Who was she? How had she got under his skin so completely? And why did he feel that seducing her would be an unforgettable experience?
Arik was determined to uncover her secrets, would delight in discovering what went on in her mind almost as much as he’d enjoy possessing her sleek, ripe body.
She was a challenge unlike any he’d met. Already his blood ran hot in expectation of gratification to come. He would make her burn for him too, sigh out her desire for him, her need for fulfilment that only he could provide.
He watched her disappear round the rocks at the end of the beach. Not once had she glanced back. As if she’d known he sat here, watching her, anticipating tomorrow with barely concealed impatience.
He thought of his promise to her: not to do anything she didn’t like. He grinned. Of course she’d enjoy what he had in mind. He was no untried youth, nor a selfish hedonist seeking nothing but his own release. He was a man who fully appreciated the pleasure a woman’s satisfaction could bring. Whose lovers never had complaints about his ability to arouse and satisfy.
No, despite her caution, he was sure Rosalie Winters would never say the word that would prevent them both enjoying the ultimate pleasure together.
Rosalie paused at the headland. It marked the end of all that was safe. The point of no return. Far behind her lay the town, still slumbering in the dawn light.
Ahead lay the private cove with its ancient fort, and danger. She felt it in her bones. But what sort of danger? Yesterday she’d surely overreacted, overwhelmed by her excitement to be painting again and by her response to him.
She drew a deep breath. Did she really want to do this? All yesterday afternoon, while she was busy with Amy, her thoughts had returned to the man she’d met beyond this next headland: Arik Ben Hassan, and his invitation. He was a man unlike any she’d ever met.
Unbidden, a curl of excitement twisted low in her belly. The same sensation that had teased her all yesterday, reminding her that, despite the way she chose to live her life, and the needs she’d so long suppressed, she was, above all, a woman. With a woman’s weakness for a man who epitomised male power, strength and beauty.
That had to explain her restless night. The disturbing dreams that had her tossing in her sleep. She’d awoken time and again to find her heart pounding and her temperature soaring.
The first time she’d put it down to stress. Her mother and Amy had left for the capital that afternoon to stay with Rosalie’s sister, Belle, and her family. Originally Rosalie had planned to go too. She’d never spent the night away from Amy, not since her daughter was born, and the wrench had been just as hard as she’d expected. Not that Amy had been fazed—she’d been too busy looking forward to visiting the palace again and seeing her baby cousin.
It was Rosalie’s mum who’d convinced her to stay. Maggie Winters had been thrilled to discover her daughter had taken her art supplies out during the early hours while Amy slept. She’d insisted Rosalie stay on for a few more days in the house Rafiq had arranged. The time alone would do her good, she’d insisted. Rosalie had never had a break from the demands of single parenthood. She needed time to herself and it would be good for Amy too, experiencing something different for a few days.
Her mother had been so insistent, but more, so upset when she’d planned to leave the island, Rosalie hadn’t had the heart to persist. After all, she owed her mum so much. She was her rock.
Rosalie shuddered, recalling that day over three years ago when she’d stumbled from a taxi into her mother’s outstretched arms. She’d been falling apart, shaking and nauseous, barely coherent in the aftermath of shock, but her mum had taken it all in her stride, not even pressing for details till Rosalie was ready to talk. And then it had spilled out—the Friday night date, the crowded party, the spiked drink and Rosalie waking in a strange bed to the realisation she’d been assaulted. Raped.
Even now the memory made her feel ill.
She knew it was her mum’s loving support that had given her the courage to put the past behind her and create a new life for herself. Especially since her new life included Amy, legacy of that disastrous night.
Yet, despite the progress she’d made, the wonderful fulfilment of motherhood and her determination not to look back, she knew her mum secretly fretted over her.
Was it any wonder Rosalie hadn’t admitted that her attempts to rekindle her artistic skills were an abysmal failure?
Until yesterday, that was. It had all come together then, the sure light touch that had been her trademark in the days when she’d dreamed of making a name for herself as an artist.
Even then she’d been tempted to turn her back on what could be a false promise. Far safer to travel with her family to Q’aroum’s capital than take a chance on the unknown. Who knew whether she really could paint?
And was she up to dealing with a man like Arik Ben Hassan? A man who probably had the world at his feet and who on a whim had decided he wanted her company. Given her background, she was the last person to keep him amused with casual small talk and witty observations, if that was what he expected.
He hadn’t a clue about her. And that was the way she preferred it. Especially since he’d invaded her thoughts, even her dreams, in the twenty-four hours since she’d met him. He was dangerous to her peace of mind. To the delicate balance of her life.
But he was the key to her art. At least for now, until she worked out whether yesterday had been a fluke or a new start.
She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and made herself walk on.
He came to her like a prince out of a fairy tale—strong, silent and commanding. The epitome of maidenly longings, Rosalie decided, trying to make herself smile to unwind the tension coiling tight in her chest.
It didn’t work.
The sight of him: tall and devastatingly attractive, this time in lightweight beige trousers and another white shirt, weakened her knees. Closer he came, the muffled thud of hooves a vibration on the sand more than a sound. The wind caught his shirt and dragged it back, outlining the lean strength of his torso and wide, straight shoulders. The gleam of dawn gilded his face, throwing one side into deep shadow that accentuated the remarkable angles of his face, drawing the eye to those stunning cheekbones and the severe angle of his jaw.
Rosalie swallowed hard, then reached for the water she’d brought. She was parched, her mouth dried by the sight of him and by the sudden longing she experienced. A yearning that was strange and new and appalling.
This was a mistake. A disastrous mistake. But it was too late to leave. He’d seen her the moment he’d ridden down on to the beach. And she had too much pride to turn tail now and leave him wondering why she was scared of him. Especially when she didn’t know the answer to that herself.
‘Saba’a alkair, Rosalie.’ His face was gravely courteous as he inclined his head, his voice the deeply seductive tone she remembered from her dream. She shivered.
‘Saba’a alkair.’
‘Your pronunciation is excellent.’
‘Thank you.’ No need to tell him she’d learned her few words of Arabic from her brother-in-law, another local and a man of immense patience with her faltering efforts.
‘You slept well?’ His scrutiny was intense, sweeping over her like a touch, so the blood heated beneath her skin.
‘Thank you, I did,’ she lied. ‘Only one horse today?’