster as she stared, imprinting impressions on her mind as her hand flew across the paper, desperate to get down the sense of what she saw.

And while she focused on the trio, now deep in the water, she realised that this was precisely what she’d needed to complete the wider landscape. Something living, vibrant and beautiful to breathe energy into the scene.

Over the rush of the waves another sound reached her—the man’s deep voice, murmuring what could only be Arabic endearments. The sound rippled across the water and right down into her chest, creating the oddest sensation of loosening warmth deep within her. Then he laughed, a low sound, rich as dark chocolate, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She shivered, aware of the tightening of her muscles and sudden tension in her spine. But she dismissed it and sketched faster.

Too soon they turned and headed back to shore. They’d be gone before she had a chance to capture even part of what she was trying to achieve.

Frantically Rosalie hunched over her work, trying to catch something of the bond between rider and animal that made them move as one.

It took a few moments to realise they’d turned towards her rather than back the way they’d come.

Details caught her attention as they approached: the faint jingle of harness, the flare of equine nostrils as the horses scented her, the quickening pace, the rider’s bare feet, strong and well-shaped. And the way his sodden trousers clung to him, revealing long muscled thighs; even his thin cotton shirt had been liberally splashed, become translucent in places where it caught his skin. Hard planes, flat belly, a ridge of muscle.

Rosalie stopped sketching and lifted her gaze higher.

He was watching her. His eyes were narrowed a little against the angle of the sun but she could see they were liquid-dark and piercing. She sat straighter, barely aware of her rapidly thumping heart. She must have got carried away by the excitement of working again.

But as she met his look she wondered, just for an instant, if it was artistic fervour that notched up her pulse, or something else.

Impossible. Her mouth pinched automatically. There was no other explanation. Not for her.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny he had the sort of face any woman would love to look at. Or any artist.

His body was supple yet powerful. He looked to be around thirty, a study in latent vitality. The breeze ruffled his hair, making it spring with the hint of a curl. His face was long and lean, with exotic, high cut cheekbones. His nose, slightly aquiline, spoke of power and energy, but those angled brows and hooded eyes belonged in a bedroom.

Hastily she looked away, reaching down to pick up the crayon that had fallen to the ground.

Perhaps he was angry that she’d taken his likeness. She hadn’t thought of that. She had no idea how the locals would react to her work. Now she wondered about Q’aroumi protocols—whether she should have asked permission first.

She felt the intensity of his regard even while she fumbled in the sand.

‘Saba’a alkair.’ His voice was low and even more attractive up close.

‘Saba’a alkair,’ she replied, thankful that she at least knew how to say good morning in Arabic. ‘I hope you don’t mind…’ She gestured to the pad before her and then realised, flustered, that he might not understand her. ‘Do you speak—?’

‘I speak English,’ he answered before she completed the question. ‘You like our scenery?’

Rosalie nodded, tilting her head up to meet his scrutiny and unable to look away. His eyes were so dark she couldn’t distinguish iris from pupil. It must be a trick of the early morning light. Close up she knew his eyes must be dark brown, but from here the illusion was of lustrous, fathomless black. She hadn’t realised it could be so enticing.

‘The view from here, it’s spectacular.’ Her voice was high and breathless. She strove to control it. ‘In the morning light it’s perfect.’

‘You will show me your work?’ His voice had the faintest trace of an accent, softening the consonants. Rosalie felt a shimmer of response deep inside her to its cadence.

An instant later she registered the fact that his question had sounded more like an order, for all it was softly spoken.

‘Am I trespassing?’

He shook his head and she noticed the way his black hair, slightly long at the back, brushed and curled over his collar. Even his hair was invested with an aura of vibrancy.

‘What would you do if I said you were?’ His mouth lifted up at one side in a half-smile that tugged at something deep inside her.

‘I’d leave, of course.’

Which was exactly what she should do anyway. She couldn’t understand her hypersensitivity to this man. It was unprecedented. Unsettling.

