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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 about the tilt of his head, the angle of his nose, the long, burnished column of his throat.
Her heart beat faster as she stared, imprinting impressions on her mind as her hand flew across the paper, desperate to get down the sense of what she saw.
And while she focused on the trio, now deep in the water, she realised that this was precisely what she’d needed to complete the wider landscape. Something living, vibrant and beautiful to breathe energy into the scene.
Over the rush of the waves another sound reached her—the man’s deep voice, murmuring what could only be Arabic endearments. The sound rippled across the water and right down into her chest, creating the oddest sensation of loosening warmth deep within her. Then he laughed, a low sound, rich as dark chocolate, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She shivered, aware of the tightening of her muscles and sudden tension in her spine. But she dismissed it and sketched faster.
Too soon they turned and headed back to shore. They’d be gone before she had a chance to capture even part of what she was trying to achieve.
Frantically Rosalie hunched over her work, trying to catch something of the bond between rider and animal that made them move as one.
It took a few moments to realise they’d turned towards her rather than back the way they’d come.
Details caught her attention as they approached: the faint jingle of harness, the flare of equine nostrils as the horses scented her, the quickening pace, the rider’s bare feet, strong and well-shaped. And the way his sodden trousers clung to him, revealing long muscled thighs; even his thin cotton shirt had been liberally splashed, become translucent in places where it caught his skin. Hard planes, flat belly, a ridge of muscle.
Rosalie stopped sketching and lifted her gaze higher.
He was watching her. His eyes were narrowed a little against the angle of the sun but she could see they were liquid-dark and piercing. She sat straighter, barely aware of her rapidly thumping heart. She must have got carried away by the excitement of working again.
But as she met his look she wondered, just for an instant, if it was artistic fervour that notched up her pulse, or something else.
Impossible. Her mouth pinched automatically. There was no other explanation. Not for her.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny he had the sort of face any woman would love to look at. Or any artist.
His body was supple yet powerful. He looked to be around thirty, a study in latent vitality. The breeze ruffled his hair, making it spring with the hint of a curl. His face was long and lean, with exotic, high cut cheekbones. His nose, slightly aquiline, spoke of power and energy, but those angled brows and hooded eyes belonged in a bedroom.
Hastily she looked away, reaching down to pick up the crayon that had fallen to the ground.
Perhaps he was angry that she’d taken his likeness. She hadn’t thought of that. She had no idea how the locals would react to her work. Now she wondered about Q’aroumi protocols—whether she should have asked permission first.
She felt the intensity of his regard even while she fumbled in the sand.
‘Saba’a alkair.’ His voice was low and even more attractive up close.
‘Saba’a alkair,’ she replied, thankful that she at least knew how to say good morning in Arabic. ‘I hope you don’t mind…’ She gestured to the pad before her and then realised, flustered, that he might not understand her. ‘Do you speak—?’
‘I speak English,’ he answered before she completed the question. ‘You like our scenery?’
Rosalie nodded, tilting her head up to meet his scrutiny and unable to look away. His eyes were so dark she couldn’t distinguish iris from pupil. It must be a trick of the early morning light. Close up she knew his eyes must be dark brown, but from here the illusion was of lustrous, fathomless black. She hadn’t realised it could be so enticing.
‘The view from here, it’s spectacular.’ Her voice was high and breathless. She strove to control it. ‘In the morning light it’s perfect.’
‘You will show me your work?’ His voice had the faintest trace of an accent, softening the consonants. Rosalie felt a shimmer of response deep inside her to its cadence.
An instant later she registered the fact that his question had sounded more like an order, for all it was softly spoken.
‘Am I trespassing?’
He shook his head and she noticed the way his black hair, slightly long at the back, brushed and curled over his collar. Even his hair was invested with an aura of vibrancy.
‘What would you do if I said you were?’ His mouth lifted up at one side in a half-smile that tugged at something deep inside her.
‘I’d leave, of course.’
Which was exactly what she should do anyway. She couldn’t understand her hypersensitivity to this man. It was unprecedented. Unsettling.
She got to her feet, stumbling a little as she caught her balance after sitting engrossed in her drawing.
‘Then it’s a good thing you’re not trespassing.’ The half-smile widened and Rosalie stood, transfixed for a moment by the effect. Who’d have thought a man with all that power and…yes, authority in his features, could look so charming and—?
‘Nevertheless, I should be on my way.’
‘Without letting me see your work?’
