Книга - Captivated by the Sheikh: For the Sheikh’s Pleasure / In the Sheikh’s Arms / Sheikh Surgeon

Captivated by the Sheikh: For the Sheikh's Pleasure / In the Sheikh's Arms / Sheikh Surgeon
Annie West

Meredith Webber

Sue Swift


For the Sheikh’s PleasureRosalie Winters is a challenge: beautiful and aloof, she doesn’t engage in games of flirtation and seduction. But once Rosalie is at the command of Sheikh Arik, he knows she will open up to receive the loving that only he can give her!In the Sheikh’s ArmsSophisticated and dangerous Sheikh Rayhan ibn-Malik had sworn to revenge himself on Cami’s father by stealing her innocence…until she stole into his heart. Can his lust for revenge turn to love?Sheikh SurgeonIt was an intense, passionate, but all-too-brief affair that could never last. Now, fourteen years later, Nell needs to find Sheikh Khalil al Kalada to save her son’s life…and to tell Khalil he is a father.







Captivated by the Sheikh

Will she surrender to the tall, dark king of the desert?

Three seductive and passionate romances from three beloved Mills & Boon authors!




Captivated by the Sheikh

Annie West

Sue Swift

Meredith Webber











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)





For The Sheikh’s Pleasure


by



Annie West


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.

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 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


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.’

Simple, his bland expression seemed to say, but his eyes told another story. Their brilliant glitter was too avid, almost hungry.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, edging away a fraction. Who was this man? Suddenly her sense of being crowded by him and his horses took on another, more sinister air. A chill shivered down Rosalie’s spine as memories of the past she’d worked so hard to forget flooded back. The hairs on her arms rose and her mouth dried.

Her fear was intense, immediate and completely unstoppable.

His gaze bored into hers for a long moment, as if he knew what was going on in her mind. She saw his straight brows lift a fraction, his nostrils widen as if in surprise, and then the horses were moving away, parting to leave her standing alone. Without their warm bodies so close, the sea breeze seemed suddenly cool and she shivered.

‘It’s straightforward enough,’ he said as he wheeled the mares round to face her. His voice dropped to a reassuring burr. She assumed it was reassurance she felt—that unfurling heat in her belly that welled and spread as he spoke. It couldn’t be anything else.

‘I’m recuperating from an injury and tired of my own company. Now I’m mobile again but under doctor’s orders not to travel, while I do some physiotherapy and they check my recovery is complete.’ He shrugged and the movement of those wide shoulders seemed unutterably weary, bored even. ‘A few hours of company would take my mind off all the things I want to do but can’t.’

Somehow she doubted he was a man who had to ask a stranger for companionship. Even now, her nerves still jangling from the adrenaline rush of tension, she felt the impact of his attraction. He radiated power and strength and something potently male. Something that made her aware of a small, hollow, yearning ache deep inside.

‘I’m sure you have friends who—’

‘But that’s the problem,’ he murmured. ‘In my arrogance, my impatience to put all this behind me, I warned them off visiting until I was better.’ His lips curled up in a rueful smile that made him look younger, more approachable. ‘Call me proud, but I didn’t want sympathy while I limped about.’

‘Still, I don’t think I—’

‘I’m quite respectable,’ he assured her. And the glint of strong white teeth in that beautiful aristocratic face told her he didn’t usually have to vouch for his respectability. ‘My name is Arik Kareem Ben Hassan. My home is here.’ He gestured to the fortress hugging the cliff behind him.

Rosalie felt her eyes widen. He lived in that massive castle? Somehow she’d thought it must be a museum or national treasure or something. Not a house.

His easy assurance, his air of authority, and the way he handled those purebred horses, as if born to the saddle, made her suspect he wasn’t a servant. And he spoke English so fluently he must have spent a lot of time overseas. So did he own the place?

‘You can ask about me at your hotel if you wish. Everyone knows me—mention the Sheikh Ben Hassan.’

Rosalie’s eyebrows shot up. A sheikh! Impossible that there could be two such stunning men, both with the same title, here in Q’aroum.

‘But I thought the royal prince was the Sheikh.’ Certainly that was how her brother-in-law was addressed, though to her he had always just been Rafiq, the gorgeous man who’d swept her sister, Belle, right off her feet.

The man before her shook his head. ‘The prince is our head of state but each tribe has its own sheikh. My people live in the easternmost islands of Q’aroum and I am their leader.’

He sent her a dazzling smile that made her insides roll over. ‘Don’t worry.’ Even from here she could see the mischief dancing in his eyes. ‘Contrary to popular fiction, and despite the temptation, we do not make a habit of kidnapping beautiful blonde strangers for our harems. Not any more.’

Rosalie opened her mouth to ask if that had ever, really, been the custom, then realised she already knew the answer. This island nation was rife with exotic tales of plunder and piracy. Its famed wealth had grown centuries ago from rapacious attacks on passing ships. The Q’aroumis had long ago earned a reputation as fierce warriors who conversely had an appreciation of not only wealth but beauty. As a result their booty had, if legend were to be believed, included beautiful women as well as riches.

‘But you have me at a disadvantage,’ he continued. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s Rosalie. Rosalie Winters.’ She felt gauche standing here, hands clasped together as she lifted her chin to look up at the superb man controlling those fidgety horses with such lazy, yet ruthless grace.

Of course he had no ulterior motive in wanting her company. A man with his looks and, no doubt, wealth, wouldn’t be interested in a very ordinary Australian tourist. He was bored, that was all, and no doubt intrigued to find someone on his beach.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosalie.’ His voice was deep and smooth, rippling across her skin and warming her deep inside. ‘You must call me Arik.’

‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head and stretched her lips into a tense smile, panicked by the thrill of pleasure coursing through her, the impact of his smooth velvety voice.

‘I look forward to our afternoons together,’ he said and Rosalie’s breath caught as his smile disappeared and his hooded eyelids lowered just a fraction. Her instant impression was of brooding, waiting sensuality. It should repel her—she knew it should—but somehow this man’s casually harnessed male power and potent sexuality intrigued her.

She shook her head. Impossible. She’d learned her lesson well. Men and their desires were never to be trusted. She’d come to her senses as soon as he left.

‘I’m sorry but—’

‘You do not wish to spend time with me?’ He sounded astonished, as if he’d never before encountered a refusal. His eyebrows rose in disbelief.

It would do him good to realise he couldn’t smooth talk every woman he met.

‘Thank you for the offer,’ she said, conscious of the need not to offend, ‘but I wouldn’t feel comfortable alone with a man I didn’t know.’ That much was the truth. No need to explain that it was his potent maleness, combined with the gleam of appreciation she’d recognised in his eyes, that guaranteed she could never let herself trust him.

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.

‘I see our customs are different to what you are used to. I meant no offence.’

He wondered if she’d be satisfied with that explanation. Surely even an innocent would realise that a formal kiss on the fingers was completely different from the sensuous introduction they’d just experienced. Or maybe she’d ignore the fact, pretend it hadn’t happened.

She nodded, turned her head away to stare at the glow of light on the horizon. ‘Of course. I understand.’

He was right—she was avoiding the truth.

But he’d achieved his aim. She was aware of him now. Not just as a distant figure on horseback to be captured in paints, but as a man. Flesh and blood. Her agitated breathing, the quick sidelong glance at him, the way she bit down on the corner of her mouth, all affirmed it.

The first step towards his goal. He smothered a smile and turned towards Layla, saddled this time so he could mount more easily with his stiff leg.

‘Where do you want me?’

The question caught Rosalie by surprise and her mouth rounded in an O of shock. Faint colour warmed her cheeks and Arik held his mouth tight so as not to betray his satisfied grin. So, it had been more than just an introduction for her too. That was a guilty expression if ever he’d seen one. Obviously she did want him.

Now it was just a matter of getting her to admit it.



Rosalie put her hand to her back and stretched out the stiffness there. She’d sat too long, absorbed in her work, and now her muscles protested.

She looked at the canvas before her and fought down bubbling excitement. It was too early to tell. Far too early to know if this would be anything worthwhile. But, a tiny part of her wanted to crow, it was promising. Definitely promising. Certainly far better than her faltering attempts earlier in the week.

After her tension when she’d begun this morning, she thought she’d never be able to settle down and work. She’d been strung taut like a bow, wary of the knowing light in Arik’s eyes, the flagrant desire she read in his face, and scared to betray the secret answering yearning that spiralled deep inside her.

That had taken her completely by surprise, even after yesterday’s encounter and last night’s restless dreams. She’d experienced nothing like it. Even in the days when she had been young and innocent. Her teenage fantasies had been about romance and happy endings. They’d never been raw with the force of untrammelled physical desire.

It had been like a surge of white-hot electricity, the arousal she’d felt as Arik had taken her hand in his, moved his lips against her skin and made her want…him. The jolt of energy had arced deep inside her, straight to her womb where the aching emptiness had been like a throbbing pain.

No one had said it would ever be like that.

‘You’re happy with what you’ve done?’ She looked up to find him leaning towards her from the back of his horse. There was a safe distance between them now but it wasn’t enough. Rosalie suspected that with this man there would never be enough distance for her to feel secure.

‘It’s not bad,’ she said cautiously, turning away from his regard.

He saw too much, she knew that already. Though not, she hoped, nearly as much as she wanted to hide from him.

‘And so we’re finishing for the morning?’ The question was straightforward, but it held a note of something unsettling.

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘All finished for now.’

‘Good.’ He nudged his horse away and dragged something from his pocket—a cellphone. As Rosalie started tidying up her supplies she heard his voice, low and warm, as he spoke in his native tongue. She loved the lilt of it, the fluidity, and her hands slowed as she listened.

She remembered the teasing sound of his voice yesterday, as he’d chivvied the horses. A thrill skittered down her spine as she imagined him speaking, his tone intimately caressing, pitched for her alone.

Appalled at herself, she began to shove her gear away with more force than prudence. She couldn’t believe her wayward imagination. Never had she fantasised about a man in this way. She shook her head, wondering what had changed. This instant overwhelming attraction was terrifying. It was the sort of attraction that she guessed led to one-night stands.

For an instant the horrible irony of that thought struck her, but she shoved it aside. She had no time for self-pity. The past was gone.

But that still left her way out of her depth.

Five minutes later she was packed, all except her easel and canvas, when the rumble of an engine made her look up. It was a four-wheel drive approaching over a stony track from the ridge above. Arik was already riding to meet it.

As she watched, a couple of men got out and, following his instructions, began unloading something from the back of the vehicle. Soon it began to take shape, high on the beach, as a large canvas awning. No, a tent, with one side open, facing the sea.

Arik walked towards her, his naturally long stride shortening almost imperceptibly on each second step. His damaged leg. The realisation brought a crazy rush of sympathy for whatever pain he’d suffered.

Rosalie shook her head. What had got into her? She’d known the man a little more than a day, if she could be said to know him.

‘If you permit, I’ll have your work taken to my home and brought along tomorrow morning at first light. That way you won’t have to carry it each day.’ He paused, then added, ‘I will personally vouch that it will be handled appropriately. My mother is an amateur artist and my staff understand that it is more than their lives are worth to damage a work in progress.’ His smile was charming, robbing his words of any threat.

‘I…of course. That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Pointless to assert that she didn’t want it leaving her hands. That she’d feel safer with the canvas in her own keeping. Was she superstitious enough to fear that without it in her possession she might lose this second chance?

Reluctantly she nodded and followed him to the vehicle, where he’d tethered his mare. She clutched her tote bag close as he stowed first the portable easel and then her canvas in the rear of the four-wheel drive.

The men had finished setting up the tent and nodded as Arik spoke again to them in their own language. Then one of them turned and said with a bow, ‘I will look after your painting, miss. It will be safe with me.’

She only had time to smile and nod her thanks before they were on their way, one in the four-wheel drive and the other leading the mare up the track, leaving Rosalie alone with Arik.

Her heart thumped an uncomfortable rhythm and she told herself not to be stupid. She’d been alone with him for hours. But somehow this was different. No easel to hide behind. No horse to demand his attention.

Silently she followed him to the tent. It was far too large for a beach shelter—a dozen people could easily have stood inside it.

But then this was far more than a shelter from the sun, she discovered as she rounded one side and found herself looking in. It was—luxury. A jumble of rich colours and fabrics, from the patterned floor coverings to the sumptuous pile of cushions heaped on the floor. A low folding table with a round brass top gleamed in the centre of the space and on it, incongruously, sat a huge vacuum flask. A cool chest stood beside it, making Rosalie wonder suddenly if there was any food in it. She’d been working solidly for hours and now she was starving.

‘You would like some refreshment?’ Arik’s deep voice said beside her.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She avoided his eyes and watched as he bent to collect something from just inside the tent. A copper ewer, soap and a linen towel which he folded over his arm.

‘Here.’ He held out the soap to her. She took it and held out her hands while he poured a steady stream of warm water over them. She inhaled the fragrance of sandalwood as she lathered and washed, then handed him the soap and rinsed her hands.

Rosalie reached for the finely woven towel, trying not to touch his arm. There was something too intimate about the situation, for all he stood as still and unthreatening as a statue. The warm soapy scent rose between them, but this close to him she recognised his own unique fragrance: male skin and just a hint of sea salt and horse.

She breathed in deeply and held out her hand for the ewer. ‘Let me.’

She kept her eyes down, away from his. Instead she found herself watching his strong, well-shaped hands as he soaped them, sliding one against the other slowly and thoroughly. Rosalie stared.

She’d drawn countless hands over the years. Had sketched them relaxed, fisted, holding various objects. Just as she’d sketched naked models with never a flicker of emotion.

But standing here, watching those long powerful hands slide together, seeing the corded muscles and sinews of his forearms where he’d rolled back his sleeves, Rosalie found herself swallowing hard as excitement stirred deep inside her.

He put down the soap 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 understand it’s a very difficult field in which to make a living. But with your talent that must have been a difficult decision.’ Obviously she loved her art. She’d been so totally absorbed in it this morning that he’d been piqued at how little attention she’d paid him—as anything more than a necessary part of the scene. It was as if nothing else had existed for her.

She laughed, a short, hard sound that held no humour, dragging at something deep inside him.

‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter.’

Another look at her face and he decided against pursuing the issue, for now.

‘And you like working with children?’

Her face softened. She was so easy to read, and yet she was still an enigma. ‘I love it. Working with little ones puts your life in perspective.’

‘I can see you’re looking forward to becoming a mother yourself one day.’

She turned and snared him with those smoky-green eyes. Her mouth widened into a smile that lit her face. ‘I’m already a mother. My little girl, Amy, is two and a half.’