She got to her feet, stumbling a little as she caught her balance after sitting engrossed in her drawing.

‘Then it’s a good thing you’re not trespassing.’ The half-smile widened and Rosalie stood, transfixed for a moment by the effect. Who’d have thought a man with all that power and…yes, authority in his features, could look so charming and—?

‘Nevertheless, I should be on my way.’

‘Without letting me see your work?’

It would be churlish to refuse. And though her scribbling was nothing like the work she’d once achieved it would be no worse than that of a raw beginner.

She took a step towards him, then paused, unsure of those two horses. This close they looked large and spirited, as if they might shy or, worse, bite.

‘No need to fear. Layla and Soraya have excellent manners. They bite no one, not even the hand that feeds them.’

‘And that’s you?’ she asked as she edged closer.

‘It is. But that’s only one of the reasons they love me, isn’t it, my sweets?’ He leaned down as he spoke and the horses whickered in response. Then he urged his mount forward and suddenly Rosalie found herself surrounded, a mare on either side. Warmth engulfed her. A damp horsey smell that was somehow earthy and comforting. And something else, less tangible, that teased her nostrils. It intensified as he reached towards her sketch-book. Tangy, salt and spice: the scent of man.

Rosalie’s nostrils flared and she took a step back, bumping into a horse. She looked up and met his hooded eyes. The gleam she read there disturbed her.

‘Show me?’ he murmured and again she felt his voice slip like a velvet ribbon across her skin. She frowned, uneasy and suddenly tense.

‘Of course.’ Concentrate on the sketches. Easier said than done when she was hemmed in, increasingly aware of…something. Something about him that jolted her out of her comfort zone.

She lifted the large sketch-book and flipped over a few pages. What she saw there arrested her, banishing unease and doubt in an instant. The first sketch, of the horses heading into the water, was raw, rough and spare but it caught precisely the effect she’d sought: their elegance of movement and proud bearing.

Without waiting for him to comment, she slid her hand under the page and flipped it over. Another sketch—that distinctive arch of the neck, the wide nostrils and dark eyes. Alive, real, better than anything she’d done in all these days of trying. Another sketch—a blur, a fleeting yet effective impression of movement and another, of horse and man moving centaur-like out of the water.

She caught her breath.

‘You’re very talented,’ he said above her and she was so stunned by what she saw that she said nothing, only turned another page, to find herself staring at hands, his hands, long and square-knuckled and strong. The sharp outline of masculine shoulder, a hint of corded neck and decisive chin and, in the background, a couple of lines that somehow gave the impression of the castle on the hill.

‘Very talented,’ he said, breaking her absorption.

‘Thank you.’ In her surprise at what she’d produced Rosalie forgot to avoid his gaze and found herself looking up into the dark abyss of his stare. Even this close his eyes were black. How near would she need to be to discern their true colour?

‘You don’t mind me sketching you? The horses are so beautiful I couldn’t resist.’

He leaned closer and she swallowed hard, wondering what was going on behind those unreadable eyes. That was no casual glance. It looked…assessing.

‘I’m honoured you chose Layla and Soraya as your subjects.’ Arik forbore to mention the drawings of himself. She looked skittish enough already, eyes wide and dazed as if she’d never seen a man before. Yet those sketches confirmed she knew how a man was made. Surely that appreciation of form and detail meant she had a strong sensual awareness.

Instantly anticipation fired his blood and he had to concentrate on schooling his expression to one of mild interest.

His first glance at her this morning had left him disappointed. She’d looked so young—far too young for what he had in mind. But as he’d ridden closer he’d been relieved to find her air of fragility wasn’t due to extreme youth, though she had to be only in her early twenties. There was a firmness around her lush mouth, and more, a gravity in her eyes that told him she was no innocent.

His relief had been a physical force, washing over him in a wave that eased the tension in his shoulders.

‘Do you prefer landscapes or living subjects?’

The way her eyes darted down to his torso, his hands on the reins, gave him all the answer he wanted, and an idea.

