The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

Her next desperate breath bruised her lungs. Her eyes swam and she stumbled. Frantically she scanned the debris for any shape that looked human.

Something dropped hard in the pit of her stomach at the possibility he might be injured. Or worse.

Slowly she turned; And there he was.

Her unsteady legs gave way and she collapsed abruptly onto the sun-warmed sand. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

But eventually her rigid stillness penetrated his racing brain.

Realization 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.

À 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 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. Ànd you?’ There was strain in her profile, at odds with her determined chin and the strength of her neat, straight nose.

Àll 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 judgment, 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 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.

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

Nevertheless. He dragged the spirt 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.