For The Sheikh's Pleasure. Annie West
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.
Arik’s 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: she’d be a delicious handful, he decided as he watched her bend to strip off her trousers. A ripe peach of a derrière, invitingly curved hips and slim shapely legs.
Just as he’d 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 she’d turned away, stepping out into the shallows till the waves lapped around her dark one-piece swimsuit.
She’d 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. There’d 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 couldn’t get what he wanted immediately.
If they’d 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 wasn’t the sort to sit and wonder. He was all for action and that was exactly what he planned to get.
Soon—very soon—he’d satisfy his curiosity about her. And more…
Rosalie tucked her hair behind her ear and critically surveyed her landscape. After days of effort she’d made pathetically little progress. Despite every attempt, the scene still eluded her. She’d sketched the outline of beach and headland, attempted a watercolour and toyed with oils. But nothing had worked. Nor had the photos she’d 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 she’d rounded the point and discovered this bay, she’d felt the unfamiliar fizz of excitement, of anticipation in her veins. It had taken her by surprise. A sensation she’d 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 she’d lost it for ever—that joyous gift of translating what she saw into something worth keeping on canvas.
Three years ago she’d accepted the loss with a sullen stoicism. It hadn’t even distressed her, given the fact that her whole world had shattered around her. Three years ago she hadn’t 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 didn’t matter. She couldn’t 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 she’d lost. That part of her life had gone for ever.
She sucked in a deep sustaining breath. She was a survivor, she’d dragged herself out of fear and fury and grief and got on with living. More than that, she’d found peace and joy in her new life. A happiness she’d never thought to experience. She was a lucky woman. What did it matter if she’d 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 wouldn’t walk this way again and torture herself with what she couldn’t have. Instead she’d 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 she’d brought on her holiday.
She’d 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 weren’t 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