‘I…both.’ She closed the large pad and turned away, pretending to concentrate on Soraya, who was snuffling at her sleeve in hopes of a treat. But Arik saw the furtive glance his golden girl sent him from under lowered lids. How could he not when she had eyes as mysterious as smoke on water, a green-grey at once enticing and secretive? He felt that glance with the keenness of a blade, sharp and sure against his flesh.

He wanted to vault down to stand beside her. Close enough to enfold her in his arms and feel her warmth.

But, he admitted to himself, he was too proud. If he dismounted his stiff leg would mean he’d have trouble remounting again. He probably shouldn’t be riding at all, not yet, but he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to meet her at last, no matter what the doctor’s warnings.

He’d already noted her bare ring finger but it made sense to be sure. ‘You’re here on holiday?’

Slowly she nodded and then turned to stuff the portfolio into a capacious bag. ‘Yes.’

‘And your husband doesn’t mind you venturing out alone?’ If she were his he’d keep her close, knowing that with those stunning looks she’d be a magnet for any male not on his deathbed.

She paused, her hands gripping the bag so tightly he saw her knuckles whiten. ‘I don’t have a husband.’ Her voice sounded muffled and he recognised strong emotion in her tone. A disagreement with the boyfriend about long term commitment? Disappointment seared through him.

‘Your significant other, then. He doesn’t mind?’

She straightened and jammed her fists on to her hips. Her eyes flashed green fire and he realised he’d hit a nerve.

‘Your English is excellent.’ It was almost an accusation.

‘Thank you,’ he said, watching her intently.

Eventually she shrugged and her gaze slid away. ‘There is no man to object to anything I do.’ There was something in her voice, a bitterness that caught his attention. ‘I suppose that’s unusual in a country like Q’aroum?’

‘You may be surprised to learn how independent Q’aroumi women are.’ His own mother was a case in point.

He smiled and saw with satisfaction that the attraction was definitely not one-sided. So all he had to do was give her the opportunity and soon he’d be enjoying the delights of her warm, willing body. Yet something about her air of caution, as if she were ready to flee at the slightest provocation, tempered his impatience.

‘I will look forward to seeing you another morning.’ He made as if to pull on the reins.

‘You’ll be back here tomorrow?’ Her eyes were bright, her tone a shade too eager. It told him all he needed to know.

He shrugged. ‘I hadn’t planned to come here.’ He paused, as if considering. ‘You want to see the horses again? Is that it? You wish to draw them?’

She nodded. ‘If you don’t mind. That would be wonderful. I’d like…’ She bit her lip and he silently urged her to continue. ‘I’d like to paint the scene with them here. If it’s possible.’

Taking candy from a baby. ‘I suppose that can be arranged,’ he said after making her wait a few moments. ‘I could ask old Ahmed to bring them.’

Silence. She gnawed her lip, her hands clasped together in front of her.

‘You won’t be riding them?’ she asked at last, lifting her eyes to his. He could tell how much the question cost her. There was satisfaction in making her wait, after the frustration she’d caused him.

‘You would like to see me again?’

She blushed to the roots of her hair, her hands twisting together. She reacted like a virgin, confronting desire for the first time. But her eyes had already told him another story. She was more experienced than that. Still, the sight intrigued him. It really would be a pleasure, learning more about this woman.

‘For the painting—if you wouldn’t mind?’

Who could resist those wide eyes, the rosebud lips?

‘I suppose I could ride here. If you really want me.’

The words pulsed in the silence between them. If she wanted him. He knew in the intense hush between them that she did, indeed, want him.

‘How long would it take? The painting?’ Better if she felt he was doing her a favour.

‘A few days? Three, four mornings?’ She couldn’t conceal her excitement; it was there in her glittering eyes, the energy vibrating from every line in her body.

‘Four mornings.’ He paused. ‘Very well. I will give you the mornings.’ He couldn’t prevent the smile that curled his lips. ‘If you will give me the afternoons.’