Arik felt his stare harden as her words sank in, something, some strong emotion, balled in his gut, drawing each muscle taut to the point of pain.

He turned away to refill his cup, desperately gathering his control about him.

Fury, that was what it was.

His frown turned to a scowl as he recognised the emotion, hard as a knot, inside him. Anger. And jealousy.

The idea that she’d carried another man’s child, had belonged so intimately to another, burned deep, eating like acid.

The intensity of sensation shocked him. Shook him out of his complacent belief in himself as an easygoing man. There was nothing easygoing about the churning turmoil in the pit of his stomach. It was a surge of pure old-fashioned covetousness. Envy that some other man had enjoyed what he so wanted.

Arik couldn’t believe it. He’d never been jealous in his life!

‘My congratulations,’ he murmured, trying to concentrate on pouring the coffee. ‘Does she look like you or like her father?’

So absorbed was he in mastering the roiling mass of his jealousy that he almost missed her hesitation.

‘Everyone says she looks like me.’

He turned back and offered her the flask of coffee, but she shook her head.

‘She must be a very pretty little girl, then.’ Even that was enough to heighten the glow in Rosalie’s cheeks. As if she wasn’t used to receiving such compliments.

Were Australian men so clumsy, then? Or, the thought suddenly emerged, had she been avoiding them? Had she been burned by the relationship with her daughter’s father so that she shied away from men?

That was a definite possibility, given her skittishness. Arik filed away the thought for later consideration. ‘Your daughter isn’t with you?’

Rosalie shook her head. ‘My mother’s looking after her this week. I’m by myself for now.’

Arik worked hard to keep the satisfaction from his face. Alone for the week. And perhaps a little lonely? Perfect.



Rosalie watched as he unpacked their lunch from the cool-box. It was a relief when he’d ceased his questions and begun to explain the dishes his cook had prepared. Not that he’d probed. Yet with him she felt defensive, as if she didn’t trust him not to use the information against her.

Ridiculous! How could he? She hadn’t said anything particularly personal. Just the bare bones of her life. And yet…she’d sensed a purpose behind his questions, as if he weren’t just making small talk.

Arik Ben Hassan was too unsettling for her peace of mind.

Was that why she hadn’t come clean about exactly who she was? The sister-in-law of the sovereign prince of Q’aroum. She’d automatically shied away from the fact, eager to preserve her anonymity. Everywhere she and her mother went in Q’aroum, they’d been treated with such formal courtesy once people discovered their connection to the ruling family. It was nice to be just plain Rosalie Winters again.

Even now it seemed bizarre, her sister marrying into royalty. But it had taken just an hour spent with Rafiq, on his first visit to Australia, for her to understand why Belle had fallen for him.

Strong, protective, handsome and, above all, completely besotted with his new wife. The sort of man Rosalie could have fallen in love with herself.

The sort of man who was as rare as gold at the end of the rainbow.

She shot a sideways glance at her host, cataloguing the noble profile, the lean strength and easy grace of his actions.

Another stunningly attractive man. Yet, she sensed, a completely different personality to her brother-in-law. She couldn’t imagine Arik settling down with just one woman. Those heavy-lidded eyes with their knowing, teasing gleam indicated he enjoyed the good life too much. No doubt he had the money and free time to indulge any whim. Why should he take life seriously?

She watched him unpack the platters and bowls of tempting local dishes—salads, dips, sesame bread and cold meats. All perfect. All exquisitely presented. Even for a man with his own private chef, surely this was no ordinary picnic?

‘Arik?’ His name sounded too good on her lips. She wished she hadn’t used it. Especially when he turned round to her, that tempting half-smile tugging at his lips and changing his face from imposing to sexy.

‘What is all this?’ Her gesture encompassed the luxurious setting as well as the feast spread before her.

‘A picnic lunch?’ There was a twinkle in those dark eyes that almost made her smile, despite her wariness.

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s more than that.’ She hesitated, wondering how big a fool she was about to make of herself. But she had to know. ‘Please. I’m not into games. Exactly what is it you want from me?’

The humour faded from his eyes in an instant, replaced by a brooding severity she hadn’t seen before. It caught her by surprise.

So did his hand, reaching out and enfolding hers. His touch was light but firm, his flesh warm and enticing. She sucked in a breath.

‘Exactly?’ His thumb stroked over hers, sending a shiver of excitement straight to her secret feminine core. ‘I would like to know you better, Rosalie. Much better.’ Another stroke of his thumb made her tremble.

‘I want to become your lover.’




Chapter Four


ROSALIE wrenched her hand away. Dismay lit her face.

And something else. A dazzling instant of connection that told Arik he was right. She too felt the surge of desire between them. She wanted him and it scared her. He read vulnerability in her eyes, in the twist of her lips.

‘No!’ Her eyes boggled. ‘I mean—’

‘You’re not interested in a short romance?’

She shook her head and long strands of rose gilt swirled around her neck. ‘No. No, I’m not.’

His eyes narrowed as he took in her clenched fists, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, her stormy eyes.

If he were a sensitive soul his ego might have been bruised by her vehemence. Instead he saw beyond her rejection to the inner pain she couldn’t conceal. There was something there. Some deep-seated fear that made her deny him, and herself, the pleasure they would find together.

For an instant, impatience, pique at the unprecedented rejection, threatened to swamp him. Then sense reasserted itself. Much as she denied it, Rosalie was ripe for him. She couldn’t conceal her body’s eagerness. Or the way her eyes devoured him when she thought he wasn’t aware.

He’d need time to thaw her shell of ice. But then, didn’t he have time on his hands? She was a delectable challenge, yet with patience he’d triumph over her caution. He knew it. And victory would taste like paradise.

The certainty of her surrender added piquancy to the situation. Maybe he was jaded by easy conquests. The knowledge that he’d need his wits as well as charm to seduce her merely fired his determination to have her.

He would play a waiting game. For now.

‘I apologise for embarrassing you, Rosalie.’ Her eyes were huge in her face. ‘Forgive me.’

She swallowed down hard. He watched the convulsive movement of her throat and tried not to wonder how soft her skin would be there. How tender the spot under the corner of her jaw, and further up her neck, just below her ear.

‘That’s it?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘I’d rather you took a different view. We would find much pleasure together.’ Pink bloomed in her cheeks, darkened and spread, as he held her gaze.

Her blushes delighted him. The illusion that she was virtually untouched, untutored in the realms of sexual passion, held a strange appeal. He wondered if the blush extended down across her breasts to her peaked nipples.

‘You asked what I wanted and I told you. But as you don’t want an affair, let us concentrate on our lunch.’

‘As simple as that?’ Disbelief echoed in her tone.

‘As simple as that.’ It was a good thing she didn’t know how badly he wanted her. How intense was his desire. How eagerly he anticipated her eventual capitulation.

‘But surely…’ Frowning, she shook her head again as if to clear it. ‘It would be better if I left.’

‘Not at all. I’m looking forward to your opinion on our local fare.’ He turned to reach for a plate.

‘Still, I should go.’ She made to rise and Arik fought the impulse to snare her hand.

‘And your painting? You wish to leave that too?’

That stopped her in mid-movement, her expression arrested. But only for a moment. ‘That’s all right. I wasn’t sure it would turn out well anyway.’

‘You’re a very bad liar, Rosalie. Has no one told you that before? Of course it’s good. It’s more than good.’ He knew enough to understand Rosalie Winters had real talent.

‘Nevertheless—’ the jut of her chin sharpened ‘—it’s only a painting. It’s not worth…’

‘You think I ask you to prostitute yourself for the sake of a painting?’ Okay, so he’d used her art to get close to her. But pride rebelled at her idea that he’d blackmail her into bed. The doubt in her eyes fuelled his anger, tightened the muscles across his neck and shoulders.

‘I am not quite as needy as that, Rosalie.’

‘I didn’t mean to insult you.’ Her voice was a muffled whisper, yet she met his eyes. ‘But I don’t know you.’

Curtly he nodded. Women needed to protect themselves.

‘Let me assure you, on my word as sheikh of my people, I would never force you into intimacy. If my own scruples aren’t enough, remember I’m a public figure. Any wrongdoing on my part would swiftly become widely known.’

He watched her troubled face and, for a moment, wished he hadn’t told her what was on his mind. It was too soon.

‘I have never taken what was not freely offered.’ He paused, letting her weigh his words.

Her eyes, shadowed and doubting, held his. He was losing her. The sudden appalling notion crowded his brain and he felt as if someone had punched him hard in the gut.

The intensity of his reaction didn’t make sense. For all her intoxicating allure she was just a woman. There would be plenty of those when he returned to his normal life. Women eager and impatient for his attention.

Why did his heart thud harder as he waited for her to say goodbye?

‘I would rather finish.’ Her gaze slid from his as she half turned to watch the waves shushing in on the beach. ‘But it wouldn’t feel right, knowing you want more.’

He shrugged as relief hummed through him. ‘Men often look and want. But we don’t always get what we desire.’

His experience was different; he made it his business always to get what he wanted. No need to tell her that.

Her head swung round and their eyes met. He felt the impact in his tightening lungs. He wanted to thread a hand through the shimmering silk of her hair and pull her close. He wanted to taste her, not her hand this time, but her lips: lush, ripe, inviting. He wanted to explore her body, discover the places that triggered delight and ecstasy.

Slowly he exhaled. Patience. It would take time to breach the barrier of her distrust. She was as flighty as a newborn colt. Easily scared.

He summoned a smile and held out a plate. ‘Let’s enjoy lunch before it spoils. I will bring my horse to the beach each morning while you paint. In the afternoons we will view the local sights. Simple. No strings attached.’



Simple, he’d said.

Rosalie stared out the window of the four-wheel drive and knew this was anything but simple. All afternoon as they’d toured the old town, she’d struggled against the force of his personality, his magnetic attractiveness. Against desire and a burgeoning curiosity that undermined her determination to keep her distance.

She was losing the fight.

She should have left him at the beach. No matter that she wanted to feel it again, that rush of excitement when he looked at her with such searing intensity.

Perversely, it was his anger that had made her stay. The fury in his jet-dark eyes. Arik Ben Hassan had been genuinely outraged at the suggestion he might force his attentions. Pride had made his head jerk up, his eyes narrow in flashing denial and his hands curl into fists.

Rosalie wondered if the idea was outside his code of ethics. Or was it the hint that he might need to coerce any female to succumb to him? No doubt he cut a swathe through women with his looks and air of lazy sensuality.

Either way, she’d known with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t use force. He might tempt and persuade, but he’d respect her wishes. She was safe: while she wanted to be.

The thought sent a skitter of feral excitement down her spine. Did he guess how she felt?

‘I like the way the new buildings in the city blend in with the old,’ she said abruptly, conscious that the silence had lengthened between them as he drove.

‘I’m glad you approve. Planning sympathetic redevelopment has been a major issue for us.’ His smooth voice drew her skin tight and tingling.

‘You’re involved in the planning?’ She cut him a curious sideways glance.

He shrugged broad shoulders as he manoeuvred round a tight curve. ‘I am the Sheikh. It is expected.’

She’d seen that amazing house, the obvious wealth he commanded, but hadn’t considered the responsibilities of his position. Silly, considering what she knew of her brother-in-law’s punishing workload.

‘I suppose your official duties keep you busy.’

‘Busy enough. But my work often takes me away.’

He had a job too? She’d imagined him living the good life, flitting from city to city, and woman to woman.

His dark eyes danced as he turned to her. His lips curled up in a smile that made her insides liquefy. How did he do that with just one slow, sexy grin?

‘You’re surprised I work?’ He turned back to the road.

‘I…suppose I assumed that you didn’t need to.’

He nodded. ‘But inactivity does not suit me. I couldn’t loll about growing fat and idle.’

He’d never be fat. He had too much vigour. Even in repose his lean body was a study in power and leashed energy. She blinked and watched the road rather than let her gaze drift appreciatively over him.

‘What sort of work do you do?’

‘I manage a resources enterprise.’ His deep voice sent a trickle of warmth down her spine.

‘An oil company, you mean?’

‘Oil and other things. We invest in renewable energy too. We’re even experimenting in generating electricity from the sea.’

‘You’re not content to make your money from oil?’ She’d heard Q’aroum had enough reserves to maintain it as one of the world’s wealthiest states for generations.

‘We’re an island nation, Rosalie. We have a vested interest in combating climate change and rising sea levels. Besides, a man needs a challenge.’

His tone hinted that he wasn’t just talking about power generation. Or maybe it was the sudden wide white grin that slashed across his face as he shot her a look.

She felt the whole impact of his personality focused on her. It was a tangible thing, a potent force. There was a rushing in her ears, like water flooding past, blocking the sound of nearby traffic. The late afternoon sun seemed to dim as she stared back at him, aware of her skin prickling on her neck and her lungs squeezing tight.

She had to be careful with this man. The feelings he evoked were too much. Too potent. Too new. Too tempting.

‘I’ll have you back to your hotel soon.’

She opened her mouth to explain that she wasn’t staying at a hotel and then snapped it shut. Better if he didn’t know she was staying alone in the house Rafiq had organised.

Arik had been a perfect gentleman all afternoon. Yet there was a restlessness about him, an edginess that warned her he wasn’t as easygoing as he seemed. Something simmered behind that relaxed expression. Self-preservation cautioned her against revealing where she was staying.

‘Thanks,’ she said as they approached one of the two hotels on this coastal road. ‘You can drop me here.’

‘I’ll see you to your door.’

Rosalie sucked in a deep breath. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ He stopped the car and regarded her through narrowing eyes, his brows rising.

‘You’re not exactly incognito.’ She remembered the excited pleasure with which he’d been greeted wherever they went. ‘So I’d rather go in alone.’ She wondered if he saw through her subterfuge. It was true as far as it went. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

‘Very well.’ He inclined his head. ‘We will not court gossip.’ Then he got out and fetched her canvas bag from the back while she fumbled with her seatbelt.

His hand was warm and hard as he helped her out. A tremor shot up her arm at his touch, ripping right through any illusion that she was impervious to him.

‘Thank you for the pleasure of your company, Rosalie.’

He lifted her hand to his lips. Her eyelids flickered as he pressed a kiss there. A jolt of something very like lightning speared through her. The swirl of reaction in her abdomen grew to a spiralling twist of aching emptiness.

It lasted an instant, only that. But it was enough to jolt Rosalie back to her senses.

She tugged back her hand as if stung. That empty yearning feeling was too real, too powerful to be safe.

‘Until tomorrow, then.’ His eyes were fathomless, deep as the night and just as impenetrable.

