A Sheikh to Capture Her Heart Page 5

  So many things...

  ‘No, no, come earlier. We’ll have a drink, talk. Come as soon as you’re ready.’

  He spoke quickly and Sarah realised he was as uncertain as she was about whatever it was that was happening between them, and somehow that made her like him more.

  Not that she knew him, or anything much about him, apart from his illness and opting out of surgery.

  ‘I’ll just shower and change and walk down.’

  He opened his mouth and she knew he was going to offer to come for her, to drive her down, but she put her finger to his lips and said, ‘I’ll walk. Jungle drums, remember?’

  ‘And you think no one will notice you walking down to the resort?’

  ‘They will, but I walk a lot, all over the place. “There goes Sarah again” is all they’re likely to say.’

  ‘And dinner? They won’t miss you at dinner?’

  Was he holding her here with fairly meaningless conversation because he didn’t want them to part?

  ‘I usually eat in my villa—I like simple meals and I’m in the habit of preparing them myself. Anything I can eat with a fork and keep reading whatever I happen to be reading while I eat.’

  She knew it was time to turn away again, get inside to think, but she was enjoying standing there, looking at him, taking in the little details of this man she didn’t know.

  A faint white scar, like a crescent moon, on his cheek by his right ear, the little lines that played around the corners of his mouth as he smiled, the dark lashes that could hood his eyes in a split second, hiding any hint of emotion.

  ‘Come soon,’ he said quietly, and every nerve in her body ran with fire.

  * * *

  Harry wasn’t sure how he felt as he headed back down past the laboratories and kitchens to go through the resort to his bure.

  Hearing the bare bones of Sarah’s story had probably cut into him more than if he’d had the details.

  Not that he needed more information when he’d heard the pain still echoing in her words as she’d laid them matter-of-factly before him.

  It made him want her more, yet warned him to be careful—to take this pursuit more slowly than he usually did, for, like a skittish horse, Sarah could, at any time, back away from him.

  Which only made him want, even more, to hold her in his arms.

  Hold her in his arms?

  When had he ever wanted to do that with a woman?

  Apart from during foreplay or sex...

  So he had to pull back, cool off, treat this as just another attraction, a fling for their mutual enjoyment.

  Not get too involved...

  He never got too involved, mainly because he knew he couldn’t offer more than an affair. Eventually he’d have to give up his nomadic lifestyle—was he a modern-day throwback to his ancestors who’d roamed the desert on camels?—and return home, to duties and to a woman his family had chosen for him to marry...

  ‘You and Sarah made up your differences?’

  Sam had emerged from the shadows of the gardens around the laboratories, and Harry could only shake his head that the message of the jungle drums had spread so quickly.

  Not that he intended to respond to Sam. Whatever it was that lay between himself and any woman was private. With Sarah, it felt even more intensely private.

  ‘How’s the research going?’ he asked Sam instead, and his friend laughed.

  ‘Well fielded,’ he said, patting Harry’s shoulder. ‘But since you asked, like any research—slowly!’

  ‘Yet you keep at it?’ Harry persisted, thinking now of Sarah’s accusation that he had simply given up on the career he’d lived for.

  ‘I love it,’ Sam said simply, and Harry felt his gut tense.

  He, too, had loved his job.

  Could Sarah possibly be right?

  Could he continue to work in the field, even if he couldn’t operate?

  The realisation that the encephalitis had left him with a tremor had been shattering, especially, he realised now, because it had also left him so weak.

  So he’d backed away as quickly as he could—found new challenges...

  Sam was saying something about the hospital, how they intended to use his donation, but he was no longer listening, his mind too busy denying that he could have stayed on in his field of work.

  Making excuses?

  They parted on the path, but the joy he usually felt walking through the beautiful resort he’d created—an oasis of peace for people harried by the busy world—was missing.

  Better to think about Sarah, about courtship—well, sex if truth be told.

  And that thought brought a degree of discomfort somewhere inside him. She was obviously vulnerable. Nothing like the strong, focussed women he usually dallied with.

  So could she handle a short affair?

  Well, that was all she wanted and he could understand that now. Understand her shying away from emotional involvement, understand her fear of loss...

  For her this would be a kind of trial run before moving on with life.

  Which, for some unfathomable reason, made him feel even more uncomfortable.

  He ignored it.

  They’d keep it simple, nothing too intense—keep it light and fun, so it would be nothing more than the holiday romance, as Sarah had suggested...

  * * *

  Sarah sat in front of the meagre assortment of clothes in the villa wardrobe and sighed.

  After the accident, she’d insisted her mother give all her clothes to charity, unable to bear the thought of wearing things that David had touched.

  ‘So what shall I get you to wear?’ her practical mother had asked.

  Sarah hadn’t been able to answer, burrowed down under the duvet, where she’d been since her release from hospital.

  ‘I’ll sort something,’ her mother had said, and she had.

  ‘I just got black and white,’ she’d announced, returning to Sarah’s flat loaded down with bags. ‘Black, or white, or black and white. That way everything will go with everything else and you won’t have to make choices.’

