For The Sheikh's Pleasure. Annie West

      ‘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.