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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 collarbone, 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.
