Captivated by the Sheikh: For the Sheikh's Pleasure / In the Sheikh's Arms / Sheikh Surgeon

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 collarbone, 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. Her lips parted just a fraction, as if in unconscious invitation, and the storm of longing notched up inside him.

Never had he experienced need so instantaneous, obliterating all else. It was like a roaring, racing conflagration swirling almost out of control.

And all he’d done was kiss her hand! Even the scent of her, like the perfume of dew on rosebuds, was enough to test his self-possession.

His heart pounded against his ribs, adrenaline surged in his bloodstream, inciting action. His every sense clamoured for fulfilment. Here. Now. On the hard-packed sand where the sun’s early rays would light her body to gold and amber for his delectation.

He snagged one rough breath. Watched her eyes widen and realised his grip had firmed too much. Another breath and he loosened his hold, still unwilling to relinquish her hand.

But she tugged it away, slipped her fingers from his and cradled them with her other hand between her breasts. The unthinking gesture pulled the soft cotton of her shirt tight and his breath seized in his lungs as he eyed the outline of her bra.

‘A handshake would have done,’ she whispered, her voice shaky.

Arik almost laughed at the absurdity of it. She was chastising him for being too forward in kissing her hand. How would she react if she knew he was hard with need for her? That just the sight of her plain bra beneath that prudish high-buttoned shirt and the taste of her against his lips made him hot with desire?

But his laughter fled as he looked in her eyes and saw the confusion there. Confusion and…trepidation?

She was scared of him, his golden girl?

Instantly he took a half pace backwards, watching the way her dilated eyes seemed to focus somewhere near his chin as her breathing slowly evened out.

She looked as if no man had ever kissed her hand. More, as if the dance of desire between the sexes was something new to her.

Impossible. Surely in Australia men were men enough to pursue a beauty as delicate and enticing as this one. It still amazed him that she was alone, no male hovering close to guard against intruders.

‘I see our customs are different to what you are used to. I meant no offence.’

He wondered if she’d be satisfied with that explanation. Surely even an innocent would realise that a formal kiss on the fingers was completely different from the sensuous introduction they’d just experienced. Or maybe she’d ignore the fact, pretend it hadn’t happened.

She nodded, turned her head away to stare at the glow of light on the horizon. ‘Of course. I understand.’

He was right—she was avoiding the truth.

But he’d achieved his aim. She was aware of him now. Not just as a distant figure on horseback to be captured in paints, but as a man. Flesh and blood. Her agitated breathing, the quick sidelong glance at him, the way she bit down on the corner of her mouth, all affirmed it.

The first step towards his goal. He smothered a smile and turned towards Layla, saddled this time so he could mount more easily with his stiff leg.

‘Where do you want me?’

The question caught Rosalie by surprise and her mouth rounded in an O of shock. Faint colour warmed her cheeks and Arik held his mouth tight so as not to betray his satisfied grin. So, it had been more than just an introduction for her too. That was a guilty expression if ever he’d seen one. Obviously she did want him.

Now it was just a matter of getting her to admit it.

Rosalie put her hand to her back and stretched out the stiffness there. She’d sat too long, absorbed in her work, and now her muscles protested.

She looked at the canvas before her and fought down bubbling excitement. It was too early to tell. Far too early to know if this would be anything worthwhile. But, a tiny part of her wanted to crow, it was promising. Definitely promising. Certainly far better than her faltering attempts earlier in the week.

After her tension when she’d begun this morning, she thought she’d never be able to settle down and work. She’d been strung taut like a bow, wary of the knowing light in Arik’s eyes, the flagrant desire she read in his face, and scared to betray the secret answering yearning that spiralled deep inside her.

That had taken her completely by surprise, even after yesterday’s encounter and last night’s restless dreams. She’d experienced nothing like it. Even in the days when she had been young and innocent. Her teenage fantasies had been about romance and happy endings. They’d never been raw with the force of untrammelled physical desire.

It had been like a surge of white-hot electricity, the arousal she’d felt as Arik had taken her hand in his, moved his lips against her skin and made her want…him. The jolt of energy had arced deep inside her, straight to her womb where the aching emptiness had been like a throbbing pain.

No one had said it would ever be like that.

‘You’re happy with what you’ve done?’ She looked up to find him leaning towards her from the back of his horse. There was a safe distance between them now but it wasn’t enough. Rosalie suspected that with this man there would never be enough distance for her to feel secure.

‘It’s not bad,’ she said cautiously, turning away from his regard.

He saw too much, she knew that already. Though not, she hoped, nearly as much as she wanted to hide from him.

‘And so we’re finishing for the morning?’ The question was straightforward, but it held a note of something unsettling.

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘All finished for now.’

‘Good.’ He nudged his horse away and dragged something from his pocket—a cellphone. As Rosalie started tidying up her supplies she heard his voice, low and warm, as he spoke in his native tongue. She loved the lilt of it, the fluidity, and her hands slowed as she listened.

She remembered the teasing sound of his voice yesterday, as he’d chivvied the horses. A thrill skittered down her spine as she imagined him speaking, his tone intimately caressing, pitched for her alone.

Appalled at herself, she began to shove her gear away with more force than prudence. She couldn’t believe her wayward imagination. Never had she fantasised about a man in this way. She shook her head, wondering what had changed. This instant overwhelming attraction was terrifying. It was the sort of attraction that she guessed led to one-night stands.