Rosalie turned away. Tomorrow, if she had any sense, she’d take the first flight out from here.



She was late. Arik narrowed his eyes against the slanting rays of dawn light and stared down the beach.

Had he erred yesterday? Should he have pressed his advantage when he’d read the need so clear in her eyes?

No. He’d given his word he’d respect her wishes. She was nervous, fighting to resist what was between them. As if she could push back the inevitable flood-tide of desire.

He wondered at her naïvety. Their attraction had been instantaneous, so urgent and all-consuming that even he, with his experience, couldn’t ignore it. It was a constant fire in the blood, a gnawing hunger in the pit of his belly. He felt wired, restive and alert. Sleep was elusive, replaced by hours imagining her in his bed. Or naked, almost anywhere: in the window seat of his room, on a silk-covered divan or down here on the fine-grained sand.

The only way out was to assuage this need for mutual satisfaction. His lips curved in a taut smile. Prolonged mutual satisfaction.

Rosalie had much to learn and he would enjoy contributing to her education. Anticipation hummed through him, tightening his groin, his thighs, his hands on the reins. He nudged Layla till she gathered herself into a thudding gallop. The thunder of her hooves teamed with the beat of blood in his ears: heavy, urgent, racing.

They reached the point and there was Rosalie, walking from the next beach. Arik reined in, watching her falter to a stop. Her stance was wary, as if she were in two minds whether to scurry back to the safety of her hotel.

Eventually, as he’d known she would, she resumed her stride towards him. He should be pleased. Triumphant even. He had her now, he knew. Or close enough that, with a little effort, he could have what he wanted from her.

Yet the emotion filling him wasn’t triumph. It was fury. At the unprecedented level of his earlier disappointment. At the unadulterated relief that swept him now, making him for a few moments light-headed.

Since when had he been dependent on any woman? Pleasure, companionship, mutual enjoyment—that was what he sought from the women in his life. But this raw, visceral need that threatened all sense of proportion? That drove him with the force of pure compulsion? This wasn’t right.

He watched her approach, her head up to meet his gaze, a gesture at odds with the defensive way she clutched that bag to her. Arik felt a surge of unexpected protectiveness.

But it was overborne by anger that she should unsettle him so. He was aroused to the edge of pain just watching her. And his indecisiveness as he’d debated ringing her hotel had been uncharacteristic. He was too needy.

Lust had never been like this. It shouldn’t be like this. It had always been a pleasure to be savoured. Now for the first time, desire was a blood-deep craving. As if more was at stake than the pleasure of a woman’s body. As if he felt far more than physical need.

Arik clenched his jaw at the absurd notion, angrier still at that flight of fancy. He urged his mount forward.



Rosalie wished she’d stayed away. What did it matter if her painting remained unfinished? Or if she never saw him again? She knew now that with effort she would paint. And as for her reaction to him…better to ignore that.

Yet like a moth to a candle she was drawn against her will along the beach. With every step she’d known this was dangerous, the sort of impetuous act she’d always avoided.

But then, a demon inner voice taunted, where did playingsafe get you? She’d been perennially sensible, so cautious with men, and look where that had landed her!

She clasped her bag closer, wondering yet again how big a mistake she was making.

Then she saw him, a study in masculine grace and arrogance as he sat his magnificent Arab mount. Instantly she had her answer. Error or not, she couldn’t have stayed away. The rapid-fire tumult of her pulse, the constriction of her lungs, the swirling heat all told the same story. She had to be here. Owed it to herself to discover what it was about this man that spoke to her innermost being, to the self she’d kept hidden for years now. The self that, at nineteen-and-a-half, had been brutally silenced, locked away by the force of grief and hate and despair.

More than three years had passed and suddenly that other Rosalie Winters, the one who’d secretly yearned for fantasy and adventure, was back, slipping under her guard.

She gritted her teeth and resumed walking. Foolish she might be, but she’d never again be the unthinking innocent she’d been at nineteen. She’d learned her lesson well. If she took any chances they’d be on her terms.

Nevertheless, as Arik’s horse plunged close, its hooves lifting high to a resounding rhythm, she couldn’t repress a thrill of mixed trepidation and excitement.

‘I thought you weren’t coming.’ His deep voice held a note of accusation as it rumbled in her ear.

‘I almost didn’t,’ she replied, annoyed as he circled. Man and beast together were awesomely beautiful—as he knew. He probably stayed up there so she could admire him.

That was the sort of man he was, she reminded herself, ignoring yesterday’s revelations. She squashed the fact that he worked hard despite his wealth. Easier to deal with Arik Ben Hassan if she could peg him as a rich playboy.

Yet she followed his every move with hungry attention. He was so vibrantly male, so attractive. Her imagination hadn’t embroidered a single detail. He was devastating.

‘You would have reneged on our bargain?’ His expression was severe, as if no one ever had the temerity to inconvenience him.

Rosalie stepped away, preferring not to dwell on the fact that he could read her so easily. ‘It’s only a temporary arrangement. I wouldn’t have thought you’d mind.’

He swung the mare round to walk beside her. ‘I’d have minded very much,’ he murmured and, despite her best intentions, Rosalie found herself looking up into midnight-dark eyes. Tension pulsed between them, the sizzle of unspoken connection that had no parallel in her experience.

‘Then you should be pleased that I’m here after all.’

For two heartbeats he held her gaze, then the shadows fled. He smiled and something tumbled over in her chest at the zap of magnetism between them.

‘And so I am, Rosalie. Very pleased.’ His voice dropped to a deep sultry murmur that reverberated in her bloodstream, tingled through her body and awakened every nerve-ending.

Why, oh why, hadn’t she stayed away?

Because you’ve never felt so incredibly alive as you do here, with him.

‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’ He dismounted to stand beside her on the sand. With only a metre between them the space seemed too intimate.

‘Perhaps. Should I?’

He shook his head and reached out, his fingers closing around hers, hard, warm and strong. It felt so right.

‘No.’ He tugged gently, bringing her closer. She saw herself reflected in his eyes. ‘I will never hurt you. You have my word of honour.’ Her thudding heartbeat echoed the pulse throbbing at the base of his neck. ‘Trust me?’

She hesitated. She had nothing but his words and her instincts to guide her. Yet there was no doubt in her mind.

‘Yes. I trust you, Arik.’

‘Good.’ A spark of emotion flared in his eyes, his hand tightened around hers and a wave of excitement washed over her. His gaze snared hers and her breath crammed in her throat at the intensity of his expression. ‘You know what I want, Rosalie, but that must be your decision.’

She shook her head. ‘But I’ve told you that I won’t—’ Her words ended on a hiss of indrawn breath as he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

‘Perhaps you may change your mind.’ His mouth moving against her skin was subtly erotic. She stiffened her spine against the need to slump in a wanting heap at his feet.

Now was the time to turn away and make her excuses. She wasn’t sophisticated enough to play these provocative games of seduction. ‘I’m not sure…’

Her words petered out into a sigh as he turned her hand and planted a tender kiss on the centre of her palm. A kiss that sent shockwaves of heat spearing through her. Her knees trembled at the force of them.

‘Nothing is sure,’ Arik murmured, caressing her with his lips as he spoke. ‘Can we not simply enjoy each other’s company for a few days and see where it leads us?’

To perdition, probably. Rosalie sucked a huge breath into her starved lungs, but it wasn’t enough to restore her equilibrium. Not when his hot breath hazed her skin and his lips hovered a bare centimetre from her throbbing pulse.

She tugged her hand free and whipped it behind her back, terrified she might beg him to kiss her there again.

‘You’ll be disappointed.’ She might be desperate for his caresses, but she wasn’t completely foolhardy.

‘Then so be it.’ His smile gave nothing away.



The morning disappeared rapidly once Rosalie focused on her work and not the insidious twist of excitement low in her belly, testament to Arik’s lethal attraction. But now and then, as she looked across the beach, his head would lift, his eyes meet hers and she’d feel the heavy throb of awareness in the crisp morning air.

Too soon the morning was over. Her canvas was taken to Arik’s home. They’d eaten lunch and now they were alone in the opulent marquee that passed for a beach shelter. For all their small talk about art and local sights, Rosalie was acutely conscious of their isolation. The undercurrents eddying in the lengthening silence unnerved her.

She shot him a look, relieved to find that for once his attention was elsewhere. He seemed absorbed in the view of sea and sand, the distant blue shadow of an island.

His profile was arresting, etched with stark, sure lines comprising a whole that was more than handsome. There was intelligence in his high brow, or perhaps that was because she’d learned how perceptive he was. His eyes were piercing, un-settlingly so when they rested on her. His mouth—there was something innately sensual about the curve of his lips—the way it quirked readily into a smile that invited shared laughter. Or pleasure.

Her stomach dipped. He was a man who understood physical pleasure. It was obvious in the way he caressed her hand, the sensuous light in his eyes when he spoke of desire. His look held a promise of gratification. And, if she wanted, he could share that knowledge, that expertise with her. She had only to say the word and Arik would take her to places, to pleasure, so long denied her.

The knowledge was heady, tempting. Frightening.

How could she even consider his proposition?

Because you’re lonely. Because there’s something missing in your life. Because there’s something about this man that overrides a lifetime’s caution and makes you long for the passion you’ve never had.

She looked at him and she felt hot. Her skin prickled as if it no longer fitted. Her lungs couldn’t process enough oxygen. There was a tingling, heavy sensation inside that kept her on edge, an aching sense of emptiness.

Suddenly his eyes were on her. Dark and gleaming with a heat that scorched her skin to a fiery blush. He knew what she felt, she realised in amazement.

He understood.

She read the reflection of her own burgeoning need in the haunted expression of his eyes. In the tic of a pulse at his jaw. Even the compressed line of his mouth mirrored the confused tension pulling her body taut.

His lips curved up in that sexy crooked smile but there was no humour in his gaze this time.

‘You feel it too.’ His voice was low and sure, sending a ripple of reaction through every nerve. ‘You feel what’s between us, don’t you, Rosalie?’

She shook her head in denial. But she couldn’t pull her gaze from his. It was as if some force trapped her.

‘There’s no need to lie,’ he said and there was a glimmer of amusement in his look. ‘You won’t be singed by a bolt of lightning for admitting the truth. There’s nothing shameful about desire between a man and a woman.’

Rosalie’s breath caught high in her throat as his words echoed through her head. Desire.

He was right. That was exactly what she felt. Raw, unadulterated desire for the man before her. She shivered.

‘But I’m not interested in becoming some playmate to keep a rich man from boredom.’ It came out in a rush.

His stare hardened to a laser-bright glitter, keen and cutting. She’d gone too far. His face drew tight with repressed anger, accentuating his aristocratic bone structure. The pulse at his jaw raced to a frenetic beat.

She’d blurted out the first thing that came into her numbed brain. But in this part of the world men called all the shots. Automatically she shrank back, expecting an explosion of outraged fury.

‘You Australians believe in directness, don’t you?’ One dark brow winged up at an arrogant angle. Then he frowned, as if noticing her shuffled withdrawal.

Instantly his expression of stifled fury eased, replaced by a watching stillness.

‘There’s no need to be afraid to express your opinions.’ His voice was calm but there was no mistaking its harsh rasping edge. As if he battled for self-control.

His eyes held hers and she knew he meant it. Relief relaxed her muscles. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wondering how he’d read her sudden fear. ‘That was insulting.’

‘You should not apologise.’ His words cut across hers. ‘You spoke the truth as you saw it.’

They stared at each other across the narrow space and once more Rosalie could have sworn he understood her confusion and fear. Understood far too much.

‘I regret that you see my interest as cheapening.’ He paused, as if the word left a sour taste. ‘I have always regarded my love affairs as liaisons between equals.’

What could she say? Embarrassment flooded her but she could survive that. She’d survived much worse.

‘Though I suppose,’ he murmured, ‘in this case it would be an unequal relationship.’

He was admitting it? Surely no man was that honest.

‘After all, the power is squarely in your hands.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Surely she was hearing things.

He shrugged those impressive shoulders. ‘Don’t be naïve, Rosalie. I want to become your lover.’ His voice dropped so low that she felt it resonate deep inside, creating a hollow, wanting ache. ‘I’ve said I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I’d stop at a single word.’

His eyes were so bright now they seared her.

‘So that means you have all the power in this relationship. You can ask for what you want. Whatever you want. And I’ll give it to you.’

There was no mistaking the look on his face. Sex. That was what he was talking about.

‘But,’ he continued, ‘you only have to say no and I’d be obliged to stop.’

Rosalie drew in a shaky breath, aware of moist heat blossoming across her skin. She bit her lip, striving for control against the illicit thrill coursing through her.

She shouldn’t want him. She didn’t need any man. Especially one as self satisfied and knowing as this one.

But that didn’t prevent a surge of excitement. She could ask for whatever she wanted. As much or as little as she chose and he’d respect her wishes. She’d be safe.

‘That wouldn’t be right or fair.’ Her voice was breathless, unsteady. ‘It’d be better if I left.’ But how would she find the strength to walk away and not look back?

‘I never took you for a coward, Rosalie.’ His deep voice fell like a stone in the silence between them.

She jerked her head around. ‘Just because I don’t want to play these games doesn’t make me a coward.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ Again one superior eyebrow lifted in query. ‘Then what are you afraid of, if not yourself?’

Rosalie sucked in a breath. She wasn’t afraid. She was cautious. He was far beyond her league.

Why then, did the idea of intimacy with him appeal so much? Why this excitement at the notion of exploring those sensations and cravings she’d so long repressed?

Her mother had hinted it was unhealthy for her to avoid personal contact with men as much as she had. What would her mum say about the unrelenting forces building within her right now? The temptation to say yes?

‘I’m not afraid,’ she lied.

‘Good.’ He leaned towards her till her whole world was encompassed by the brilliance of his dark eyes, the strength of his powerful shoulders blotting out the view and the warmth of his body reaching out to her.

‘It’s not fear I want from you, Rosalie.’ His words were warm against her cheek. But he came no closer. An invisible barrier remained between them. The protection of his promise. Power rested solely in her hands.

Black, burning eyes met hers. The flare of his nostrils told her he registered it too—the faint musky aroma. The scent of arousal. From her skin? From his?

And yet he didn’t move.

‘Ahmed will bring the four-wheel drive soon,’ he said.

Rosalie swallowed and swiped the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. His gaze flickered and held.

‘Is there anything you want before he arrives?’ His words were barely audible over the thunder of her pulse.

‘No. Nothing.’ Yet her voice sounded like a sigh of wind, an echo of the soft waves on the beach.