  After a week of asking what Sarah might fancy for breakfast, her mother had realised her daughter couldn’t make even the simplest of decisions so she’d just provided a variety of meals, most of which had remained, at best, half-eaten.

  Hence the poor selection of clothes Sarah still owned—black, white or black and white!

  For the first time since the accident she longed for colour—for a bright emerald scarf or a red shirt...

  ‘Nonsense,’ she muttered to herself. ‘You’re going down there for—well, for sex, to put it bluntly. The holiday romance thing was just a way of making it sound better. As if it matters what you wear!’

  She pulled a black shirt out of the cupboard—soft and silky, it felt wonderful against her skin, and even without an emerald scarf it did suit her colouring.

  Loose white linen trousers came out next. They looked good with the shirt—they’d do.

  She waved a mascara brush at her eyelashes, a touch of blusher on her cheeks, and added lipstick—bright red.

  That was something she hadn’t given up, defiantly sticking to the same brand and colour because someone had once told her redheads shouldn’t wear red lipstick.

  David had laughed and dared her to wear it always—so she did.

  Oh, David, is this okay?

  Stupid question! He’d be jealous as hell, but beyond that he’d probably understand that it was the next part of moving on and he’d pat her shoulder and tell her to go for it.

  Pushing David very firmly to the back of her mind, she picked up her beach bag, threw a hairbrush, the lipstick and her phone into it, took a final look at herself in the mirror and headed out, her heart thu
dding so hard it was a wonder it wasn’t bursting out of her chest.

  * * *

  She slipped down across the airstrip and into the shadows at the gate to the resort. During the rebuilding, the gate had been guarded but the area was now open to hospital staff either using the laboratories or deciding to get a meal in the small restaurant near the kitchens.

  Sarah smiled to herself.

  Restaurant meals prepared by Harry’s ‘minions’!

  As she walked down towards his bure she felt a sense of peace—serenity—wrap around her, and could understand why people in stressful jobs or those in the public eye would enjoy the resort.

  Here they could be totally private, each bure carefully concealed in a bountiful display of tropical plants.

  And right at the end, Harry’s bure. He had apparently sensed her approach for he was out his door and walking towards her, taking her hands in his, looking her up and down, nodding.

  ‘Very stylish!’ he said, then, as if they’d been lifelong friends, he kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Come in.’

  Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly! For the first time since she’d agreed to dinner, Sarah felt a shiver of apprehension.

  Or was it doubt?

  Was she ready for this?

  She shook it off. Of course she was, and, anyway, it wasn’t as if he was going to rip her clothes off right then and there, and she could leave at any time.

  He had lights burning on the deck outside, some kind of scented oil throwing flames towards the sky and casting shadows on the greenery around them.

  Inside the lights had been dimmed and soft music played, music that she didn’t recognise but that was soothing to her suddenly tightened nerves.

  A platter of fruit, cheese and biscuits had been set on a low table in front of a divan—the jug, water beading on its sides, stood beside the platter.

  ‘I do have wine,’ he said, ‘but try this juice first. It is a mix of pomegranate and rosewater, my mother’s special recipe.’

  ‘No wine, thanks,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t drink much and never when I’m on the island. Who knows when I’ll get a call to the hospital?’

  ‘Do you get many night calls?’ Harry asked as he waited for her to be seated, then poured a long glass of the brightly coloured juice, adding ice blocks from a matching bucket beside the jug.

  ‘Very rarely, but I’d hate to get one and find I couldn’t operate.’

  The words were no sooner out than she regretted them. Harry couldn’t operate and she could only imagine the loss that must’ve been to him.

  But he said nothing, pouring himself a juice, settling beside her on the divan, and raising his glass.

  ‘To no callouts tonight,’ he said, the words and the slight huskiness of his voice causing a shiver to run down Sarah’s spine.

  She clicked glasses with him and for the first time actually noticed the slight tremor in his hand.

  She wanted to touch it, to set down their glasses and hold it in both of her hands, not exactly regulation behaviour for someone embarking on an uncomplicated holiday romance.

  Except she’d told him about David and the baby, so couldn’t she...?

  She did put down her drink, and took his hand in both of hers.

  ‘I imagine your loss was probably as bad as mine. I lost beloved people, but you lost your life’s work.’

  She looked into his eyes, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on the lips.

  ‘I do apologise for what I said! Was it only yesterday?’

  ‘Yesterday or a lifetime ago,’ he said quietly, retrieving his hand and using it to touch her cheek. ‘But tonight is about new beginnings, not the past, so raise your drink in a toast.’

  He waited until she’d lifted her glass.

  ‘To us and our fling. May the memories we make here on Wildfire help draw a curtain across the past.’

  Sarah raised her glass to touch his, and as he clinked he added, ‘We’re big on curtains in my country, I think because we were nomadic people originally and lived in tents, divided, to a certain extent, by curtains. And gauzy curtains soften even the harshest of landscapes.’