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.

Rosalie had thought him impressive on horseback, imposing enough to dominate any scene. But that was before he stood close to her, enveloping her with his air of restrained power. She felt his heat, detected again his spicy natural scent, and more. As she angled her chin up to meet his eyes, she experienced something else, something primal and powerful, a spell that kept her rooted to the spot. She watched him with widening eyes as her pulse thudded a quickening tattoo.

This close she could see his skin gleamed with health, his mouth was slightly crooked; when he smiled it curved up more on the left. And his eyes—she couldn’t believe it! Even from less than a metre away, they were black as night, gleaming with humour as she struggled to find her composure.

‘It’s traditional here to seal a bargain with a gesture of trust,’ he murmured, ‘and our agreement is important to me.’

The flutter of panic in her stomach transformed into an earth tremor of mixed horror and anticipation as he leaned closer. He couldn’t mean to—

Strong fingers closed around her right hand, she felt the scrape of calluses as he cradled it in his, then he firmed his grip.

‘We always shake hands on a deal here, Rosalie.’ His words were low, soft, making her lean even closer to hear.

His gaze, dark and unfathomable, held hers and she felt a sensation of weightlessness. For a long moment the illusion held as she stood, enthralled by the heat and promise in his eyes.

Then common sense reasserted itself. She straightened her spine. ‘Of course.’ She nodded, hoping to seem businesslike. Just a handshake. She could cope with that.

But, even as she reassured herself, he lifted her hand in his, held it just below his lips so she felt the rhythm of his breath hot on her skin. She blinked.

‘But with a lady, a handshake is not enough.’

Was that glitter in his gaze laughter or something else?

No, it wasn’t laughter. She just had time to realise it was something more dangerous when his mouth brushed her skin. The kiss was warm, soft and seductive. Her breath hitched as their gazes locked. His eyes were pure black. Black as night, dark as desire. Inviting, beckoning. A blaze of flame licked through her abdomen, igniting a flare that grew and spread like fire in her bloodstream.

She shuddered as his lips caressed her skin, pressing more firmly and somehow, impossibly, finding an erogenous zone on the back of her hand. Her chest heaved as she gasped for oxygen. He paused so long that she felt warm air feather across her skin as he exhaled once, twice, three times.

At last he lifted his head, but the stark hunger in his face made her want to turn tail and run back the way she’d come.

CHAPTER THREE

NOW he knew. Her skin tasted sweetly addictive, its texture as smooth as cream against his lips. He wanted to bend his head again and lick her hand, turn it over and lave her palm, drawing her flavour, rich as wild honey, into his mouth.

He wanted to set his tongue against the frenetic pulse he felt fluttering at her delicate wrist, kiss her arm, her sensitive inner elbow, take his time in working his way to her collar-bone, her throat, awash now with a tide of rose-pink. Then her lips.

His hand tightened around hers as his gaze dropped to her mouth, a perfect Cupid’s bow of feminine invitation. Her lips parted just a fraction, as if in unconscious invitation, and the storm of longing notched up inside him.

Never had he experienced need so instantaneous, obliterating all else. It was like a roaring, racing conflagration swirling almost out of control.

And all he’d done was kiss her hand! Even the scent of her, like the perfume of dew on rosebuds, was enough to test his self-possession.

His heart pounded against his ribs, adrenaline surged in his bloodstream, inciting action. His every sense clamoured for fulfilment. Here. Now. On the hard-packed sand where the sun’s early rays would light her body to gold and amber for his delectation.

He snagged one rough breath. Watched her eyes widen and realised his grip had firmed too much. Another breath and he loosened his hold, still unwilling to relinquish her hand.

But she tugged it away, slipped her fingers from his and cradled them with her other hand between her breasts. The unthinking gesture pulled the soft cotton of her shirt tight and his breath seized in his lungs as he eyed the outline of her bra.

‘A handshake would have done,’ she whispered, her voice shaky.