For an instant the horrible irony of that thought struck her, but she shoved it aside. She had no time for self-pity. The past was gone.

But that still left her way out of her depth.

Five minutes later she was packed, all except her easel and canvas, when the rumble of an engine made her look up. It was a four-wheel drive approaching over a stony track from the ridge above. Arik was already riding to meet it.

As she watched, a couple of men got out and, following his instructions, began unloading something from the back of the vehicle. Soon it began to take shape, high on the beach, as a large canvas awning. No, a tent, with one side open, facing the sea.

Arik walked towards her, his naturally long stride shortening almost imperceptibly on each second step. His damaged leg. The realisation brought a crazy rush of sympathy for whatever pain he’d suffered.

Rosalie shook her head. What had got into her? She’d known the man a little more than a day, if she could be said to know him.

‘If you permit, I’ll have your work taken to my home and brought along tomorrow morning at first light. That way you won’t have to carry it each day.’ He paused, then added, ‘I will personally vouch that it will be handled appropriately. My mother is an amateur artist and my staff understand that it is more than their lives are worth to damage a work in progress.’ His smile was charming, robbing his words of any threat.

‘I…of course. That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Pointless to assert that she didn’t want it leaving her hands. That she’d feel safer with the canvas in her own keeping. Was 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 a moment as she savoured the coffee.

Even with a tiny smudge of paint high on her cheek, her cotton shirt creased and her long hair slipping from the ponytail that secured it, she was temptation personified. That creamy-soft skin, a pale gold that showed each delicate blush, and those eyes, hauntingly erotic. The sensual curves designed for a man’s pleasure. And her long ripple of hair the colour of a dawn sunburst. All too easily he could visualise those strands spread across the pillows behind her as she lay beneath him, an invitation to his touch.

He itched for her. Burned for her.

But she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t like his usual women: eager and flirty, sometimes too eager.

Rosalie Winters was different. She was ripe for him, he’d easily read her body’s unconscious signals. But her mind was another matter. This was a woman who did not give herself lightly.

Yet he knew instinctively she’d be worth waiting for. This time it wouldn’t be about almost instant gratification. For once he was willing to delay. With Rosalie he was discovering that anticipation was part of the pleasure.

‘So where is home? What part of Australia?’

‘Queensland. In the north east.’

‘I know it, or part of it. I’ve dived on the Great Barrier Reef.’

Her eyes widened. What had she expected? That he’d never left his island home?

‘That’s where I come from. A small town on the coast just north of Cairns.’

‘You’re blessed with beautiful country.’

She looked out across the bay. ‘And so are you.’

‘Thank you.’ Despite the fact that he spent most of his time elsewhere, Q’aroum was his home. Her simple compliment pleased him.

‘And have you always lived near Cairns?’

She shook her head and he saw the rose-gold strands of hair snag on her shirt. ‘I lived in Brisbane once.’

‘For work?’ Her reticence intrigued him. He was accustomed to women demanding his attention, vying for his interest.

‘I was only there for a year. To attend art school.’ She kept her gaze fixed on the sea but he saw the way her mouth tightened, her lips pulling flat.

Not a good experience, then. He wondered what had happened. His curiosity about her grew with every passing hour.

‘You didn’t like the city life?’

She shrugged, leaving her shoulders hunched and defensive. ‘It didn’t work out.’

There was a wealth of pain in her voice and he decided against prying. But he’d give a great deal to know what had caused her such hurt. A man, he supposed. Only a failed relationship could cause such pain, or so his friends told him. He’d never had any such problems.

‘And now you live on the coast and work as an artist.’

She shot him a glance he couldn’t decipher and shook her head once more. ‘I work part-time in a child care centre. I decided against art as a career.’

‘I understand it’s a very difficult field in which to make a living. But with your talent that must have been a difficult decision.’ Obviously she loved her art. She’d been so totally absorbed in it this morning that he’d been piqued at how little attention she’d paid him—as anything more than a necessary part of the scene. It was as if nothing else had existed for her.

She laughed, a short, hard sound that held no humour, dragging at something deep inside him.

‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter.’

Another look at her face and he decided against pursuing the issue, for now.

‘And you like working with children?’

Her face softened. She was so easy to read, and yet she was still an enigma. ‘I love it. Working with little ones puts your life in perspective.’

‘I can see you’re looking forward to becoming a mother yourself one day.’

She turned and snared him with those smoky-green eyes. Her mouth widened into a smile that lit her face. ‘I’m already a mother. My little girl, Amy, is two and a half.’

Arik felt his stare harden as her words sank in, something, some strong emotion, balled in his gut, drawing each muscle taut to the point of pain.

He turned away to refill his cup, desperately gathering his control about him.

Fury, that was what it was.

His frown turned to a scowl as he recognised the emotion, hard as a knot, inside him. Anger. And jealousy.

The idea that she’d carried another man’s child, had belonged so intimately to another, burned deep, eating like acid.

The intensity of sensation shocked him. Shook him out of his complacent belief in himself as an easygoing man. There was nothing easygoing about the churning turmoil in the pit of his stomach. It was a surge of pure old-fashioned covetousness. Envy that some other man had enjoyed what he so wanted.

Arik couldn’t believe it. He’d never been jealous in his life!