‘Are you sure?’ he whispered.

She bit her lip to prevent herself from saying anything stupid. Arik was seduction on two legs and she had precious few defences against him. ‘No,’ she muttered again.

‘No, you don’t want anything? Or no, you’re not sure?’

He was close enough for her to feel encompassed by the sheer strength of the man. His hands were planted on either side of her hips, his fingers splayed across the rich fabric of the carpet. His chest was like a wall, pressing her back, despite the fact that he didn’t touch her. His gaze held hers, like a bird enmeshed in a net.

‘I…’ The words died in her throat as she realised what she wanted. What she craved from him.

‘A kiss, perhaps? Just one to satisfy your curiosity?’ His mouth curled up in a smile that stopped her pulse for a beat. ‘Surely you’ve wondered what it would be like, just a simple kiss between us?’

If only he’d looked smug she’d have been able to summon the will-power to push him away. But there was only the glow of invitation in his eyes. The temptation to pleasure in his curving lips.

‘Yes,’ she heard herself whisper on a sigh of surrender. ‘I’ve wondered.’

‘Good,’ he murmured. ‘In that we are equals.’ His smile faded. ‘Relax, Rosalie. You are safe with me.’

He leaned even closer, paused with his mouth an infinitesimal fraction away. He waited long enough for her to absorb the scent of his skin, adjust to the power and heat of his body almost touching hers, for her to taste his breath on her lips and to want more.

Then he slanted his mouth over hers and the world disappeared into a whirling blur as he took her mouth with his.




Chapter Five


SHE kissed like a virgin.

Her lips were soft, pliant, clinging as he brushed his mouth against hers. Yet when he opened his mouth to slide his tongue along her lips she shivered, retreating a little.

So sweet. So enticing. He leaned closer, careful to keep his hands firmly on the floor. This time when he invited her to open for him, her lips moved against his, mimicking the gentle persuasion of his caress.

Instantly a surge of blood shot simultaneously to his head and his groin. A jolt of fire ignited in his belly, blasting his careful restraint to smithereens.

But somehow he managed to contain the compulsion to ravish her mouth, to pull her close to his needy body and plunder her depths.

He coaxed her mouth open, increasing the pressure slowly. Her breath was fresh and warm, her lips like satin, the scent of her skin heady and arousing. There was no artifice about her, not even so much as a manufactured scent. Yet her delicate kisses, her seemingly untutored response, had him clenching his fists against the impulse to throw caution and restraint to the winds and simply take what he wanted.

He’d never known such fierce need. He had to have her. Every atom of his being screamed for her. She was a temptress such as he’d never known before. A houri who seduced not with practised arts but with a tentative, natural eroticism that was unsurpassed in his experience.

What had he got himself into?

He pressed closer, his kiss more demanding. She melted against him, her sigh a muffled surrender in his mouth and instantly his blood thrummed an imperative to conquer. To take.

Yet he mustn’t touch. Not this time. This time he had to go slowly, not scare her into headlong retreat. She was skittish enough as it was. If he touched her the way he wanted to, palmed her breasts, learnt the firm curves of her body, discovered her secret femininity and tasted her flesh with his tongue, he wouldn’t be able to call a halt.

Instinctively he knew she needed time.

He wondered how long he could hold out before the visceral need that gnawed at his vitals overcame the last of his scruples.

He pressed closer still, the peaks of her breasts grazing his chest for an instant, sending a judder of erotic sensation straight to his groin. His erection was a heavy fretful ache that surged into full-blooded readiness. A groan of pain, of thwarted need, rose from his chest but he ignored it, fisting his hands tighter till the circulation ebbed and his fingers ached.

He’d started this and he owed it to Rosalie, as a man of honour, not to finish it here and now with a quick frantic coupling, no matter the cost to his fast-shredding self-control.



Arik was all she’d dreamed he’d be. And more. The dance of his tongue against hers, languorous and innately seductive, the taste of him on her lips, the scent of his warm skin so close—it was a heady combination that blasted any logic right out of her brain. The sheer bombardment of physical pleasure assailing her senses made her dizzy.

She wondered how it would feel if he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close to the aggressive heat of his body. She longed to know. Could almost imagine the heavy weight of his strong torso against hers.

Rosalie shifted, edgy with an aching, empty sensation that would only be satisfied with more. More of Arik. More of the magic he created just with his lips and tongue against hers.

He pushed closer, still not close enough, and she almost sighed with relief as she felt the soft luxury of piled cushions behind her. He adjusted the angle of his mouth slightly, giving even better access to hers, and she knew with a faint last coherent thought that surrender wasn’t so bad after all.

If only he’d touch her, lift his palm to her face and stroke her there, as she longed to be touched.

But, despite the intensity of their meshed mouths, of the spiralling desire between them, he took no further advantage. Only their mouths met and held, in a kiss that contained all the potent intoxication of pure need.

The pressure built inside her until she could ignore it no longer. She lifted her hands, tentatively skimmed them between his heaving solid chest and her over-sensitive breasts, up to his shoulders. Her hands lingered there indecisively till she heard a sound like a low growl in her ears, felt him shudder against her hands.

Without thought she responded to his primal maleness, the raw sound of his desire. She cupped the heated skin of his neck, revelling in the hint of racing pulse she discovered, the smooth, enticing sensation of his flesh against her hands.

She speared her fingers up through his hair. It was like rough silk to her touch. She cradled his skull as she drew him closer. But still it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

The primitive rhythm pulsing in her blood, drumming in the dark, hidden core of her body urged her on. She needed more.

Then Arik moved.

Not in against her body as she craved. Instead he pulled back, ending the kiss so suddenly that her eyes snapped open and she lost the comforting sensual darkness.

What had happened?

Her lips were swollen, throbbing with the force of his mouth against hers. Her breasts were full and heavy, her body weighted with a languor she didn’t recognise. She blinked, trying to bring him into focus. Trying to engage her brain.

He breathed deeply, as if starved of oxygen, and she felt his breath on her sensitised skin. Maybe that was why she felt dizzy, she was panting as if she’d run a marathon.

Her hands still held him close. The sensation of hard bone and flesh and soft hair beneath her hands was exquisite. She saw her raised arms, her hands clutching him and realised, muzzily, that she should let him go. But her brain couldn’t seem to conjure the appropriate command.

She stared up at him. His was the strong, burnished face of seduction. The epitome of every secret, scandalous desire she’d ever harboured. His lips were fuller than before, from the taste of her. The knowledge sent a thrill of excitement straight through her. His eyes gleamed brighter than ever under those heavy hooded lids, as if he understood her yearning. His high cut cheekbones and the strong lines of his jaw, even the slashing angle of his nose, seemed more pronounced, as if the flesh had been pared back to reveal only stark desire.

If sensual need had a face, it was here: bold and utterly captivating.

Against him, against her own rising need, her defences were crystalline: transparent, brittle and easily splintered. She felt them crack and shatter under the heat of his flagrantly wanting gaze. But it was the force of her own desire that finally destroyed them. The knowledge that, however wrong, however dangerous, this was what she wanted. This man.

The epiphany was instant and complete. For all her fear, her caution, her longing for a safe secure life, she couldn’t escape the truth.

She wanted Arik. In the most elemental way a woman could want a man.

She should have been embarrassed, swimming up out of her sensual haze to discover that she’d succumbed so completely to him. That, without lifting a finger, he’d enticed her back to lie before him in a pose of wanton invitation. With his mouth alone he’d coaxed her into a new reality, where all that mattered was the present, the all-consuming hunger for sensual pleasure.

Later, she knew, she’d wince at the image of her hands clutching him close, a symbol of her complete abandonment.

If he’d been less trustworthy, if he’d taken advantage as he so easily could have, she might not be lying here fully clothed. The thought created a twist of horror deep in her belly. She’d invited trouble when she’d lost control. But, amazingly, Arik had retained his. He hadn’t faltered in his promise of a kiss only.

Her eyes widened as she stared into the impenetrable blackness of his gaze. He wanted her. He’d spelled it out more than once. Yet he’d taken no more than she’d agreed to. Despite the fact that he could have plundered her for so much more than a kiss. Despite the fact that she’d wanted him pressed against her, his hands on her body, his arms pulling her close.

Her brow furrowed as her foggy brain worked through the implications. Her hands grew lax and slid down his neck, past the iron-hard tendons and scorching heat of his shoulders. The heavy thud of his heart pounding against his chest reinforced the knowledge of his arousal and her hands dropped away.

Even in the sudden delirium of her new-found physical desire, she would have called a halt—eventually, but probably too late, if he’d decided she was willing.

She could barely believe she’d let herself go so far.

He could have pushed her even further into intimacy. Could have taken all that he wanted with very little persuasion.

Yet he hadn’t.

She stared up at him, the throb of her racing pulse deafening in her ears.

He was a man of his word, she realised.

Against all the odds she’d found a man who could be trusted, even against his own urgent desires.

After the dark phantoms that crowded her past, that should be impossible. A man she could trust.

Rosalie’s chest tightened suddenly as if constricted by metal bands. Her breath sawed in her lungs and a ball of burning emotion rose in her throat. She tried to swallow it down, combating the searing ache at the back of her eyes.

Stupid to be upset now, when everything was all right. She was safe, after all. Unharmed. Untouched, but for the heady caress of his mouth against hers.

Yet the sharp pain of unharnessed emotions accelerated rather than dwindled. She gulped down hard on the knot of sensation as she blinked against her blurring gaze.

‘Rosalie?’ His voice was rusty, harsh. ‘What’s wrong?’

She shook her head. She couldn’t speak. And no way could she explain the surge of emotions churning within her: the relief and incredulity, the self-disgust and remembered pain. There was more too, a tumble of pent-up feelings that had more to do with the past than with what had just happened. Somehow their kiss, the intimacy between them, had unleashed the demons she’d kept at bay for so long.

Rosalie bit her lip and turned away. She felt him move to give her more space. He probably thought she was off her rocker! To get teary over a kiss. A first class mind-blowing kiss, but still, as far as he knew, just a kiss.

She planted her hands against the richly patterned carpet of the floor and tried to concentrate only on what she saw. On the delicate whorls of colour in the stylised pattern of flowers and tendrils in the silk and wool. Flowing lines, clear ruby tones with a fine tracery of azure and cream and indigo. Buds and leaves and arabesques of gold.

‘Rosalie.’ His voice was lower this time, husky and deep. She felt it roll across her shredded nerves, soft and powerful as the surge of the tide.

Even his voice had the power to seduce!

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, finding her voice at last. ‘I just felt a little…faint,’ she lied. How else could she explain the unstoppable force of raw emotion that had hit her, just when she was at her most vulnerable? She couldn’t explain it to him. She could barely understand it herself. She just knew that she’d experienced something…wonderful. And it wasn’t just Arik’s expertise at kissing or the taste of mutual enjoyment. It was the tentative rekindling of faith in another.

It had been a long time coming. Until today she’d never thought it would happen.

And it was overwhelming.

She lifted a hand and surreptitiously wiped away the tears that had overflowed on to her cheeks. With her shoulders hunched and her back to Arik, she hoped he wouldn’t notice. But she doubted he’d miss anything. His eyes were as keen as an eagle’s. Which meant she had to brazen it out.

‘Here.’ She looked down to see his squared hand hold out a gilt-edged glass to her. ‘Drink this.’

It was tropical fruit juice. Cold, sweetly tart and refreshing. The everyday act of sipping and swallowing helped. So did the immediate sugar boost. Slowly she drained it.

‘Thanks.’ She held the glass out, darting a glance at his set face, and then away from his intense scrutiny.



‘Are you ill?’ Arik took the empty glass and placed it on the table. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

She shook her head and the wispy tendrils of bright hair swirled round her face, framing features that were only gradually regaining some colour.

‘No, I’m okay.’ Her lips quirked up in a perfunctory smile that tugged at something in his chest. ‘I just felt a little…’

‘Faint,’ he finished for her, angry at the frustration of knowing he wouldn’t get the truth from her now. Worried for her. Whatever had happened, she wasn’t going to trust him with it. But of one thing he was sure: Rosalie Winters hadn’t been on the verge of a faint, however stunning their kiss. He’d still been reeling from the impact of her mouth opening like a flower beneath his, the sensation of her warm, seductive body relaxing into complete abandonment beneath him, when he’d seen the look on her face.

Tears, that was what he’d seen. Tears and a flash of something he couldn’t pin down. Surprise? No, it had been stronger than that. Amazement? Horror?

Surely not. He could vouch for the fact that no woman he’d kissed had ever been horrified by him.

And that kiss had been completely mutual, after those first few moments when she’d hesitated. No way could she have faked that reaction. She’d been perfect. Responsive; almost innocently seductive and eager. So eager that he’d been tested to the limit, reining in his burgeoning lust. No woman had ever tasted that good or felt so inviting. And it hadn’t been the piquancy of their almost-caress, of knowing he shouldn’t, couldn’t trust himself to hold her and stop at a single kiss.

No, there was something…different about kissing Rosalie Winters. Something that left him with a gnawing, unsatisfied hunger deep inside. Hunger for her body. But for more too—for her smiles and her confidence.

He stared at her averted profile, lost for an explanation as to why this woman affected him so. Yet this wasn’t the time to fathom it out. There was something wrong. Badly wrong.

‘Would you like me to take you back to your hotel?’ He hadn’t known he was going to make the offer until the words spilled from his mouth. It wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was a repeat of that kiss. And to explore a little further, to hold her in his arms and learn the secrets of her body. Taking her back would put an end to those plans. And yet it mattered more to him that she recover from whatever had upset her.

Just as long as it wasn’t him. What would he do if he discovered it was he who’d made her cry?

‘Thank you, but I’m all right. It was just a passing thing.’ She flashed him a look from stormy grey-green eyes that cut right through him. He’d give so much to see the shadows fade from her face.

‘I’d rather go sightseeing—’ she paused and drew in a shuddering breath ‘—if the offer still stands?’

Arik knew a moment’s uncharacteristic indecision. Instinct told him he should press for more information, uncover whatever it was she kept hidden, for he knew it was important. But selfishly he wanted to spend the afternoon with her. If he pushed for answers then she could take flight and leave.

‘Of course the offer still stands. On one condition.’

Her widening eyes met his. He watched the tip of her tongue slip out and moisten her lips and wished he’d bargained for another kiss. The effect she had on his body was overpowering and immediate. Even now, worried about her, he was hard with lust.

‘What’s the condition?’

‘That if you feel faint again I take you straight to a doctor.’