Arik almost laughed at the absurdity of it. She was chastising him for being too forward in kissing her hand. How would she react if she knew he was hard with need for her? That just the sight of her plain bra beneath that prudish high-buttoned shirt and the taste of her against his lips made him hot with desire?

But his laughter fled as he looked in her eyes and saw the confusion there. Confusion and…trepidation?

She was scared of him, his golden girl?

Instantly he took a half pace backwards, watching the way her dilated eyes seemed to focus somewhere near his chin as her breathing slowly evened out.

She looked as if no man had ever kissed her hand. More, as if the dance of desire between the sexes was something new to her.

Impossible. Surely in Australia men were men enough to pursue a beauty as delicate and enticing as this one. It still amazed him that she was alone, no male hovering close to guard against intruders.

‘I see our customs are different to what you are used to. I meant no offence.’

He wondered if she’d be satisfied with that explanation. Surely even an innocent would realise that a formal kiss on the fingers was completely different from the sensuous introduction they’d just experienced. Or maybe she’d ignore the fact, pretend it hadn’t happened.

She nodded, turned her head away to stare at the glow of light on the horizon. ‘Of course. I understand.’

He was right—she was avoiding the truth.

But he’d achieved his aim. She was aware of him now. Not just as a distant figure on horseback to be captured in paints, but as a man. Flesh and blood. Her agitated breathing, the quick sidelong glance at him, the way she bit down on the corner of her mouth, all affirmed it.

The first step towards his goal. He smothered a smile and turned towards Layla, saddled this time so he could mount more easily with his stiff leg.

‘Where do you want me?’

The question caught Rosalie by surprise and her mouth rounded in an O of shock. Faint colour warmed her cheeks and Arik held his mouth tight so as not to betray his satisfied grin. So, it had been more than just an introduction for her too. That was a guilty expression if ever he’d seen one. Obviously she did want him.

Now it was just a matter of getting her to admit it.

Rosalie put her hand to her back and stretched out the stiffness there. She’d sat too long, absorbed in her work, and now her muscles protested.

She looked at the canvas before her and fought down bubbling excitement. It was too early to tell. Far too early to know if this would be anything worthwhile. But, a tiny part of her wanted to crow, it was promising. Definitely promising. Certainly far better than her faltering attempts earlier in the week.

After her tension when she’d begun this morning, she thought she’d never be able to settle down and work. She’d been strung taut like a bow, wary of the knowing light in Arik’s eyes, the flagrant desire she read in his face, and scared to betray the secret answering yearning that spiralled deep inside her.

That had taken her completely by surprise, even after yesterday’s encounter and last night’s restless dreams. She’d experienced nothing like it. Even in the days when she had been young and innocent. Her teenage fantasies had been about romance and happy endings. They’d never been raw with the force of untrammelled physical desire.

It had been like a surge of white-hot electricity, the arousal she’d felt as Arik had taken her hand in his, moved his lips against her skin and made her want…him. The jolt of energy had arced deep inside her, straight to her womb where the aching emptiness had been like a throbbing pain.

No one had said it would ever be like that.

‘You’re happy with what you’ve done?’ She looked up to find him leaning towards her from the back of his horse. There was a safe distance between them now but it wasn’t enough. Rosalie suspected that with this man there would never be enough distance for her to feel secure.

‘It’s not bad,’ she said cautiously, turning away from his regard.

He saw too much, she knew that already. Though not, she hoped, nearly as much as she wanted to hide from him.

‘And so we’re finishing for the morning?’ The question was straightforward, but it held a note of something unsettling.

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘All finished for now.’

‘Good.’ He nudged his horse away and dragged something from his pocket—a cellphone. As Rosalie started tidying up her supplies she heard his voice, low and warm, as he spoke in his native tongue. She loved the lilt of it, the fluidity, and her hands slowed as she listened.

She remembered the teasing sound of his voice yesterday, as he’d chivvied the horses. A thrill skittered down her spine as she imagined him speaking, his tone intimately caressing, pitched for her alone.

