For The Sheikh's Pleasure. Annie West

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 collar-bone, 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.