Her smile this time was genuine and its impact hit him hard in the solar plexus.

‘Thanks, Arik, but I’m sure I’ll be okay.’

Watching her lips shape his name had to be one of the most erotic things in the world. Especially now, when her mouth was swollen from kissing him. The taste of her was still in his mouth, an addictive flavour that heightened his appetite for her. He stared at her lips a moment longer, wishing the old custom of wearing a face veil still prevailed. It was too distracting watching her mouth, inviting and lush, and not being able to take it again.

‘Come.’ He rose to his feet and held out an imperious hand to her. ‘I hear the four wheel drive. It’s time we were on our way.’

For an instant she hesitated, her eyes on his outstretched arm, and then she reached out and let him fold his hand around hers. Good. The trust was there still. Arik ignored the rush of relief he felt as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her outside. She was where he wanted her and that was what counted.



Late sunlight slanted down into the broad courtyard and glinted off Rosalie’s hair. As the afternoon had progressed and she’d become more engrossed by what she’d seen, she’d forgotten to push the strands back from her face or catch them up into her usual ponytail. Now her hair was a rose-gold halo, framing her delicate features. The perfect foil for her clear skin and lush pink mouth.

Arik leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed as he watched her. It had taken a while but gradually the shadows had disappeared from her face. The tense grey glint of her eyes had faded, replaced by a deep jade-green as she’d forgotten whatever it was that had caused her so much pain.

He’d learnt that much about her, that her mood could be gauged by the shade of her eyes. Storm-grey for pain or anxiety. Green for pleasure.

Her eyes had glittered green as she’d stared up at him after their kiss. He could have drowned in those depths, had felt the rising tide of need tugging him closer so he could lose himself in her. It had only been the glint of sudden tears that had halted him.

There’d been pain there. And it bothered him that he didn’t know why. Could it have been their kiss? No. It had felt too right. Something from the past, then? He sensed that Rosalie Winters was a woman of secrets. And he knew an overwhelming urge to lay them all bare, uncover her mysteries and conquer her fears.

He’d been right to bring her here. She’d been at home almost from the moment of introductions. Obviously art had a language all of its own for most of the artists here had only rudimentary French or English and Rosalie’s Arabic, though surprisingly well accented for a beginner, was basic. Yet she’d made herself understood. In fact he’d been superfluous after the first half hour. He’d retired instead to take tea with the director, to discuss the school’s progress and its finances. Despite the funding arrangements that ensured the place ran smoothly, there were always more worthy initiatives for Arik’s money to sponsor.

‘It’s getting late,’ he murmured eventually, closing in behind Rosalie where she crouched beside a young mosaic maker. Her gaze was focused on the nimble play of the girl’s fingers as she selected another tiny glass tile, fitting it delicately into the pattern.

At first Rosalie didn’t hear. It was only when he let his hand settle on her shoulder that she looked up and brought him into focus.

‘I’m sorry; have I taken too long?’

He shook his head. ‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure to see your enthusiasm. But the school will be closing soon and you’ll want to phone your daughter.’

‘It’s that late?’ She gave her watch a stunned glance. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ Immediately she turned to the young woman beside her and, in a mixture of English and halting Arabic, expressed her thanks and good wishes. The girl smiled and told her how much she’d enjoyed sharing her work.

It took time to say their farewells but eventually they left, walking through the courtyard gates and out to the vehicle. Arik glanced at the lowering sun. Too late to suggest going elsewhere and he knew Rosalie would again reject an offer of an evening meal together. She was too wary about being alone with him. In fact, after her reaction to their kiss, he wondered if she’d find some excuse not to meet tomorrow.

‘Arik?’ Automatically he stopped at the sound of his name on her lips. Her voice was soft and tentative and a jolt of ice speared him at the thought that he’d been right. She was going to renege on their arrangement.

She stood beside him, her head just topping his chin, and he experienced a fierce urge to pull her close and not let her go, no matter what her objections.

‘You didn’t tell me that you funded the art school.’

He frowned, nonplussed at her words. Of all the things she might have said, that was the least expected. The frozen shard in his chest began to thaw as he relaxed.

‘What makes you think I do?’

‘One of the instructors mentioned it when he was showing me around.’ She paused, staring up at him. ‘You don’t mind me knowing, do you? It’s such a brilliant idea, fostering young talent and at the same time providing an education for kids whose families find it difficult to support them. I think it’s great.’

He shrugged, repressing his annoyance that his role in the enterprise had been raised. It wasn’t a secret; after all, he was involved in lots of schemes to support his people. ‘I didn’t bring you here to impress you with my work as a benefactor. I simply thought that, as an artist, you’d enjoy seeing the work of other talented artists.’

‘And I did. It was wonderful. Especially the ceramic painters and the mosaic makers.’ Her eyes shone with an enthusiasm that made her face glow. Her hand grasped his forearm, but he guessed she didn’t notice.

He did. He felt the imprint of each finger through the cotton of his shirt, the warmth of her palm, and wanted more. The craving for her touch against his bare flesh was so strong he wanted to tear his shirt open and plant her palm against his chest. Right here, right now, in the lengthening shadows of the school grounds, he wanted her hands on him, stroking, clinging as he embraced her.

‘I’d love to try mosaic work. But I don’t know anyone with that sort of expertise at home to teach me.’

‘You could learn here. Stay a little longer. There’d be no objection to your taking tuition here.’

Her head tilted back and her bright eyes met his. The force of their impact sent heat sparking through him.

‘It’s tempting but, no, I couldn’t. I have responsibilities.’

Her daughter. Of course.

Suddenly the prospect of their short relationship ending, as it naturally would, loomed on the horizon, far too close. The thought unsettled him.

Could it be that he wanted more than a few days with Rosalie? More than the pleasure of her body for the time it took him to recuperate and resume his normal routine?

‘Perhaps during another visit, later?’

She hesitated for a moment. Long enough for him to be appalled at how he hung on her answer. Did her presence mean that much to him?

‘Maybe one day,’ she said at last, slipping her hand away. ‘In the meantime I need to work on my painting skills. I’m so rusty.’

‘Then it’s a good thing you have time in which to work on them.’ He gestured for her to precede him towards the gate. ‘We will meet at the same time tomorrow?’

‘Yes, same time tomorrow.’ Her voice was light and breathless, as if she were nervous. But that didn’t bother him. She intended to meet him again, despite her…faintness earlier. His bloodstream fizzed in anticipation.

Whatever had happened to make her wary, Rosalie Winters kissed like a woman blind to everything but him. And he intended to capitalise on that enthusiasm. Very soon.




Chapter Six


ROSALIE looked around the huge room with its magnificent view over the sea and knew she’d stepped straight into a world of wealth that most people never experienced.

There was nothing gaudy or ostentatious here but Arik’s home was imbued with the luxury only serious money could buy. Generation upon generation of riches and privilege. And hard fought battles, she realised, noting the pair of antique muskets mounted over an arched doorway. They were decorated with the finest silver embossing, making them fit weapons for a sheikh.

‘It’s breathtaking,’ she said, turning slowly around. And it was. From the spectacular panorama along the coast to the superb silks of hand woven rugs and tapestries. From the fine-grained leather of low modern lounges to the high vaulted ceiling tiled in a mosaic the colour of lapis lazuli, complete with a sprinkling of golden stars.

‘It pleases me that you approve of my home.’ Arik was his usual urbane self as he watched her take in her surroundings. His eyes were unreadable, his tall body relaxed. Again she wished he wasn’t quite such a perfect host. She longed for a glimmer of the passion she’d seen in him two days ago. That she’d felt in the erotic caress of his mouth against hers.

Heat burned across her cheeks at the memory and she swung round towards the wide terrace that hung out over the cliff.

The memory of Arik’s kiss. She’d been unable to put it from her mind. Or forget her reaction to it.

She’d gone to the beach the following day, half nervous, half secretly thrilled at the thought of him kissing her again. This time he’d pull her close in his arms, let her feel his strong body against hers, alleviate her burgeoning curiosity to know his touch.

She’d gone expecting another lesson in seduction from this man who was obviously a master of the art. She hadn’t even considered not going—and that was the most telling thing of all. Despite her past, despite the fact that she hadn’t trusted a man in years, the need to see Arik again, to be with him, overrode all else.

Perhaps, as her mother promised, time did heal. Maybe she was ready to take a chance on life.

Rosalie stared through the plate glass doors to the terrace and, beyond that, the vivid aquamarine of the sea.

It had been a momentous thing for her, deciding she wanted what Arik offered: the chance to experience passion, to ease the unceasing hollow ache deep inside her that told her she wanted a man—wanted him. That had been a revelation of her own femininity. Proof that she really had moved on from her troubled past.

In the long ago days when she’d indulged in daydreams she’d pictured a future with a man by her side. Someone she could rely on, who’d love her always. But times had changed and she knew that what Arik offered was perfect for her now: a way to explore her feelings, assuage these new found sexual cravings in safety. For he would be tender. He could be trusted.

And he was experienced enough to teach her all she longed to know. She shivered and crossed her arms at the thought of what she wanted from Arik.

Too bad he’d obviously changed his mind.

She was ready for more. But now he behaved like a perfect distant gentleman. He avoided so much as touching her hand, had clearly pulled back from intimacy. Dully she’d wondered if she’d kissed so badly that he’d decided she was no longer worth the effort of seducing. It wouldn’t surprise her.

But he was a man to whom a promise was important and it seemed he was determined to stick to their bargain. Lunch yesterday had been a short affair. Then in the afternoon he’d driven her round part of the coast road, pointing out towns, historic sites and scenic vistas that should have caught and held her imagination. But she’d been too deep in disappointment to care.

How did you tell a man you wanted him to make love to you? Was it really that simple? And what if, like Arik, he’d clearly decided he was no longer interested?

Last night in her lonely bed had been the worst. She’d been so edgy she hadn’t slept. Even after a long phone chat with her mother and Belle. Even after a relaxing bath. All that had achieved was to remind her that her body was…aroused. Ready for Arik’s touch.

Heat scalded through her. Even now, after a second morning of polite decorum from Arik while she’d painted, she couldn’t banish her craving for him. It was shaming, this relentless need, the breath-stealing suspense as she watched his every move and hoped he’d reach out to touch her.

Sensual awareness had come late to her and she hadn’t yet mastered the art of controlling it. Why else was she standing here, breathless with the forlorn hope that even now, after two days of scrupulous distance, Arik might continue where their kiss had left off?

Blindly she groped for the door handle, swung open the glass door and stepped out. She needed air. She needed sanctuary. She’d been an idiot to agree when Arik had suggested they lunch at his home today. What she really needed was to get away while she had some shred of self-respect left.

She leaned heavily on the stone balustrade, her fingers gripping tightly, her chest constricting as she fought for control.

Laughable, wasn’t it? Finally to decide to take up Arik’s seductive promise of a no-strings affair and then to discover the option was no longer on offer. She shook her head miserably. Just another of life’s disappointments.

In the overall scheme of things, this surely didn’t rate such profound regret.



‘Rosalie?’ He stopped just a pace behind her and saw the tension stiffen her spine when she realised he was so close. The sea breeze fanned her hair and he shoved his hands deep in his pockets rather than reach out and fondle the silken tresses.

‘It’s a magnificent view. You’re so lucky to have this.’ Her gesture encompassed not only the beach far below but the ancient fortress that was his home. Yet he was more interested in the high uneven tone of her voice and in her averted profile.

She was doing it again, shutting him out.

Damn it! After two days of superhuman restraint, he deserved more. He’d read the pain so clear in her expression after their kiss and he’d respected her need for space. It had almost killed him, reining in the drive to claim her. To bind her close in his arms and not let her escape till he found satisfaction. That kiss, a mere taste of her treasures, had only titillated.

He needed more. Far more.

What had begun as an idle amusement had become a raw compulsion. He’d recognised her wariness, her fear, and gone slow. But he’d seen the hot desire in her unconscious responses and now it was time to act.

‘Yes, extremely lucky.’ He took another step towards her, close enough to feel the heat she generated and hear the hasty breath she sucked in. ‘My ancestors fought long and hard to win this territory and keep it safe for their people.’

‘And now you enjoy the benefits.’

Still her head was averted. Was she afraid of what he might read in her face? The thought spurred him. He leaned forward and placed one hand on the balustrade beside hers. There was a neatness to it—her hand, small and delicate, yet, he knew, clever and capable, beside his own. She’d be like that all over: skin pale and soft, dainty and feminine. In his mind’s eye he could picture his own darker, larger hand moving slowly across her bare flesh, sliding, caressing, discovering. He could almost hear her sighs as he located each sensitive spot on her body and claimed it for himself.

‘I make it my policy always to enjoy the benefits on offer.’

Her head swung round then, her eyes wide and confused. Her lips parted and he wanted to duck his head and taste her. Instead he took a slow breath and reached for her hand. It slid into his unresistingly and he felt his mouth kick up in a tight smile of satisfaction.

‘Come, Rosalie. Our lunch will be ready. You can admire the view later.’

She was silent as he led her into the house. Silent as he took her through room after room, giving her a potted history of the fortress-cum-palace that had been built by one of his ancestors hundreds of years ago. He had no idea if she took in his words; he barely registered them himself. He was more absorbed in the feel of her, hand in his, the proximity of her so close beside him as he took her deeper into the palace.

‘Your home is huge,’ she said at last as they approached the end of a long passageway.

He didn’t tell her that they’d eschewed the public dining rooms, all three of them, in favour of a meal in his private suite. Even with his well-trained staff, he had no intention of being disturbed this afternoon.

His fingers tightened fractionally round hers, then released their grip as he gestured for her to enter his chambers.

‘After you, Rosalie.’

For an instant her eyes lifted to his and he felt the now familiar jolt, like a bolt of electricity, sizzle through him. Then she stepped over the threshold and into the suite. He fought to keep the anticipatory smile from his face.

Her exclamation of delight masked the soft click of the door closing behind them and he turned to see her standing in the deep semi-circular window embrasure that jutted out over the cliff-line. She reached out to brush her hand across the continuous round seat that lined it and then lift to the silk hangings, tied back to reveal the view.

His body thrummed an urgent message of need. He’d imagined her here so often, naked on that padded seat, or leaning back against the window frame, her bare arms outstretched invitingly towards him. The images were almost his undoing. Tension knotted his muscles and he felt the strain of imposing control in every cell of his body.

Deliberately he turned away and walked further into the sitting room, towards the drinks tray positioned beside one of the sofas.

‘Would you like a cool drink?’ he murmured in a voice rough with repressed desire.

‘Yes, please.’