Appalled at herself, she began to shove her gear away with more force than prudence. She couldn’t believe her wayward imagination. Never had she fantasised about a man in this way. She shook her head, wondering what had changed. This instant overwhelming attraction was terrifying. It was the sort of attraction that she guessed led to one-night stands.

For an instant the horrible irony of that thought struck her, but she shoved it aside. She had no time for self-pity. The past was gone.

But that still left her way out of her depth.

Five minutes later she was packed, all except her easel and canvas, when the rumble of an engine made her look up. It was a four-wheel drive approaching over a stony track from the ridge above. Arik was already riding to meet it.

As she watched, a couple of men got out and, following his instructions, began unloading something from the back of the vehicle. Soon it began to take shape, high on the beach, as a large canvas awning. No, a tent, with one side open, facing the sea.

Arik walked towards her, his naturally long stride shortening almost imperceptibly on each second step. His damaged leg. The realisation brought a crazy rush of sympathy for whatever pain he’d suffered.

Rosalie shook her head. What had got into her? She’d known the man a little more than a day, if she could be said to know him.

‘If you permit, I’ll have your work taken to my home and brought along tomorrow morning at first light. That way you won’t have to carry it each day.’ He paused, then added, ‘I will personally vouch that it will be handled appropriately. My mother is an amateur artist and my staff understand that it is more than their lives are worth to damage a work in progress.’ His smile was charming, robbing his words of any threat.

‘I…of course. That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Pointless to assert that she didn’t want it leaving her hands. That she’d feel safer with the canvas in her own keeping. Was she superstitious enough to fear that without it in her possession she might lose this second chance?

Reluctantly she nodded and followed him to the vehicle, where he’d tethered his mare. She clutched her tote bag close as he stowed first the portable easel and then her canvas in the rear of the four-wheel drive.

The men had finished setting up the tent and nodded as Arik spoke again to them in their own language. Then one of them turned and said with a bow, ‘I will look after your painting, miss. It will be safe with me.’

She only had time to smile and nod her thanks before they were on their way, one in the four-wheel drive and the other leading the mare up the track, leaving Rosalie alone with Arik.

Her heart thumped an uncomfortable rhythm and she told herself not to be stupid. She’d been alone with him for hours. But somehow this was different. No easel to hide behind. No horse to demand his attention.

Silently she followed him to the tent. It was far too large for a beach shelter—a dozen people could easily have stood inside it.

But then this was far more than a shelter from the sun, she discovered as she rounded one side and found herself looking in. It was—luxury. A jumble of rich colours and fabrics, from the patterned floor coverings to the sumptuous pile of cushions heaped on the floor. A low folding table with a round brass top gleamed in the centre of the space and on it, incongruously, sat a huge vacuum flask. A cool chest stood beside it, making Rosalie wonder suddenly if there was any food in it. She’d been working solidly for hours and now she was starving.

‘You would like some refreshment?’ Arik’s deep voice said beside her.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She avoided his eyes and watched as he bent to collect something from just inside the tent. A copper ewer, soap and a linen towel which he folded over his arm.

‘Here.’ He held out the soap to her. She took it and held out her hands while he poured a steady stream of warm water over them. She inhaled the fragrance of sandalwood as she lathered and washed, then handed him the soap and rinsed her hands.

Rosalie reached for the finely woven towel, trying not to touch his arm. There was something too intimate about the situation, for all he stood as still and unthreatening as a statue. The warm soapy scent rose between them, but this close to him she recognised his own unique fragrance: male skin and just a hint of sea salt and horse.

She breathed in deeply and held out her hand for the ewer. ‘Let me.’

She kept her eyes down, away from his. Instead she found herself watching his strong, well-shaped hands as he soaped them, sliding one against the other slowly and thoroughly. Rosalie stared.

She’d drawn countless hands over the years. Had sketched them relaxed, fisted, holding various objects. Just as she’d sketched naked models with never a flicker of emotion.

