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