For The Sheikh's Pleasure

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.