Captivated by the Sheikh. Annie West

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