For The Sheikh's Pleasure. Annie West

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.