Captivated by the Sheikh. Annie West

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