But standing here, watching those long powerful hands slide together, seeing the corded muscles and sinews of his forearms where he’d rolled back his sleeves, Rosalie found herself swallowing hard as excitement stirred deep inside her.

He put down the soap and she tipped more water over his hands, his wrists, wishing she could reach out and trace their tensile strength for herself.

He reached for the towel she’d draped over her arm, barely brushing her shirt with his fingers. She almost sighed with relief when she could step away, put a precious pace or two between them.

‘Thank you, Rosalie.’ His voice broke the silence between them and she darted a look up at him. His eyes were unreadable, the obsidian-black that she still couldn’t believe. She wished she could read his thoughts. Then, as his nostrils widened a fraction, his mouth curled up in a half smile, she was suddenly glad she couldn’t. No doubt she was totally transparent in the way she reacted to his sheer maleness. But she couldn’t help herself.

That was what scared her most. Her reaction to this man.

‘Do you usually picnic in such style?’ She tried not to sound too impressed and the words came out accusing.

He shrugged and motioned for her to enter. ‘If I’m entertaining I prefer that my guests are comfortable and well taken care of.’

Rosalie just bet he did a lot of entertaining. Especially of women.

She hesitated, aware once more of how isolated they were. There had been no one else on the beach all morning. And in the tent they’d be out of sight even from the windows of the fortress on the hill. She eyed the tumble of cushions on the floor and wondered what he had in mind for their afternoon together.

‘Ahmed will be back in an hour to clear away the remains of our meal,’ Arik said from beside her. ‘Then I thought we might drive into the town and do some sightseeing.’

‘That sounds lovely, thank you.’

See, it’s just company he wants. Someone to talk to. You’ve grown too suspicious.

Nevertheless, she felt uneasily as if she’d committed herself to far more than lunch as she slipped off her shoes and stepped into the tent. The soft fabric beneath her feet was sheer decadence. The colours, the textures, even the scent was exotic, like something out of an Arabian fantasy. Just like the man at her side: the epitome of absolute male strength and sensuality. It was all too easy to picture him in flowing robes with a scimitar in his hands. Or in a bed with silken sheets where some dusky beauty kept him occupied.

‘Please.’ He gestured towards the pile of cushions. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

Gingerly she moved forward, averting her flushed face. She settled herself on a large cushion, resisting the temptation to flop back and let her tired body relax on the luxurious pile. Nevertheless, she felt some of the stiffness seep out of her as she tucked her legs into a comfortable position and looked out at the fabulous coastal scene before her.

Beside her, but not too close, Arik settled with a single easy movement of graceful power. He didn’t crowd her and her breathing eased a little. But then, she supposed it wasn’t his style to crowd a woman. She was sure that with his looks and obvious wealth he was usually fending them off instead. He’d have no need to do anything but smile and women would flock to him.

Surely she’d mistaken his intense expression earlier. She’d read raw hunger in his face but maybe she’d been wrong. Perhaps she’d just assumed that was what he felt—a mirror of her own sudden longing. She’d been so overcome by the stifling sensation of heat when he’d kissed her hand that she hadn’t been able to think straight.

After all, why would he be interested in someone as ordinary as her? She wasn’t glamorous or chic. She was a working mum. How much more mundane could you get?

‘Coffee?’

‘Thank you.’ The scent of it as he opened the flask was heavenly, reminding her that she’d been too nervous this morning to have more than a glass of water and a piece of toast before she left the house. She watched him pour the hot coffee and decided it was better to concentrate on her surroundings than on her growing fascination with those magnificent hands.

‘This—’ she gestured to the interior of the tent ‘—is amazing.’ Only now did she notice the tiny side table with its bowl of full velvety roses. She’d assumed the scent was some sort of rose essence sprinkled on the gorgeous cushions.

‘Not too over-the-top for you?’ One eyebrow tilted and there was a gleam of humour in his dark eyes as he handed her a cup of coffee and gestured towards milk and sugar on the table before her.

