For the Sheikh's Pleasure
Autor
Annie West
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Rosalie Winters is a challenge. Beautiful and aloof, she doesn't play the games of flirtation and seduction that Sheikh Arik Kareem Ben Hassan expects from women. She intrigues him with her lack of sophistication and guile. Arik realizes he must move slowly to gain her trust. Rosalie is quiet, even withdrawn, as though something has changed her. But Arik also knows that once she's at his command Rosalie will welcome the loving that only he can give her.
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 heâd been just moments ago, thinking she wouldnât arrive. Sheâd 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 heâd received while he recuperated.
But heâd been impatient to get this leg healed. He didnât want any fawning women around, fussing over him and nurturing false hopes of domestic bliss, staying here in his home. Heâd seen the look in Heleneâs 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 sheâd started dreaming about happily-ever-after, it was over.
He worked hard and played hard, seeking out women whoâd enjoy the fast-paced ride with him. He wasnât 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.
Arikâs 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: sheâd be a delicious handful, he decided as he watched her bend to strip off her trousers. A ripe peach of a derriĂšre, invitingly curved hips and slim shapely legs.
Just as heâd 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 sheâd turned away, stepping out into the shallows till the waves lapped around her dark one-piece swimsuit.
Sheâd 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. Thereâd 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 couldnât get what he wanted immediately.
If theyâd 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 wasnât the sort to sit and wonder. He was all for action and that was exactly what he planned to get.
Soonâvery soonâheâd satisfy his curiosity about her. And moreâŠ
Rosalie tucked her hair behind her ear and critically surveyed her landscape. After days of effort sheâd made pathetically little progress. Despite every attempt, the scene still eluded her. Sheâd sketched the outline of beach and headland, attempted a watercolour and toyed with oils. But nothing had worked. Nor had the photos sheâd 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 sheâd rounded the point and discovered this bay, sheâd felt the unfamiliar fizz of excitement, of anticipation in her veins. It had taken her by surprise. A sensation sheâd 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 sheâd lost it for everâthat joyous gift of translating what she saw into something worth keeping on canvas.
Three years ago sheâd accepted the loss with a sullen stoicism. It hadnât even distressed her, given the fact that her whole world had shattered around her. Three years ago she hadnât 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 didnât matter. She couldnât 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 sheâd lost. That part of her life had gone for ever.
She sucked in a deep sustaining breath. She was a survivor, sheâd dragged herself out of fear and fury and grief and got on with living. More than that, sheâd found peace and joy in her new life. A happiness sheâd never thought to experience. She was a lucky woman. What did it matter if sheâd 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 wouldnât walk this way again and torture herself with what she couldnât have. Instead sheâd 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 sheâd brought on her holiday.
Sheâd 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 werenât 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 horseâs 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 whoâd grown up on horseback. His powerful shoulders and long frame seemed at odds with the lazy grace of his handsâone on the reins and one holding the second horseâs 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 sheâd 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 herâthe manâs 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. Theyâd 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 theyâd turned towards her rather than back the way theyâd 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 riderâs 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 couldnât 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 sheâd taken his likeness. She hadnât thought of that. She had no idea how the locals would react to her work. Now she wondered about Qâaroumi protocolsâwhether she should have asked permission first.
She felt the intensity of his regard even while she fumbled in the sand.
âSabaâa alkair.â His voice was low and even more attractive up close.
âSabaâa alkair,â she replied, thankful that she at least knew how to say good morning in Arabic. âI hope you donât mindâŠâ She gestured to the pad before her and then realised, flustered, that he might not understand her. âDo you speakâ?â
âI speak English,â he answered before she completed the question. âYou like our scenery?â
Rosalie nodded, tilting her head up to meet his scrutiny and unable to look away. His eyes were so dark she couldnât 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 hadnât realised it could be so enticing.
âThe view from here, itâs spectacular.â Her voice was high and breathless. She strove to control it. âIn the morning light itâs perfect.â
âYou will show me your work?â 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.
âAm I trespassing?â
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.
âWhat would you do if I said you were?â His mouth lifted up at one side in a half-smile that tugged at something deep inside her.
âIâd leave, of course.â
Which was exactly what she should do anyway. She couldnât 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.
âThen itâs a good thing youâre not trespassing.â The half-smile widened and Rosalie stood, transfixed for a moment by the effect. Whoâd have thought a man with all that power andâŠyes, authority in his features, could look so charming andâ?
