Captivated by the Sheikh. Annie West
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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