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      For The Sheikh’s Pleasure

      by

      ANNIE WEST spent her childhood with her nose between the covers of a book—a habit she retains. After years preparing government reports and official correspondence she decided to write something she really enjoys. And there’s nothing she loves more than a great romance. Despite her office-bound past she has managed a few interesting moments—including a marriage offer with the promise of a herd of camels to sweeten the contract. She is happily married to her ever-patient husband (who has never owned a dromedary). They live with their two children amongst the tall eucalypts at beautiful Lake Macquarie, on Australia’s east coast. You can e-mail Annie at www.annie-west. com or write to her at PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.

      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!

      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.