Captivated by the Sheikh. Annie West
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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