He glanced over his shoulder and found she’d moved, bypassing the circular table laden with food, and was investigating the large telescope positioned before the next window.

‘You look at the stars?’

He shrugged, remembering the day—was it only a week ago?—when he’d first seen her through the telescopic lens. He’d known even then what he’d wanted from her.

‘Or the ships at sea. There’s a lot of activity in the shipping lane further off the coast.’ He put ice in a couple of glasses, then filled them. ‘I was in plaster with a broken leg and looking for any diversion. I’m not used to being cooped up.’ He turned and offered her a glass.

‘How did you do it? Break your leg, I mean.’

‘An accident on an oil rig. It happens. But, fortunately, not often.’ An explosion on a rig was disastrous. And this time it had nearly claimed the life of one of his men. If Arik hadn’t realised in time and turned back to look for him as they’d been evacuating, they might have had a fatality on their hands instead of mere fractures.

‘It sounds dangerous.’ She looked up at him so seriously that he wanted to pull her close and reassure her. But he couldn’t take her in his arms. Not yet.

‘Most of the time it’s no more dangerous than being on land. It was just a matter of bad timing.’ He turned towards the table that almost filled the window embrasure. ‘It looks like Ayisha has been busy.’

‘Ayisha?’

‘My cook. She seems to have decided we must be starving after our exertions on the beach.’ From the corner of his eye he saw Rosalie start. He wondered if, like him, she’d been thinking of exertions other than riding and painting. The suspicion pleased him. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’

Personally he was ravenous. But not for food. At least the meal would force him to take his time and not ravish her immediately. ‘Please, take a seat.’

He watched Rosalie settle on the wide padded seat beneath the windows and then pushed the round table in closer, within easy reach. He slid in beside her, close but not touching, and placed his untouched drink on the table.



The food was delicious. Subtly spiced, fragrant with herbs and unnamed spices, melting in the mouth at each bite. And yet Rosalie found it almost impossible to concentrate on the fare before her.

Instead it was the man at her side who took all her attention. Surreptitiously she watched his strong hands reach for dishes, lift covers, offer delicacies. A shiver slid across her skin as his fingers brushed hers. She loved his touch, had secretly dreamed of it all over her body. Now the sight of his hands mesmerised her into a haze of fascination and longing. She wanted to reach out and draw Arik’s hand closer, close it over her breast so she could feel its strength against her softness.

Rosalie swallowed down hard on a morsel of grilled fish and tried to concentrate on the meal.

She listened to his stream of small talk that reinforced the leisurely tempo of the meal. But there was no way she could relax. As each moment passed the tension in her stomach notched harder, tighter.

Arik passed her some rice flavoured with apricots, raisins and almonds.

‘This is one of Ayisha’s specialities and I can recommend it. Would you like some?’ The flash of his smile stole her breath and she found herself nodding, even though her throat had closed and she doubted she’d be able to swallow properly.

‘Here,’ he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, husky pitch that seemed to reverberate right through her, ‘tell me what you think.’

He lifted a fork laden with fluffy rice and held it out. Eyes as dark as her own midnight longings looked back at her and she felt something loosen and give way, deep inside her. Restraint? Caution?…Fear?

Obediently she opened her mouth, catching the flicker of expression in his eyes, unable to place it. She was too wrapped up in the…intimacy of having this man feed her to even try.

Taste exploded in her mouth—sweet, nutty, a perfect blend of flavours. But it was his gaze that had her attention. It was a palpable force, warming her skin, holding her still, waiting for his next move.

Finally she swallowed. ‘It’s delicious.’

‘Good.’ His one-sided smile sent a surge of pure longing through her. ‘Have some more.’

Again he held out the fork. Again he watched her open her mouth and accept the food. And once again she saw a ripple of something in his expression. Something at odds with the easy, relaxed pose of his big body and the slow smile on his face.

Hurriedly she chewed and swallowed. ‘Thank you. But no more.’

He raised one lazy dark eyebrow in enquiry. ‘You’ve had enough?’

Silently she nodded.

‘Ah, then we come to my favourite part of the meal.’

Something about the low burr of his voice, the infinitesimal strengthening of his accent, made gooseflesh rise on her skin. She shivered.

‘Really?’

He inclined his head, still focused on her in a way that made her conscious of the heavy beat of her pulse, the miniscule distance separating them.

‘Dessert,’ he said. ‘I’ve always had a weakness for sweet things.’

The words were innocuous. But not the way he said them. She knew he wasn’t merely discussing food. His very look was an invitation: flagrant, tempting.

Now was the time to leave. To say she really needed to be going. That she’d changed her mind and wanted to go home. Or that she had a headache. Anything to get her out of here, where this man’s ability to seduce with a look, a word, was the most potent force she’d ever known.

She could do it. She knew she could. If she wanted to.

‘I…’

‘Yes, Rosalie?’ He leaned a fraction closer—close enough for her to inhale the scent of his skin: hot, male, musky.

She licked her lips. This was her chance to escape back to safety. Arik wouldn’t stop her; she knew that with absolute certainty. She could scurry away to her private refuge from the world, turn her back on temptation and rely on the lessons of fear and caution she’d learned in the past three years. They would protect her from hurt.

‘I like dessert,’ she whispered after a long pause.

Immediately she was rewarded with the bright blaze of his smile, radiant with approval.

‘And you shall have it, Rosalie.’ His voice was lower, throatier than before, and she started when he reached for her hand, raised it to his mouth and placed a single kiss to the back of it. His thumb stroked her sensitive skin and she shuddered as awareness prickled through her, from the sensitive tips of her breasts to her neck, her thighs and deep in her womb.

He turned her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, let his tongue lave its centre, and a jolt of something white-hot and stunning burst through her. She felt a clenching deep inside as every nerve reacted. Automatically she tugged her hand, trying to break his grip, but he simply smiled and held both her hands in his.

‘There is no need for haste. We have all afternoon.’

Then he released her hand and reached out to a platter at the centre of the table.

‘Would you like some fruit?’

She stared at the plate, her mind slow, still catching up after the effect of Arik’s smile on her nervous system.

‘I…yes. Thank you.’ Her throat was dry, her voice cracked. She took refuge in a gulp of her iced juice as she frantically tried to get a grip on her churning emotions.

Had she done the right thing? Was she regretting the impulse to stay?

She waited for the icy finger of fear to trail down her spine, for the churning regret to unsettle her stomach.

But all she felt was a hot eagerness. An avid expectation that soon, very soon, she’d be in Arik’s arms. She bit down on the small secret smile that curved her lips at the thought.

No, she had no regrets.

‘Peach?’ he offered and she turned her head. He held up a neat sliver of fresh fruit to her. It smelled like summer and it tasted like sunshine as she let him slip it between her lips. There was the faintest brush of his fingers against her mouth and then his hand was gone.

Her lips tingled from that fleeting touch.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ she said as he held out another piece to her. This time his touch lingered against her mouth a second longer. Time enough for her to take in the slight salt tang of his skin and feel the passing caress of his thumb against her bottom lip.

Heat bloomed deep inside. Darts of sensation shot through her, pulling her straighter in her seat, eager for his next offering.

‘That depends,’ he said, letting his gaze slide from her face to her hand, grasping the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip.

Depends? Rosalie looked from her hand to Arik and then to the neatly sliced peach on the plate before her.

It depends on me she realised with a thrill of daring. Tentatively she reached out and picked up a wedge of fruit. It was ripe, slippery with juice, and her fingers trembled.

Did she really mean to be so…provocative as to feed him?

She took a slow breath, trying to regulate the rhythm of her racing heart. But when she looked up into his fathomless eyes, her pulse pounded harder than ever. His gaze was so intense that she felt it graze her features, brush over her throat and linger on her lips.

Rosalie offered him the fruit, the tremor in her hand so pronounced that she was barely surprised when he closed his fingers around hers while he slid the peach into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, smiled, and then licked the juice from her fingers.

A shudder of pure longing swept through her. Her nipples peaked, pebble-hard against her bra as she watched him suck the sticky sweetness from her thumb, her forefinger. Incendiary heat shot straight to the pit of her belly and to the moistening core of her desire.

Oh, my.

‘Delicious,’ he whispered in a throaty voice so deep it resonated within her.

Still holding her hand, Arik selected another segment of peach and held it to her lips. This time he didn’t draw his hand away and she had to slip it from between his fingers. Heaven! It tasted of him. Or did he taste of the fruit? His thumb pressed against her bottom lip and she slid her tongue along it, watching the glimmer of anticipation in his eyes. Cautiously she parted her lips a little wider and took his thumb into her mouth, sucking the sweetness from it.

The searing pleasure in his expression reflected her own excitement, told her this was a mutual delight.

That was a heady realisation. For the first time she felt a thrill of power, knowing she could affect him so.

He might be the master at this, but even the novice had something to offer.

She reached for another piece of fruit and felt an unravelling, unsettling sensation as she watched him eat from her hand, then use his tongue to swipe up the juice on each of her fingers.

Her eyelids drifted down on a wordless sigh. She felt…everything. Her skin had grown so sensitised that even the lap of his tongue over a fingertip, the caress of his lips on her palm, was enough to seduce her into ecstasy.

‘Rosalie.’At the sound of his voice she opened her eyes and found him leaning closer, offering her another piece. Obediently she took the segment but she was clumsy and juice dribbled from her lips.

He still held her hand in his so she lifted her other one to wipe away the moisture. But she was too late. Already he’d moved, tilting his head to catch the droplet of juice with his tongue.

She shuddered at the sensual impact of his mouth on her flesh, smoothing along her chin. She felt his breath on her, scented him in her short, urgent gasps and shut her eyes against the dizzying onslaught of awareness. He kissed her jaw line, the corner of her mouth, across the sensitive spot beneath her ear that sent arrows of heat to every nerve in her body.

Her head lolled back as he pressed his lips to her throat, evoking the most exquisite sense of abandonment. If he put his hands on her now she’d welcome his touch. Revel in it.

And then, suddenly, he was gone. Rosalie opened her eyes to find him watching her, so close that she had only to lean forward a little to bring her lips to his.

For a heartbeat she stalled in thought, wondering, wishing. And in that instant Arik moved, shifting back in his seat and half turning away.

Panic shot through her. Had he changed his mind? He must know she wanted him. She sat up straighter just as he turned and held out a small damp cloth.

His expression was tight, almost hard, as he wiped the cloth across her chin and then her hands, removing the last sticky traces of peach. Then he flung the linen on to the table and fixed his eyes on hers.

What she saw there stole her voice. Gone was the laid-back insouciance she’d come to expect from Arik. The teasing half smile. Even the enigmatic stare.

Now his face seemed cast in hard bronze, drawn tight with the force of a compulsion he couldn’t hide. On any other man that look would have frightened her.

On Arik it excited her.

‘It’s time,’ he said, reaching out and enfolding both her hands in his. ‘You’ve decided, haven’t you, Rosalie?’

He paused, awaiting her response. Words were beyond her, so she nodded.

‘Good.’ Already he was drawing her to her feet. ‘At last we will be lovers.’




Chapter Seven


THE light sea breeze from the open windows cooled Rosalie’s flushed cheeks as he drew her through the arched doorway into his private domain. His bedroom was large, light and airy. At the centre of the back wall was a low bed, wide and sumptuous with its richly patterned coverlet. That was where Arik led her, slowly, inexorably, till it lay before them, a blatant invitation to pleasure.

She swallowed hard, faced with the reality of her desire. Did she have the nerve to go through with this?

But then Arik’s hands were on her, gently compelling, drawing her down to the bed, and there was the promise of heaven in his touch. The lure of long-denied fulfilment. Of joy. Rosalie sank down beside him, leaning in against him without a second thought. For now it was her body responding, not her mind. She acted on instinct alone.

Their kiss was perfect. Growing passion tempered by a fierce restraint she sensed in him. And this time it wasn’t just a meeting of lips and tongues. As he slanted his head to gain better access to her mouth, she felt his hands skim over her. Even through her clothes his touch ignited a desire that sparked and seared. Over the bare skin of her face and neck, across her shoulders, her back, her arms, down her sides and back up to her face. Wherever he caressed her he left a trail of sizzling excitement. It burned across her skin, coiled hard and tight inside her, till she was on fire, desperate for something to assuage the raging need.

Then the welcoming heat of his big body encompassed her, the hard strength of bone and taut muscle.

Automatically she clung to him, revelling in the sensation of his torso pushing her down into the soft mattress. Breathlessly she registered the way his broad chest flattened her breasts, but there was no pain, only a growing edginess, a delicious awareness tingling through every centimetre of her. She wanted to rub herself against him, explore his hard muscled form with her hands, her lips, her body.

She wanted to imprint herself on him and to feel his flesh against hers. She wanted…

‘Rosalie.’ His deep throaty murmur against the corner of her mouth was enticing, seductive. Did she hear it or feel it? His lips brushed her own, caressed the sensitive corner of her mouth, dipped down to the pulse point low on her neck, and she arched up involuntarily, gasping with delight.

The impact of that kiss reverberated to every pleasure point in her body. There was effervescence in her blood, a surge of energy so strong she felt almost faint with it.

‘I’ve waited so long for you,’ he whispered and now she felt his hands move, deftly unbuttoning her shirt.

She opened eyes she hadn’t realised she’d closed and stared up at Arik. He was breathtaking, each severe line of his face, each angle and plane contributing to a whole that was compelling. He was handsome, beautiful even, in a hard, ultra-masculine way. But it was the inner fire, the spark of his personality, and of his desire, that overwhelmed Rosalie. There was a single-minded intensity about him that would have scared her a week ago.

Now she revelled in it.

She wanted Arik so much. Needed him. His expression: eyelids hooded, nostrils flared, mouth a taut line, made something leap inside her.

Then she registered the caress of cool air as he spread wide the sides of her shirt, baring her from the waist up to his gaze.

His eyes lingered on her bra, tracing its curve over her breasts. His gaze was smoky with desire.

‘You are beautiful, Rosalie.’ He lifted a hand and feathered his fingers along the upper edge of her bra.

She jolted at the unexpected intensity of that light touch. Her breath was a gasp of pure pleasure. Without thought she arched her back, silently begging him to repeat the gesture.

‘And so exquisitely responsive,’ he murmured as he again stroked the upper curve of her breasts and her eyes fluttered shut.

His tone was appreciative, knowing. It reminded her for an instant of the gulf of experience between them.

‘I’m not protected,’ she blurted out, then bit her lip as a fiery blush rose in her cheeks.

‘Of course it will be my responsibility to protect you, little one.’