It would be churlish to refuse. And though her scribbling was nothing like the work she’d once achieved it would be no worse than that of a raw beginner.
She took a step towards him, then paused, unsure of those two horses. This close they looked large and spirited, as if they might shy or, worse, bite.
‘No need to fear. Layla and Soraya have excellent manners. They bite no one, not even the hand that feeds them.’
‘And that’s you?’ she asked as she edged closer.
‘It is. But that’s only one of the reasons they love me, isn’t it, my sweets?’ He leaned down as he spoke and the horses whickered in response. Then he urged his mount forward and suddenly Rosalie found herself surrounded, a mare on either side. Warmth engulfed her. A damp horsey smell that was somehow earthy and comforting. And something else, less tangible, that teased her nostrils. It intensified as he reached towards her sketch-book. Tangy, salt and spice: the scent of man.
Rosalie’s nostrils flared and she took a step back, bumping into a horse. She looked up and met his hooded eyes. The gleam she read there disturbed her.
‘Show me?’ he murmured and again she felt his voice slip like a velvet ribbon across her skin. She frowned, uneasy and suddenly tense.
‘Of course.’ Concentrate on the sketches. Easier said than done when she was hemmed in, increasingly aware of…something. Something about him that jolted her out of her comfort zone.
She lifted the large sketch-book and flipped over a few pages. What she saw there arrested her, banishing unease and doubt in an instant. The first sketch, of the horses heading into the water, was raw, rough and spare but it caught precisely the effect she’d sought: their elegance of movement and proud bearing.
Without waiting for him to comment, she slid her hand under the page and flipped it over. Another sketch—that distinctive arch of the neck, the wide nostrils and dark eyes. Alive, real, better than anything she’d done in all these days of trying. Another sketch—a blur, a fleeting yet effective impression of movement and another, of horse and man moving centaur-like out of the water.
She caught her breath.
‘You’re very talented,’ he said above her and she was so stunned by what she saw that she said nothing, only turned another page, to find herself staring at hands, his hands, long and square-knuckled and strong. The sharp outline of masculine shoulder, a hint of corded neck and decisive chin and, in the background, a couple of lines that somehow gave the impression of the castle on the hill.
‘Very talented,’ he said, breaking her absorption.
‘Thank you.’ In her surprise at what she’d produced Rosalie forgot to avoid his gaze and found herself looking up into the dark abyss of his stare. Even this close his eyes were black. How near would she need to be to discern their true colour?
‘You don’t mind me sketching you? The horses are so beautiful I couldn’t resist.’
He leaned closer and she swallowed hard, wondering what was going on behind those unreadable eyes. That was no casual glance. It looked…assessing.
‘I’m honoured you chose Layla and Soraya as your subjects.’ Arik forbore to mention the drawings of himself. She looked skittish enough already, eyes wide and dazed as if she’d never seen a man before. Yet those sketches confirmed she knew how a man was made. Surely that appreciation of form and detail meant she had a strong sensual awareness.
Instantly anticipation fired his blood and he had to concentrate on schooling his expression to one of mild interest.
His first glance at her this morning had left him disappointed. She’d looked so young—far too young for what he had in mind. But as he’d ridden closer he’d been relieved to find her air of fragility wasn’t due to extreme youth, though she had to be only in her early twenties. There was a firmness around her lush mouth, and more, a gravity in her eyes that told him she was no innocent.
His relief had been a physical force, washing over him in a wave that eased the tension in his shoulders.
‘Do you prefer landscapes or living subjects?’
The way her eyes darted down to his torso, his hands on the reins, gave him all the answer he wanted, and an idea.
‘I…both.’ She closed the large pad and turned away, pretending to concentrate on Soraya, who was snuffling at her sleeve in hopes of a treat. But Arik saw the furtive glance his golden girl sent him from under lowered lids. How could he not when she had eyes as mysterious as smoke on water, a green-grey at once enticing and secretive? He felt that glance with the keenness of a blade, sharp and sure against his flesh.
He wanted to vault down to stand beside her. Close enough to enfold her in his arms and feel her warmth.
But, he admitted to himself, he was too proud. If he dismounted his stiff leg would mean he’d have trouble remounting again. He probably shouldn’t be riding at all, not yet, but he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to meet her at last, no matter what the doctor’s warnings.
He’d already noted her bare ring finger but it made sense 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 (#u247e1629-fa74-5006-842a-b3eb9dd9a4d5)
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.’