  The curtain idea was lovely, Sarah decided as she sipped her drink, but it was forgotten as she was tantalised by the tastes she could and couldn’t identify. Yes, rosewater was there—just—and the pomegranate of course, but there were hints of spices less easy to discern.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, giving up on her analysis. ‘A truly exquisite, refreshing drink.’

  ‘For a truly exquisite woman.’

  He raised his glass again, toasting her, and Sarah felt the blush start somewhere in her toes and race through her body to heat her throat and cheeks.

  ‘Hardly exquisite,’ she managed to mutter, then she took too big a sip of drink and promptly choked, coughing into a hastily grabbed handkerchief.

  Much to her embarrassment, he slid closer, patting her gently on the back, his thigh against hers, his heat generating even more confusion in her body.

  The hand that had been patting her back somehow seemed to settle around her shoulders, and although she told herself she was turning her head to thank him for the help, deep down she knew she was waiting for a kiss.

  Inviting one?

  Not quite, but close!

  So his mouth settling on hers wasn’t altogether surprising, but the effect of it galvanised nerves in parts of her body she had forgotten existed.

  The kiss was gentle, explorative, persuasive rather than demanding, yet her heart rate accelerated, her breathing became unsteady, and she clung to his shoulders to anchor herself to some kind of reality.

  But even that was lost when his tongue slipped inside her mouth. She gave in to desire, or need, or whatever it was that had her pulse racing and her body burning with a heat she hadn’t felt for what seemed like far too long.

  They were lying on the couch now, lips still joined, although his hands were inside her shirt, her fingers in his hair, holding his head, his lips, to hers with a desperation she had never felt before.

  A discreet cough broke them apart.

  ‘Minion?’ she whispered, as she dragged her lips away from his, and checked the buttons on her shirt before sitting up.

  ‘Minion!’ Harry muttered back at her, hastily adjusting his own clothing.

  ‘You stay here,’ he said, as he stood up and strode to the kitchen area, where a local worker was standing with a trolley laden with silver-covered dishes, rising steam suggesting the trolley was well heated.

  Harry spoke quietly to the man, who disappeared through a rear door, while the man she’d been so busy kissing on the couch pushed the trolley towards her.

  She studied him, this man she’d just been kissing, trying to work out how and why she’d felt such a strong attraction to him.

  Yes, he was good-looking—strongly moulded features, clear olive skin, dark eyebrows arched above his surprising grey eyes. But there was something else that drew her to him.

  Then his wry shrug, and his muttered ‘Jungle drums beating wildly now’ gave her at least part of the answer. As well as being possibly the sexiest man alive, he was thoughtful and considerate, worried how gossip might affect her.

  ‘Not to worry,’ she assured him. ‘It’s time the islands had something new to talk about. Your friend Luke’s romance with Anahera had them buzzing for a while, but it’s old news now.’

  He pushed the trolley over to a table already set for two, before turning around to face her, the mobile eyebrow raised.

  ‘Does it really not bother you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said, then she smiled as she realised just how true the words were.

  Whether it was the appeal of this man, or that the healing process was near
ly complete, she didn’t know, but something, probably a combination of both, had released her spirit and reawakened not only a need to live but an almost urgent desire to live life to the full.

  A brief affair was just what she needed, the first step in the discovery of the new Sarah Watson.

  She stood up from the couch and crossed to the table, pausing to lift the lids off some of the dishes, sniffing the delicious aromas with renewed appreciation of good food.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to Harry as she took her seat.

  The bemused look on his face made her want to explain.

  ‘For bringing me back to life,’ she said. ‘For reminding me of simple pleasures like a great meal or a really, really good kiss.’

  The candlelit gloom made it difficult to be sure, but she was almost sure he blushed...

  * * *

  She was glowing, and more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen.

  Surely one hot kiss couldn’t have caused the transformation but, whatever it was, he hoped it stayed. Sitting there at the table, in her prim black blouse with the top button undone—had he done that?—revealing just a hint of shadowy cleavage, she was so enticing he doubted he’d be able to eat.

  But he was the host so he lifted the first covered dish from the trolley and placed it on the table in front of them.

  ‘The chef seems to have provided for all tastes. Do you like oysters? He’s done Kilpatrick and Mornay and, on a special dish of ice, just natural ones. Do you like oysters?’

  She smiled and his heart jolted in his chest.

  ‘I could force some down,’ she responded, ‘although only for the zinc, of course.’

  The teasing suggestion of the supposed aphrodisiac properties of the shellfish hung in the air between them.

  Using the tongs provided, she selected half a dozen differently prepared shellfish for her plate.

  ‘For the zinc, of course,’ he agreed, but although he loved oysters he was far too mesmerised by the crispy, pancetta-topped Kilpatrick disappearing between her pale lips to serve some for himself.

  ‘Here,’ she said kindly. ‘Try a Mornay.’

  She held the fork towards him and he leaned forward to let her slide it into his mouth.