His gentle tone persuaded her to open her eyes. His gaze met hers and suddenly the embarrassment she’d felt a moment before was gone. She took a slow breath, saw the way his expression flickered at the deep rise of her breasts, but forced herself to go on.

‘I don’t have much…’ Experience, she’d been about to say. But then she’d been pregnant, had given birth. He wouldn’t understand. And she didn’t want to enter into long explanations, not now. ‘It’s…’

‘Been a while?’ he finished for her, his gaze piercing. ‘Don’t worry, Rosalie. Once learned, the lessons of love aren’t forgotten.’

That was what she was afraid of. Maybe she’d better tell him. She opened her mouth reluctantly but he forestalled her.

‘Between us, little one, it will be easy.’ His deep voice was reassuring and his slow smile reminded her that she could trust him. His eyes glowed with an excitement that matched her own. Could she ask for more?

Again his hand traced the outline of her bra, then dipped lower to find and tease her nipple through the cotton fabric.

She sucked in her breath in a hiss of surprised delight. Who’d have guessed such a touch would make her feel…?

‘Perfect,’ he murmured as he lowered his mouth to hers. ‘It will be perfect with us.’

Then there was no more thinking. No more worries. No embarrassment. There was only the hot dark velvet of his kiss, the rising excitement as his hand grew heavier, more demanding at first one breast and then another.

She could grow addicted to Arik’s touch. So sure, so sensitive. Her body clamoured for more, pushing up against his hand, his body, relieved and yet unsettled at the weight of him over her. It was what she wanted, but it wasn’t enough.

When he drew back a fraction, her hands clung to his shoulders, her mouth throbbed from the passion that had soared between them. A passion reflected in the blaze of his eyes and the heave of his chest with every breath he took.

The last lingering shadow of doubt fled. She knew this was right.



‘I want to touch you, Rosalie.’ Arik was surprised at how steady his voice sounded. He teetered at the edge of his control, fiercely resisting the relentless urge to rip her clothes away and bury himself quick and deep in her soft waiting warmth.

He’d known urgent desire before, had more than enough experience to be able to temper his urges to ensure his partner was satisfied. Until now. The intensity of each sensation, the effect of watching Rosalie come alive at his touch, breathless and eager and somehow vulnerable, was something completely new to him.

His body felt as if it were on a rack, stretched almost to breaking-point by the weight of restraint placed upon it. Each muscle and sinew was stretched to the limit. But there was no alternative. He remembered the instant of doubt he’d seen in Rosalie’s face and knew he had no choice but to love her slowly. Even it if killed him.

Gently he pushed her shirt from her shoulders. She shrugged out of it and he tossed it away.

‘Touch me,’ he ordered, hungry for the feel of her against his bare skin. For a moment she didn’t move and then, slowly, so slowly he wanted to reach out and yank her hands against his chest, she reached up to him. Her fingers fumbled with a button. And then another. And then her hand slipped into his shirt, right over the spot where his heart pounded its message of hunger and painful control.

His eyes closed as he absorbed the sensation of her hand across his chest.

‘More,’ he demanded. The gentle exploration faltered and then, a moment later, her fingers worked his shirt buttons again. This time quickly, nimbly, and he sucked in a breath of relief. Another hurdle passed.

He waited till his shirt hung open, then shrugged his shoulders and shook it away. Opening his eyes, he found her staring, absorbed, as if committing to memory the sight of his bare torso. The look in her eyes did dangerous things to his ego. He felt like a hero, a god, not an ordinary man, when she looked at him like that.

She moved her hands over his chest, up and across, then circled down over muscles that spasmed at her touch. His arms trembled at the effort of remaining still under her caress.

‘You’re beautiful,’ she breathed.

‘No, Rosalie. But you are.’ He couldn’t resist the lure of such temptation any longer. He reached out and slid his hand behind her, making short work of her bra clasp, drawing her plain white, ridiculously seductive bra away in his hand.

There was a hiss of frantic breath. A moment of stunned appreciation, and then he was touching her, stroking his index finger under the curve of her full, luscious breasts, up between them, then down and across the rose-pink nipples that tightened into buds at his touch.

She was exquisite. Perfect. And the little tremors vibrating through her at his caress were delicious proof of her incredible sensuality.

He palmed one breast, felt its weight in his hand, smiling at the exact fit. Hadn’t he known she’d be just right? His fingers tightened on that sensitive bud, twisted just a fraction, and her whole body jolted.

It was as if she’d been waiting just for him. The thought was ridiculous, but an inviting fantasy, one he couldn’t quite shake.

Her breath came in shallow pants, the sound of it igniting a heat deep in his loins. He was hard with desire, had been since lunch, when he’d tasted her in his mouth, had invited her to taste him. But now he’d reached a point where control was almost impossible. He let himself move across her body, insinuating his thighs between hers till he lay cradled against her, his erection throbbing its intent.

He didn’t know if he could hold out much longer. But then he looked into Rosalie’s face and read the stunned blankness there. She wanted him, but something, the furrow of surprise on her brow, gave him pause.

So he did what he’d wanted from the first—lowered his head to her breast. The fresh scent of her rose in his nostrils and her velvet-soft skin was a living caress against his chest.

He kissed her nipple, holding her tight in his arms as she almost came up off the bed in response. It was as if he’d triggered an earthquake deep inside her. The shudders echoed through her as he laved her breast. When he took her nipple in his mouth and sucked, her moans grew frantic. Her hands clenched against his skull as he tasted her sweetness, then moved to her other breast.

Restlessly her legs shifted against his and he allowed himself the luxury of pushing down against her, feeling her intimate heat against his erection, even through their clothes.

Soon.

His control was shredding, spinning away as his pulse thundered louder in his ears.

‘Arik,’ she whispered, ‘please…’

Without thought his hand arrowed to the button on her trousers, the zip, pushing it down. He lifted himself a fraction from her as she tilted her hips and he stripped the cotton material down her thighs—enough to give him free access to the place he most wanted to be.

‘Please,’ she whispered again and he planted his palm between her thighs, pushing up against her sensitive core.

‘Arik!’ Her voice had a husky, sensual quality he loved, but when he raised his head to see her face he wondered if it was panic or delight he read on her features.

‘Shh, it’s all right, Rosalie. Just relax.’ Her blind eyes turned to his and gradually focused. A jab of something that had the force of lightning struck right through him, making his heart leap.

Her hands slid down to cradle his neck. They were unsteady, shaking but warm and gently sensuous as they massaged his stiff muscles.

He searched her most secret place, circled and found the point he was seeking. She was hot, wet, ready.

‘Arik? I don’t—’

‘Trust me, Rosalie.’ Whatever her past sexual encounters, it was clear her experience hadn’t included much pleasure. The realisation brought anger. And a deep protectiveness, a need to ensure this was absolutely right for her.

She opened her mouth to respond as he stroked her slowly, surely, and suddenly she gasped. The light tremors that had been racing through her body became shudders. She bucked up against his hand with a force that belied her small frame. And her gaze clung to his—jade-green, brilliant and intoxicating. He could drown in that gaze, watching her come apart just for him. The thrill of it, of her body arching into his, the sound of his name on her lips again and again as she sighed out her delight, was better than anything that had gone before.

Her eyes drifted shut as the last of the vibrations subsided. His own body was on fire, desperate for release, after the heady sensations of Rosalie’s climax. He slid his fingers between her legs and another aftershock racked her.

So incredibly sensual.

Gently he leaned down and took her mouth with his. Her response was instant, her lips opening to his, even though her movements were slow, languorous. He delved deep into her mouth, allowing himself the freedom he hadn’t yet had with her body.

She moaned and tilted her head towards his, her fingers spreading out over his shoulders. Automatically his lower body pressed in against hers, right into the hot centre of her, and light spun behind his eyelids at the sensations of pleasure coursing through his body.

Their kiss held a different, richer quality now as she responded to his lead with a ready sultriness that urged him to deepen his caresses. The taste of her was designed to drive any man out of his senses. And the way she held him tight with her hands, the way her luscious body cushioned his, accepting and matching the insistent push of his erection against her, made his head spin.

At last he drew away, far enough that her hands broke their hold and slid slowly, provocatively down over his chest. Her eyes were closed, her lips plump and pink with the force of their passion. A wash of colour spread across her breasts and up her cheeks, highlighting her delicate features. She breathed deeply and for a moment he was riveted by the sight of her perfect breasts, rising and falling. Hair like dawn gold flared across the silk coverlet, softer and more enticing than any man-made fabric.

Who was this woman who’d appeared out of nowhere just days ago? Who’d taken over his life? Absorbed his every waking hour and burrowed deep into his emotions?

She was a miracle.

He pushed himself up and away on his arms, then knelt to strip the last of her clothes from her. The heady scent of female arousal registered in his nostrils, inciting him to move more quickly.

It was the work of a few moments to remove her clothes, and his own, and reach for the protection he’d promised her.



Rosalie’s world had tilted completely off its axis. She’d spun crazily out of control in Arik’s arms as he’d brought her to a juddering, mind-blowing climax. It had been all red-hot light and heat, searing her body till she’d thought there’d be nothing left of her but ashes. Only Arik, his gaze holding hers, his body anchoring her to the spot, had brought her back to something like safety again. If it hadn’t been for the link between them she felt she might have died from pure ecstasy.

His dark eyes had been the only real thing in her consciousness, other than the impossible burst of fire in her blood.

And now she felt…she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to give a name to the sense of wellbeing, of effervescent excitement that filled her, but she couldn’t.

Her body was weighted, yet tingling with life. She stretched, registering for the first time the slide of the luxurious coverlet beneath her body. Her bare body. Arik had peeled away the last of her clothes just a moment ago.

Rosalie snapped open her eyes, anxious now that she couldn’t feel him against her. But when she located him she swallowed hard.

He stood beside the bed, feet planted wide in a stance that was utterly masculine. He was naked, gloriously so, his dark olive skin the perfect foil for his athlete’s body. Every taut muscle and powerful curve was bare for her to see. She stared, fascinated, at the fuzz of dark hair across his pectoral muscles that narrowed and disappeared as it descended. He’d make a wonderful study for an artist. Magnificent proportions, latent power and pure energy from every angle.

But she couldn’t view Arik with an artist’s dispassionate eye. She’d lost that objectivity.

Instead she dragged in an unsteady breath at the image of rampant male libido before her. He thrilled her. And frightened her.

He was fitting a condom. Rosalie swallowed again, her mouth suddenly dry. Surely it would break…it couldn’t possibly…but it did. She felt her eyes widen.

He looked up and smiled at her, a tight, lopsided smile that nevertheless had the power to unravel some of the spiralling tension inside her.

‘Rosalie,’ he murmured as he took a single stride to the bed and knelt above her. ‘My beautiful golden girl.’ He raised her limp hand in his and kissed the palm, nipping at the fleshy part of it till a spear of heat arced straight from her hand to her womb.

How magnificent he was: so at ease in his flesh, each movement economical yet with an innate grace. The dark bronze of his body was in contrast to her own paler skin and as he lay down beside her she was fascinated by the sight of his large long-fingered hand splaying possessively across her body. Who’d have thought anything so simple could be so erotic?

Butterflies swooped in her stomach at the spreading sensation of warmth deep inside her. She felt his leg brush hers, the hair on his thigh wiry and tickling. Then he bent his head and planted a kiss at her navel.

Seismic waves spread out from the point of contact, making her shiver. The sight of his head bent over her so intimately made her conscious again of the moist heat between her legs. The empty, needy sensation.

He nuzzled her belly, planted a string of kisses across to her hip and set the butterflies dancing again inside.

She shifted uneasily, aware of a renewed urgency in the signals her body was sending to her brain.

He lifted his head and smiled, a knowing smile if ever there was one.

‘You like it when I kiss you here?’ He dropped his mouth once more to her waist, her stomach.

She reached out and tried to pull him up, edgy again and unsure of herself. She shouldn’t feel like this again, surely.

‘You don’t like my kisses?’ His tone was teasing but his face was set in harsh lines of desire. The flame of arousal was hot in his eyes.

She opened her mouth to answer, but something stopped her: a knot of hard, tight emotion that blocked her throat. He was so gentle, so tender. He treated her as no man ever had before. Heat glazed her eyes and she shook her head.

‘Rosalie?’ His tone was abrupt as he levered himself higher, the better to see her face.

For answer she wrapped her arms round his shoulders and lifted her lips to his, opening her mouth and giving herself up to the ecstasy that beckoned. Giving herself to him.

For a long moment he held himself rigid above her. Then, as her tongue danced against his and her hands swept in wide circles down over his back, he settled closer. She revelled in the smooth texture of his skin against her hands, and in the sensual friction of his chest hair brushing her breasts. It was…arousing. The press of his large body against hers was an exciting weight. She felt the hot, heavy throb of him between her legs and fascination mingled with trepidation.

‘Rosalie,’ he murmured against her mouth. ‘You drive me wild with wanting.’ Now their kisses were more urgent and the caress of his hands heavier, more possessive. He gripped her hips and pushed forward and she felt the hard length of him intimately against her. Instinctively she tilted her hips up towards him and he growled deep in his throat. ‘You’re a houri sent to bewitch me.’

He raised one hand to her breast, squeezing gently, and she let out a cry of excitement as a flaming arrow of sensation shot through her body. Above the drumming in her ears and the rocking tension in their almost-joined bodies, she heard the whisper of his deep voice in her ear. He spoke in his own language, a lyrical intonation of syllables that flowed like music around her. The words were soothing yet somehow unsettling, urging her closer as he rocked harder against her.

All she knew was him. The clean, earthy fragrance of his skin, the taste of him on her tongue, the feel of him everywhere, and still that yearning, aching sensation that couldn’t be denied.

She barely noticed when he moved, hooking his arm under her thigh and lifting her leg up and over him. But she did register the pressure as he pushed between her legs, nudging up against her, into her.

She froze, absorbed in the sensation of him filling her.

Arik drew back a fraction. She had an impression of flashing dark eyes surveying her, then his head dipped to her breast and all capacity for coherent thought fled. His tongue was on her. His mouth. His teeth. She cried out, a muffled shout of bliss, and cradled him closer, arching her back as he wrought his magic on her body once more.

There was nothing but Arik and the dazzle of stars behind her closed eyelids.

But then, suddenly, there was more. One single, smooth, never-ending surge of movement drew him forward, impossibly filling her. She opened her eyes to see him poised above her, his face almost unrecognisable from the tension that held him so tight in its grip.

For an instant there was no movement but the rise and fall of their chests, each breathing deeply, struggling to find equilibrium.

