‘But you have me at a disadvantage,’ he continued. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘It’s Rosalie. Rosalie Winters.’ She felt gauche standing here, hands clasped together as she lifted her chin to look up at the superb man controlling those fidgety horses with such lazy, yet ruthless grace.
Of course he had no ulterior motive in wanting her company. A man with his looks and, no doubt, wealth, wouldn’t be interested in a very ordinary Australian tourist. He was bored, that was all, and no doubt intrigued to find someone on his beach.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosalie.’ His voice was deep and smooth, rippling across her skin and warming her deep inside. ‘You must call me Arik.’
‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head and stretched her lips into a tense smile, panicked by the thrill of pleasure coursing through her, the impact of his smooth velvety voice.
‘I look forward to our afternoons together,’ he said and Rosalie’s breath caught as his smile disappeared and his hooded eyelids lowered just a fraction. Her instant impression was of brooding, waiting sensuality. It should repel her—she knew it should—but somehow this man’s casually harnessed male power and potent sexuality intrigued her.
She shook her head. Impossible. She’d learned her lesson well. Men and their desires were never to be trusted. She’d come to her senses as soon as he left.
‘I’m sorry but—’
‘You do not wish to spend time with me?’ He sounded astonished, as if he’d never before encountered a refusal. His eyebrows rose in disbelief.
It would do him good to realise he couldn’t smooth talk every woman he met.
‘Thank you for the offer,’ she said, conscious of the need not to offend, ‘but I wouldn’t feel comfortable alone with a man I didn’t know.’ That much was the truth. No need to explain that it was his potent maleness, combined with the gleam of appreciation she’d recognised in his eyes, that guaranteed she could never let herself trust him.
His brows levelled as he stared at her. His scrutiny was so intense she could swear it burned across her skin, invoking an embarrassed blush up her throat. She felt vulnerable, as if he saw too much of her fears and insecurities, as if his scrutiny stripped away layer upon layer of the self-protective armour she’d forged for herself.
‘You have my word, Rosalie, that I would never force my attentions where they were not wanted.’ He drew himself straighter on his mount, every line of his lean, powerful body and every muscle in his face rigid with outraged pride. His strong hands, so relaxed a moment ago, clenched hard on the reins and his horse danced sideways, rolling its eyes as if it sensed its master’s displeasure.
Despite herself, Rosalie felt her blush intensify to a burning vivid crimson, flooding up and over her cheeks. But she stood her ground and met his haughty stare.
‘I appreciate your assurance,’ she said, consciously avoiding the use of his name and the intimacy that implied. ‘And I apologise if I’ve offended you, but—’
‘But you are right to be cautious with men you do not know.’ He nodded and some of the tension left his face. His lips curved in a rueful smile. Once again she felt that throb of awareness between them. Unwanted but only too real.
What was happening to her? He was a chance-met stranger. Despite his good looks and his sex appeal, he should mean nothing to her.
‘I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, but I have to admit I would appreciate your company. I’m obviously a bad patient, not cut out for solitude and quiet recovery.’ Again that shrug of wide shoulders. ‘We could perhaps visit some of the local sights, if that would ease your mind. There are always plenty of people about in the marketplace and the old city. We need not be alone.’
Now she really did feel awkward, as if she’d overreacted to the most innocent of requests.
‘And,’ he added with slow deliberation, ‘the pleasure of your presence would count as suitable recompense for my assistance to your art.’
The sting in the tail, Rosalie realised, watching his shrewd eyes narrow assessingly.
She hesitated, bent and picked up her bulging canvas bag to give herself time to collect her thoughts. This man made her nervous, her damp palms and roiling stomach were testament to that. Yet the trembling sensation still tingling down her backbone in response to his last smile was proof of something more dangerous. Interest, awareness, excitement. That was what really worried her. The fear of the unknown.
On the other hand, there was her painting. The thrill of creative energy she’d experienced this morning was addictive, intoxicating. It promised something wonderful. She’d give almost anything to be able to work again. Maybe this painting would be the key she needed to resume her art. A key that she’d thought gone for ever. How could she pass that up? It could be her last chance to regain something of what she’d lost.
She drew a slow breath and met his eyes. ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate seeing more of the island with someone who knows it so well.’
Simple, easy—she hadn’t committed to anything dangerous. So why did she feel as if she’d just taken a step into the fraught unknown?
His smile was a blinding flash that stalled her breath in her throat.
‘Thank you, Rosalie.’ Her name on his lips sounded different: exotic and intriguing. ‘And I promise that I will never do anything that you do not like. You have only to say the word if you object to something.’
Rosalie stared up at his satisfied expression, his relaxed pose, and wondered if she’d done the right thing. He looked too…smug, as if he’d got more out of the bargain than she suspected.
That had to be her perennially suspicious mind. She’d conditioned herself to be wary. Now she’d forgotten how to take people at face value. Perhaps this was her chance to rectify the balance, relax a little on her holiday and learn not to freeze up when she was with a man.
‘Thank you…Arik. I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning.’
Arik watched her turn and walk away, barefoot along the damp sand.
The sound of her soft voice saying his name, the sight of her lush mouth forming the word, had pulled the muscles tight in his belly. He felt a gnawing ache there, a greedy hunger that had grown in intensity once he’d come close enough to see her properly.
From a distance Rosalie Winters had been desirable, tempting and intriguing. Close up she was stunning.
Her eyes were wide and surprisingly innocent, more alluring than those of most women he met, with their consciously seductive glances that invited flirtation. Her skin looked soft as a petal, making him eager to experience it for himself. Her heart-shaped face, her perfect pink bow of a mouth and her rose gold hair, like gilt with the hint of a blush, were all superb.
Yet there was something else at the core of her attractiveness. Not her air of vulnerability—that had been a surprise and it had evoked in him a sudden surge of protectiveness so strong he’d wondered if he should shelve his plan completely. Turn around and leave her.
But he wasn’t into self-denial.
Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t immediately tried to pursue him. He’d had women chasing after him since he’d reached puberty. He had to do no more than indicate his interest to have whatever woman he wanted. Even the discovery that he was a sheikh, a leader of his people, had failed to arouse anything more than mild curiosity in her. That news had, in the past, led to some women becoming almost embarrassingly fascinated. They were so busy fantasising about his sex life they had no concept of his real life: his responsibilities and his manic work schedule.
Not that he objected to the right woman taking an interest in his sex life.
At the moment Rosalie Winters was the right