For The Sheikh's Pleasure. Annie West
she superstitious enough to fear that without it in her possession she might lose this second chance?
Reluctantly she nodded and followed him to the vehicle, where he’d tethered his mare. She clutched her tote bag close as he stowed first the portable easel and then her canvas in the rear of the four-wheel drive.
The men had finished setting up the tent and nodded as Arik spoke again to them in their own language. Then one of them turned and said with a bow, ‘I will look after your painting, miss. It will be safe with me.’
She only had time to smile and nod her thanks before they were on their way, one in the four-wheel drive and the other leading the mare up the track, leaving Rosalie alone with Arik.
Her heart thumped an uncomfortable rhythm and she told herself not to be stupid. She’d been alone with him for hours. But somehow this was different. No easel to hide behind. No horse to demand his attention.
Silently she followed him to the tent. It was far too large for a beach shelter—a dozen people could easily have stood inside it.
But then this was far more than a shelter from the sun, she discovered as she rounded one side and found herself looking in. It was—luxury. A jumble of rich colours and fabrics, from the patterned floor coverings to the sumptuous pile of cushions heaped on the floor. A low folding table with a round brass top gleamed in the centre of the space and on it, incongruously, sat a huge vacuum flask. A cool chest stood beside it, making Rosalie wonder suddenly if there was any food in it. She’d been working solidly for hours and now she was starving.
‘You would like some refreshment?’ Arik’s deep voice said beside her.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She avoided his eyes and watched as he bent to collect something from just inside the tent. A copper ewer, soap and a linen towel which he folded over his arm.
‘Here.’ He held out the soap to her. She took it and held out her hands while he poured a steady stream of warm water over them. She inhaled the fragrance of sandalwood as she lathered and washed, then handed him the soap and rinsed her hands.
Rosalie reached for the finely woven towel, trying not to touch his arm. There was something too intimate about the situation, for all he stood as still and unthreatening as a statue. The warm soapy scent rose between them, but this close to him she recognised his own unique fragrance: male skin and just a hint of sea salt and horse.
She breathed in deeply and held out her hand for the ewer. ‘Let me.’
She kept her eyes down, away from his. Instead she found herself watching his strong, well-shaped hands as he soaped them, sliding one against the other slowly and thoroughly. Rosalie stared.
She’d drawn countless hands over the years. Had sketched them relaxed, fisted, holding various objects. Just as she’d sketched naked models with never a flicker of emotion.
But standing here, watching those long powerful hands slide together, seeing the corded muscles and sinews of his forearms where he’d rolled back his sleeves, Rosalie found herself swallowing hard as excitement stirred deep inside her.
He put down the soap and she tipped more water over his hands, his wrists, wishing she could reach out and trace their tensile strength for herself.
He reached for the towel she’d draped over her arm, barely brushing her shirt with his fingers. She almost sighed with relief when she could step away, put a precious pace or two between them.
‘Thank you, Rosalie.’ His voice broke the silence between them and she darted a look up at him. His eyes were unreadable, the obsidian-black that she still couldn’t believe. She wished she could read his thoughts. Then, as his nostrils widened a fraction, his mouth curled up in a half smile, she was suddenly glad she couldn’t. No doubt she was totally transparent in the way she reacted to his sheer maleness. But she couldn’t help herself.
That was what scared her most. Her reaction to this man.
‘Do you usually picnic in such style?’ She tried not to sound too impressed and the words came out accusing.
He shrugged and motioned for her to enter. ‘If I’m entertaining I prefer that my guests are comfortable and well taken care of.’
Rosalie just bet he did a lot of entertaining. Especially of women.
She hesitated, aware once more of how isolated they were. There had been no one else on the beach all morning. And in the tent they’d be out of sight even from the windows of the fortress on the hill. She eyed the tumble of cushions on the floor and wondered what he had in mind for their afternoon together.
‘Ahmed will be back in an hour to clear away the remains of our meal,’ Arik said from beside her. ‘Then I thought we might drive into the town and do some sightseeing.’
‘That sounds lovely, thank you.’
See, it’s just company he wants. Someone to talk to. You’ve grown too suspicious.
Nevertheless, she felt uneasily as if she’d committed herself to far more than lunch as she slipped off her shoes and stepped into the tent. The soft fabric beneath her feet was sheer decadence. The colours, the textures, even the scent was exotic, like something out of an Arabian fantasy. Just like the man at her side: the epitome of absolute male strength and sensuality. It was all too easy to picture him in flowing robes with a scimitar in his hands. Or in a bed with silken sheets where some dusky beauty kept him occupied.
‘Please.’ He gestured towards the pile of cushions. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
Gingerly she moved forward, averting her flushed face. She settled herself on a large cushion, resisting the temptation to flop back and let her tired body relax on the luxurious pile. Nevertheless, she felt some of the stiffness seep out of her as she tucked her legs into a comfortable position and looked out at the fabulous coastal scene before her.
Beside her, but not too close, Arik settled with a single easy movement of graceful power. He didn’t crowd her and her breathing eased a little. But then, she supposed it wasn’t his style to crowd a woman. She was sure that with his looks and obvious wealth he was usually fending them off instead. He’d have no need to do anything but smile and women would flock to him.
Surely she’d mistaken his intense expression earlier. She’d read raw hunger in his face but maybe she’d been wrong. Perhaps she’d just assumed that was what he felt—a mirror of her own sudden longing. She’d been so overcome by the stifling sensation of heat when he’d kissed her hand that she hadn’t been able to think straight.
After all, why would he be interested in someone as ordinary as her? She wasn’t glamorous or chic. She was a working mum. How much more mundane could you get?
‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you.’ The scent of it as he opened the flask was heavenly, reminding her that she’d been too nervous this morning to have more than a glass of water and a piece of toast before she left the house. She watched him pour the hot coffee and decided it was better to concentrate on her surroundings than on her growing fascination with those magnificent hands.
‘This—’ she gestured to the interior of the tent ‘—is amazing.’ Only now did she notice the tiny side table with its bowl of full velvety roses. She’d assumed the scent was some sort of rose essence sprinkled on the gorgeous cushions.
‘Not too over-the-top for you?’ One eyebrow tilted and there was a gleam of humour in his dark eyes as he handed her a cup of coffee and gestured towards milk and sugar on the table before her.
She shook her head, permitting herself a tiny answering smile. ‘It’s more luxurious than what we have back home.’ Which was a towel and maybe an old beach umbrella for shade. ‘But it’s lovely. And the coffee’s wonderful. Thank you.’ She sighed as the rich liquid slid down her throat.
Arik watched her eyes close for