‘Lift your other leg, sweetheart.’

Slowly she complied, and then it seemed automatically he slid forward a fraction to rest deep within her. Rosalie’s eyes widened.

‘That’s it, little one.’ His kiss was a reward, a glorious, sensuous caress that made her bones melt, even as he moved again, rocking against her.

It felt…it felt…wonderful.

Rosalie slid her hands over the bunched muscles of his shoulders and down to wrap her arms around his back, to hold him close as he pushed forward again. There was something sparking between them, something that made her rise up to meet his next thrust and the next: eager, ready for him.

Their tempo increased, their bodies grew hot, slick from excitement and exertion. Rosalie felt again the welling, tingling sensation in her blood. She heard her pulse roar in her ears, heard Arik’s breathing. Then his mouth closed over hers, his tongue thrusting deep even as he rocked into the centre of her being.

She tasted him, dark and rich. Scented his skin. She was part of him, his body sliding with hers, drawing her into a whirling, rushing storm of glorious commotion.

And then it came—a crashing wave of fulfilment, breaking over both of them. Desperate, she clung to Arik like a lifeline in a stormy sea. He was the one solid reality as her world shattered, bursting apart in a conflagration that shook her to her core. She had no words to express what she felt, only knew it was beyond her expectations, her hopes, even her fantasies.

And the fact that it was Arik gathering her close in strong arms that trembled with the force of their climax, holding her as if he’d never let her go, was most important of all.

How could this happen between two strangers?

It was far more surely than a union of bodies. It felt like a communion of souls.

Rosalie drew a deep shuddering breath, inhaling his heat and his musky scent.

Casual sex wasn’t supposed to be this…perfect, was it?

What had she got herself into?




Chapter Eight


‘THAT sounds like fun, Amy. What are you doing with Grandma tomorrow?’ Rosalie shifted her grip on the phone as her daughter began a breathless description of her planned visit to puppies in the stables and a pony who took carrots from her outstretched hand. Obviously they were far more interesting to a toddler than the grandeur of the centuries-old palace where she was staying.

Though she had been impressed with Uncle Rafiq, the tall, smiling man who swept her up in his arms and swung her round till she squealed.

Rosalie’s mum was right. Amy was having a great time with her family fussing over her. Not only that, but Rafiq’s small army of royal servants were spoiling her too, apparently besotted by Amy’s grin and sunny temperament.

The door to Rosalie’s left opened and the smile on her face slipped a little as Arik came into the room. His gaze caught hers and that gleaming dark look made her mouth dry. Like her, he wore a long, loose robe. But, far from making him look effeminate, the outfit somehow accentuated the width of his shoulders, the whipcord strength of his body, his innate masculinity.

Just a single stare from this man sent a wave of heat roaring through her. She watched him pace into the room and her palms prickled in excitement as she remembered the way he’d loved her this afternoon. The world of sensual pleasure he’d opened up for her.

Finally, half an hour ago, he’d pressed a last bone-melting kiss to her lips before leaving her, saying she’d no doubt want to telephone her daughter. Only then had she realised the afternoon had sped by as she’d lain in his arms. Shame had washed through her, that it was he rather than her who’d remembered her responsibilities. That she’d been in danger of forgetting her call to Amy.

And now, just the sight of him made it hard to concentrate on Amy’s chatter.

What sort of mother was she? Surely there was something wrong with her priorities. Nothing was more important to her than her daughter.

What was happening to her?

Arik didn’t approach. He gave her a slow smile that sent liquid heat spilling down her spine. Then he disappeared through the door to the huge bathroom. It was a relief when he was out of sight and that sensual connection was severed.

An instant later she heard the sound of running water. She blinked, trying to bring her mind back to her call.

‘I have to go now, Mummy. G’anma says it’s time to hang up.’

‘All right, sweetheart. You be a good girl for Grandma and Auntie Belle and I’ll see you soon.’

‘I will, Mummy. Bye, bye.’

‘Bye, darling.’

Slowly Rosalie switched off the phone and put it beside the huge bed. Another sign of Arik’s generosity, or more likely his enormous wealth. He didn’t know Amy was actually in Q’aroum rather than at home in Australia. He would have assumed when he’d offered Rosalie the use of the phone that she’d be making an international call.

It only highlighted the difference between Arik’s world and her life of stretching to make ends meet. Despite persistent offers from Belle, Rosalie had been so determined to stand on her own two feet she’d accepted little financial help. The holiday to Q’aroum was an exception.

‘You didn’t need to end your call just yet.’ Arik’s deep voice interrupted her reverie and she looked up to find him framed by the doorway, watching her.

The look in his eyes made her shiver. Or perhaps it was remembered delight. She’d never experienced that incandescent burst of joy, that absolute sense of oneness with another person in her life. Arik had been all her fantasies rolled into one—strong, passionate and indescribably gentle. She felt as if she’d unwittingly given up part of herself to him through the act of making love. At the time it had seemed right—more than that, it had seemed perfect. Now the idea created a niggle of unease deep inside her.

She was in danger of getting in too deep. It was one thing to think in terms of a holiday fling with a gorgeous man: a safe way to experience passion and then move on, back to her ordinary life, her curiosity satisfied.

But this was something else altogether. It was as if an unseen link stretched between them. Even now she felt it tightening, tugging at her as he strode over to the bed.

She looked up into his black eyes and knew it was an unwinnable battle, trying to remain unmoved by him. He was in her blood, in her very bones. Somehow she’d absorbed him into herself. She had an overwhelming fear that now she’d never be the same again. Never be whole without him.

‘Your daughter is well?’ He smiled down at her and the melting rush of desire in the pit of her stomach commenced again.

‘She’s having a ball.’ Rosalie ignored the breathless quality of her voice, swallowing hard at the excitement humming through her, just being close to him again. ‘She’s with her aunt and uncle and my mother. I suspect she’s being spoiled rotten.’

Arik’s grin was a flash of white in his dark face. ‘That’s as it should be. Every child deserves to be spoiled a little by their family. And it will take her mind off being away from you.’

Rosalie tilted her head, registering his words. Most men she knew wouldn’t consider it from that angle. They weren’t so sympathetic to the needs of others, would barely give a thought to what a little child needed.

But then, she’d never met a man like Arik before. So utterly, devastatingly male but compassionate too.

‘You speak as if you’ve got some insight into it,’ she said, suddenly curious to know more about him. In so many ways she knew him intimately: his character, his passion, his body. But she knew next to nothing about his life.

He shrugged. ‘I’m an only child but I have a large, loving extended family. My childhood was spent learning discipline and responsibility from my father, and being indulged by almost everyone else. We Q’aroumis are especially fond of children, you know.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Ah, my mother is a woman of strong passions.’ His dark eyes flashed. ‘It was she who taught me to follow my heart. She believes that you can achieve whatever you set your heart on, so long as you never give up.’

Arik leaned close, his intense expression making her feel suddenly vulnerable. Something akin to apprehension skittered through her as she looked up, up at him. The stark planes and angles of his face were more pronounced in the late afternoon light, emphasising his strength and the slightly exotic cast of his features.

He’s a stranger, whispered a voice in her head. A man you barely know, and yet you let him—

No! She knew Arik in the ways that counted. Knew his integrity, his caring. She knew exactly where she stood with him. They’d made a bargain. She was perfectly safe.

And yet…when he stared at her like that it made her wonder.

‘Come.’ He stepped forward and slid his hands beneath her, hauling her up into his arms. Automatically she clung to him, her hands linking round his neck. Her heart thudded to a quickening beat, just being in contact with him again. She revelled in the now familiar heat of his body against hers.

‘Where are we going?’

His black gaze held hers in a look that made the blood rush to her face and anticipation sizzle in the pit of her stomach.

‘Enough talking for now, Rosalie.’ He shouldered his way through the open door and into the enormous bathroom.

Her eyes widened as she took in the octagonal room. On four sides huge windows gave out on to the spectacular cliff top view. And in the centre, right below the domed gilt ceiling, was the largest bath she’d ever seen. It was sunk into the floor, half filled with steamy water and bubbles. Sandalwood scented the air and something else—some fragrance that was heavy and lush.

Her racing heartbeat slowed to a lazy expectant beat. Then he was putting her down, letting her slide, inch by tantalising inch, down his body. Like her he was naked beneath the robe. And somehow the fact that they were both fully covered only enhanced the sensuality of the experience. The slide of hot silk against her flesh. The press of his hard body, ridged with muscle and flagrantly aroused, yet covered in the finest cotton, was even more erotic than seeing him naked.

Rosalie’s mouth was dry as she found her footing. Her hands were linked around his neck. She tightened her hold, drawing his head closer while she rose on tiptoe.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

Her expression must have revealed her disappointment for he lifted one hand to her mouth, pressed his thumb against her bottom lip till she opened for him, and she tasted him, warm and salty on her tongue. Heat burst in the pit of her belly and down her legs, till she trembled where she stood.

‘Soon,’ he promised. Then, with one swift movement, he bent and gathered the silken skirts of her gown in his hands, skimming the fabric up her legs. Up and up till she felt the whisper-soft afternoon breeze on her thighs, her stomach, her breasts.

She watched the play of muscles in his upper arms as he flung the gossamer-thin robe to the floor.

Now his hands brushed against her, feathering up her legs, over her buttocks, her hips, her waist, to her breasts, heavy with the weight of desire. Moist heat pooled between her legs as she looked deep into his eyes. They were glazed with an excitement that matched her own.

Cotton bunched in her fingers. She lifted the weight of his robe, scrabbling a little as the fabric shifted. Underneath the material she felt tantalising traces of his body—the heavy weight of his muscled thigh as she bent low, the angle of his hip-bone and the ridged muscles of his abdomen. There was a hiss of breath as she shoved the robe higher, her hand sliding across his chest. Then he bent his head, allowed her to draw the garment off him and toss it away.

A weight settled on her chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe as she skimmed his body with her gaze.

He was magnificent.

‘If you look at me like that, this will be over before it’s begun.’

She slanted a look up at his face. He seemed to be in pain, so great was the tension there. Had she done that to him? Her presence? Her body? It was a heady thought.

‘Get in the bath, Rosalie, and I’ll join you in a moment.’ His voice was soft, a whisper. But he’d lost his smooth tones. Now his words were rough, as if something grated deep inside him. The sound was a primal message of barely restrained hunger that fed her excitement.

Quickly she turned and stepped into the deep bath, luxuriating in the feel of warm water sliding against her bare skin. In the knowledge that Arik would be with her soon.



He almost groaned aloud as he watched her descend into the foam. That peach-ripe derrière, the long, long legs, the indentation of her waist, so small he could almost span it with his hands. He fumbled, rolling on the condom. His whole body was shaking, throbbing with the force of his desire.

She turned, her eyes wide as she watched him lower himself into the bath, reminding him that, for all her enthusiasm and her natural sensuality, Rosalie was a woman of little experience.

The shock on her face as they’d become one, the wonder in her expression as she’d scaled the heights of passion, the hesitant way she’d embraced him at first…it had almost been like making love to a virgin.

The experience had been new to him. Far too quickly he’d become hooked by the thrill of surprising her, of teaching her about her body’s own sweet secrets. And when she’d reciprocated, caressing him, moving with him, it had been as if together they’d ignited dynamite. The explosive force of their joint climax had deserved a Richter scale warning.

He was a man who enjoyed women. Enjoyed sex. He was a man of some experience. But nothing, ever, had matched the sheer ecstasy of making love to Rosalie Winters.

He’d wanted her again almost immediately. Even now he couldn’t say how he’d managed to tear himself away long enough for her to recover and to phone home.

It would be the challenge of a lifetime to take this slow. She was temptation personified. She looked at him with those huge green eyes, her lips pouted and pink, her nipples teasing him, just peeping up through the bubbles when she moved. Involuntarily he throbbed in response, just at the sight of her.

He turned and wrenched off the taps, wishing he could turn off his libido, or at least slow it down long enough to wrest control.

‘Come here, Rosalie.’ He lifted a hand in invitation and immediately she slid along the seat that edged the deep bath. Her hand rested in his and he drew her closer. He felt her hip beside his and immediately turned to claim her, one hand at her neck, as he slanted his mouth over hers, the other wrapping round her waist.

She was unique. He’d only known the taste of her for a few days and yet he craved it more than food or drink. She tilted her head back, allowing him better access to her mouth, and he took it, delving deeply, possessively, as he pressed her slippery form against his. He thrust a thigh between hers and felt the little jitter of reaction race through her body.

He smiled against her mouth. She was so ready.

When he cupped her breast in his palm she pushed against his hand, a sound like a hungry purr rolling deep in her throat. She slid against him, her hips circling, and he let his weight rest against her.

If he wanted he could take her now. With one swift movement he could possess her. Fierce heat pumped in his bloodstream at the thought of taking her hard and fast right now. Completion would be only seconds away.

But he held back. He wanted to give her more than a quick, hard coupling. And to do that he needed to hold out against the barbaric impulse to ravish. Somehow he had to find finesse. He needed to forget his own needs and—

Lightning struck to his heart as her small hand closed round him. He shuddered, surging forward into her intimate caress, unable to temper his hungry response. His tongue probed her mouth as he pushed against her hand, exulting in the sensation even as he recognised it wasn’t enough.

‘Don’t!’ The word was a low growl as he gripped her shoulders and leaned back. ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘You don’t like it?’ There was no teasing lilt to her voice and her eyes were serious. Something hard knotted tight in his chest at the sight of her doubt, the way she bit down on her lush bottom lip as if afraid she’d done the wrong thing.

She genuinely didn’t know what she did to him!

Breathing raggedly, Arik cupped her chin in his palm and felt her racing pulse flutter beneath her chin. He looked deep into her eyes, drawn by her honesty, registering her confusion.

‘I love the feel of your hand on me, Rosalie. Too much.’

Her mouth opened in a delicious pout of surprise and Arik cursed the need for restraint. He dragged in an unsteady breath as desire warred with caution. ‘That’s the problem. That’s why you have to stop.’

Instantly her hold on him tightened and another searing jolt of heat surged through him. He thrust against her, helpless to resist.

He drew in deep, scouring lungfuls of air and sought for strength. Strength to resist her.

His hand trembled as he gripped her wrist and drew her hand away, sliding his fingers through hers and holding her hand between them. With his other hand he reached down to cup her breast, squeezing gently till she sighed her pleasure. She moved restlessly against him, her body responding sinuously to his caresses. He took her mouth again and arrowed his hand down to the tender place between her thighs, exploring, probing, till she gasped and bucked into his touch.





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