âNevertheless, I should be on my way.â
âWithout letting me see your work?â
It would be churlish to refuse. And though her scribbling was nothing like the work sheâd 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.
âNo need to fear. Layla and Soraya have excellent manners. They bite no one, not even the hand that feeds them.â
âAnd thatâs you?â she asked as she edged closer.
âIt is. But thatâs only one of the reasons they love me, isnât it, my sweets?â 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.
Rosalieâs 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.
âShow me?â he murmured and again she felt his voice slip like a velvet ribbon across her skin. She frowned, uneasy and suddenly tense.
âOf course.â Concentrate on the sketches. Easier said than done when she was hemmed in, increasingly aware ofâŠsomething. 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 sheâd 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 sketchâthat distinctive arch of the neck, the wide nostrils and dark eyes. Alive, real, better than anything sheâd done in all these days of trying. Another sketchâa 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.
âYouâre very talented,â 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.
âVery talented,â he said, breaking her absorption.
âThank you.â In her surprise at what sheâd 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?
âYou donât mind me sketching you? The horses are so beautiful I couldnât resist.â
He leaned closer and she swallowed hard, wondering what was going on behind those unreadable eyes. That was no casual glance. It lookedâŠassessing.
âIâm honoured you chose Layla and Soraya as your subjects.â Arik forbore to mention the drawings of himself. She looked skittish enough already, eyes wide and dazed as if sheâd 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. Sheâd looked so youngâfar too young for what he had in mind. But as heâd ridden closer heâd been relieved to find her air of fragility wasnât 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.
âDo you prefer landscapes or living subjects?â
The way her eyes darted down to his torso, his hands on the reins, gave him all the answer he wanted, and an idea.
âIâŠboth.â 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 heâd have trouble remounting again. He probably shouldnât be riding at all, not yet, but he hadnât been able to resist the temptation to meet her at last, no matter what the doctorâs warnings.
Heâd already noted her bare ring finger but it made sense to be sure. âYouâre here on holiday?â
Slowly she nodded and then turned to stuff the portfolio into a capacious bag. âYes.â
âAnd your husband doesnât mind you venturing out alone?â If she were his heâd keep her close, knowing that with those stunning looks sheâd be a magnet for any male not on his deathbed.
She paused, her hands gripping the bag so tightly he saw her knuckles whiten. âI donât have a husband.â 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.
âYour significant other, then. He doesnât mind?â
She straightened and jammed her fists on to her hips. Her eyes flashed green fire and he realised heâd hit a nerve.
âYour English is excellent.â It was almost an accusation.
âThank you,â he said, watching her intently.
Eventually she shrugged and her gaze slid away. âThere is no man to object to anything I do.â There was something in her voice, a bitterness that caught his attention. âI suppose thatâs unusual in a country like Qâaroum?â
âYou may be surprised to learn how independent Qâaroumi women are.â 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 heâd 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.
âI will look forward to seeing you another morning.â He made as if to pull on the reins.
âYouâll be back here tomorrow?â Her eyes were bright, her tone a shade too eager. It told him all he needed to know.
He shrugged. âI hadnât planned to come here.â He paused, as if considering. âYou want to see the horses again? Is that it? You wish to draw them?â
She nodded. âIf you donât mind. That would be wonderful. Iâd likeâŠâ She bit her lip and he silently urged her to continue. âIâd like to paint the scene with them here. If itâs possible.â
Taking candy from a baby. âI suppose that can be arranged,â he said after making her wait a few moments. âI could ask old Ahmed to bring them.â
Silence. She gnawed her lip, her hands clasped together in front of her.
âYou wonât be riding them?â 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 sheâd caused him.
âYou would like to see me again?â
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.
âFor the paintingâif you wouldnât mind?â
Who could resist those wide eyes, the rosebud lips?
âI suppose I could ride here. If you really want me.â
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.
âHow long would it take? The painting?â Better if she felt he was doing her a favour.
âA few days? Three, four mornings?â She couldnât conceal her excitement; it was there in her glittering eyes, the energy vibrating from every line in her body.
âFour mornings.â He paused. âVery well. I will give you the mornings.â He couldnât prevent the smile that curled his lips. âIf you will give me the afternoons.â