She shook her head, permitting herself a tiny answering smile. ‘It’s more luxurious than what we have back home.’ Which was a towel and maybe an old beach umbrella for shade. ‘But it’s lovely. And the coffee’s wonderful. Thank you.’ She sighed as the rich liquid slid down her throat.

Arik watched her eyes close for a moment as she savoured the coffee.

Even with a tiny smudge of paint high on her cheek, her cotton shirt creased and her long hair slipping from the ponytail that secured it, she was temptation personified. That creamy-soft skin, a pale gold that showed each delicate blush, and those eyes, hauntingly erotic. The sensual curves designed for a man’s pleasure. And her long ripple of hair the colour of a dawn sunburst. All too easily he could visualise those strands spread across the pillows behind her as she lay beneath him, an invitation to his touch.

He itched for her. Burned for her.

But she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t like his usual women: eager and flirty, sometimes too eager.

Rosalie Winters was different. She was ripe for him, he’d easily read her body’s unconscious signals. But her mind was another matter. This was a woman who did not give herself lightly.

Yet he knew instinctively she’d be worth waiting for. This time it wouldn’t be about almost instant gratification. For once he was willing to delay. With Rosalie he was discovering that anticipation was part of the pleasure.

‘So where is home? What part of Australia?’

‘Queensland. In the north east.’

‘I know it, or part of it. I’ve dived on the Great Barrier Reef.’

Her eyes widened. What had she expected? That he’d never left his island home?

‘That’s where I come from. A small town on the coast just north of Cairns.’

‘You’re blessed with beautiful country.’

She looked out across the bay. ‘And so are you.’

‘Thank you.’ Despite the fact that he spent most of his time elsewhere, Q’aroum was his home. Her simple compliment pleased him.

‘And have you always lived near Cairns?’

She shook her head and he saw the rose-gold strands of hair snag on her shirt. ‘I lived in Brisbane once.’

‘For work?’ Her reticence intrigued him. He was accustomed to women demanding his attention, vying for his interest.

‘I was only there for a year. To attend art school.’ She kept her gaze fixed on the sea but he saw the way her mouth tightened, her lips pulling flat.

Not a good experience, then. He wondered what had happened. His curiosity about her grew with every passing hour.

‘You didn’t like the city life?’

She shrugged, leaving her shoulders hunched and defensive. ‘It didn’t work out.’

There was a wealth of pain in her voice and he decided against prying. But he’d give a great deal to know what had caused her such hurt. A man, he supposed. Only a failed relationship could cause such pain, or so his friends told him. He’d never had any such problems.

‘And now you live on the coast and work as an artist.’

She shot him a glance he couldn’t decipher and shook her head once more. ‘I work part-time in a child care centre. I decided against art as a career.’

‘I understand it’s a very difficult field in which to make a living. But with your talent that must have been a difficult decision.’ Obviously she loved her art. She’d been so totally absorbed in it this morning that he’d been piqued at how little attention she’d paid him—as anything more than a necessary part of the scene. It was as if nothing else had existed for her.

She laughed, a short, hard sound that held no humour, dragging at something deep inside him.

‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter.’

Another look at her face and he decided against pursuing the issue, for now.

‘And you like working with children?’

Her face softened. She was so easy to read, and yet she was still an enigma. ‘I love it. Working with little ones puts your life in perspective.’

‘I can see you’re looking forward to becoming a mother yourself one day.’

She turned and snared him with those smoky-green eyes. Her mouth widened into a smile that lit her face. ‘I’m already a mother. My little girl, Amy, is two and a half.’

Arik felt his stare harden as her words sank in, something, some strong emotion, balled in his gut, drawing each muscle taut to the point of pain.

He turned away to refill his cup, desperately gathering his control about him.

Fury, that was what it was.

His frown turned to a scowl as he recognised the emotion, hard as a knot, inside him. Anger. And jealousy.

The idea that she’d carried another man’s child, had belonged so intimately to another, burned deep, eating like acid.

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