The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride - Annie West

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reaction.

      She’d watched him in the wavering torchlight. She’d spent the night clasped in his arms, learning at first hand the tough masculine planes and bunched muscles that comprised his body. But still she hadn’t been prepared.

      His wide shoulders tapered through a strong torso to a lean waist. Slick jet-black hair splayed down over his neck and reached his shoulders. His skin was smooth and glistening. Belle’s fingers clenched into tight fists.

      Her gaze strayed lower. The curve of tight, round buttocks. The weight of muscled thighs. Innate strength and endurance. He stretched his arms out and she stared, mesmerised, at the movement of muscles in his back.

      He dropped his hands to his sides and shook his head, flicking diamond droplets of water from his hair. He was about to move. And here she was, playing voyeur!

      Belle stumbled to her feet and turned away. He’d looked so…elemental. An embodiment of masculine power that would both thrill and frighten any woman.

      A sudden blast of need rocked her. Melting awareness. Choking heat. The desire to have those strong arms shelter her again. But this time his body would warm her in different ways and his hands would caress her.

      She shook her head. This was absurd. She’d survived the ordeal of a lifetime: violence and pain, threat and terror. How could she even think about sexual attraction?

      Had something fused in her brain? Or was this a primitive reaction to her near-fatal experience?

      The urge to escape, to be alone with her confused emotions, was overwhelming. But there was nowhere to go. She was a prisoner here with her buccaneer.

      Rafiq yanked the trousers up his wet legs and watched her stare out to sea, seeking some sign of rescue.

      She looked lost and alone, her slender body held upright only by the steely determination he’d seen in her. Her hair was a matted nimbus around her head, not like the sleek style in her passport photo. Rings of bruised, bloody skin marked her ankles where the irons had bitten.

      She should look pathetic, an object of sympathy, he told himself as he hauled his shirt on and strode towards her. Yet he saw only the streamlined perfection of her toned body. The inviting flare of her hips that had cradled him through the night till he’d thought he’d go mad, resisting urges that were nigh on irresistible. He read tensile strength in the set of her shoulders, in her wide-planted, honey-tanned legs.

      He thrust aside the subtle voice of temptation.

      ‘Ms Winters.’ He saw her tense, but she didn’t turn. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

      ‘Glad to be alive.’ She half turned her head. ‘And you?’ There was strain in her profile, at odds with her determined chin and the strength of her neat, straight nose.

      ‘All in one piece,’ he responded, injecting a lightness into his tone that he didn’t feel. ‘We’ve had a lucky escape. Your colleague, Mr MacDonald, will be glad to see you.’

      She nodded. Despite his better judgement, he allowed his gaze to slip down over her azure swimsuit. Her slim, perfect body dried his mouth. Sweat prickled his palms.

      He wanted to erase the memory of last night—of her terror—in the simplest, most effective way. With pleasure. Carnal pleasure.

      But eventually her rigid stillness penetrated his racing brain. Realisation hit and guilt flooded him.

      No wonder she wouldn’t turn to look at him! She was embarrassed, wearing a skintight swimsuit in front of a man she barely knew. That explained the high set of her shoulders, the tension humming through her every muscle.

      She could only feel vulnerable after what she’d been through. Who knew what trauma she’d experienced?

      A leaden weight settled in his belly as he thought of her, alone with a band of kidnapping thugs. He wanted to reach out and comfort her. But that would be a mistake.

      As if to confirm it, she shifted, edging away.

      ‘A rescue team will be on its way as soon as possible,’ he assured her.

      She nodded, but stood aloof. She looked as fragile as spun glass. It wouldn’t take much to shatter her.

      A ray of sunlight illuminated her golden hair and limned her sleekly curved body. Something caught at his breath, deep down in his chest. He frowned. He’d known more beautiful women. Had more beautiful women. Gorgeous, consciously seductive women. But Isabelle Winters stirred his blood in a way he’d never experienced.

      Was it her incredible inner strength? Her bravery? Or the way she carried herself—like royalty—despite the barbarous manacles and her state of undress?

      Or perhaps it was because she was the only woman he’d ever lain with all night and not made love to.

      She swayed and he bit back an oath, registering her trembling knees and the stress lines that tightened her lips. Pain and reaction were finally taking their toll.

      Rafiq grabbed her upper arms, tempering his hold to a gentle, sustaining pressure. He ignored the frisson of awareness that skimmed his palms at the contact, the skirl of heat that ignited in his gut.

      Carefully, touching her as lightly as possible, he helped her to sit. Bending down close, he saw the pupils dilate in her wide blue eyes. She was in shock.

      ‘You need to get warm.’ Already he was unbuttoning his shirt. Her jaw was set as if against a chill, and her hands were clenched, white-knuckled together. He saw a tremor ripple right through her.

      Her nipples pebbled against the thin blue fabric. And his lower body tightened in a telltale response that made him grit his teeth.

      ‘I’m not cold,’ she protested. ‘We’re in the tropics!’

      ‘Nevertheless.’ He dragged the shirt off his shoulders and draped it round her. She smelt warm and enticingly female. Awareness of her vulnerability tugged at his senses and he straightened, stepping away from her.

      ‘You’re hurt!’ She’d seen his shoulder. Something had smashed into him last night and gashed him.

      She raised her hands, pointing, and he sucked in his breath. She looked like a suppliant, kneeling at his feet. Ultra-feminine in his oversized shirt, breasts tilted up towards him by the movement of her arms.

      She could have been some sexy modern-day slave, begging.

      And in that instant, staring down at her, he felt a hot, primitive force surge in him. The instinct to reach out and grab. His blood quickened, his body hardened at the sensual image. At the idea of making her his. At the ruthless need to conquer and possess.

      Generations of al Akhtar blood ran in his veins. Generations of fighters, leaders of men, pirates. His ancestors had been renowned for their rapacious passion and the single-minded pursuit of what they wanted.

      Who could fight centuries of conditioning?

      Already he could taste her sweetness like a drug on his tongue. Every muscle tensed like iron and his pulse drummed hard in anticipation. He remembered the feel of her beneath him, the combination of softness and strength, and knew she’d be perfect for him.

      He only had to reach out. To take.

      And then he registered her wide stare, the confusion in her eyes. Reality crashed upon him. He shook his head, trying to clear the miasma that fogged his brain.

      ‘You’re injured,’ she said again.

      ‘It’s nothing.’ His voice was brusque.

      Her hands dropped to her knees, her clear bright gaze slid from his.

      He was the worst kind of savage. Ill-tempered because compassion, the rules of civilised society, his sense of responsibility, all proclaimed she wasn’t for him. He shouldn’t want her. Not so elementally, so viscerally.

      Yet it was so.

      The

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