The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.

      ‘Let me see how badly you’re hurt.’ His voice was low, brushing across her sensitive nerves like the stroke of plush fur on bare skin. Belle darted a look up and found him still watching her.

      Instead of dark eyes to match his black-as-night hair, his eyes were a deep, clear green. An exact match for the enticing crystal water where she’d dived this past week.

      She stared, enthralled by a flicker of heat in those cool, sexy eyes.

      Yet his face was hard, its strong lines set with disapproval. Had he guessed her secret thoughts? Recognised the delicious thrill that shivered through her as he towered over her? Or her rush of excitement as he’d stripped off his shirt to reveal that powerful, muscular chest?

      It took all her will-power to keep her gaze fixed on his face, not follow the arrowing line of dark, masculine hair that invited her attention down his belly.

      With his superb fitness, his air of supreme competence and control, he must belong to some élite rescue squad. The sort called in when things got really tough.

      And with those looks he probably had adoring women throwing themselves at him with monotonous regularity.

      No doubt he was hoping the wreck of a woman he’d just saved wouldn’t follow suit.

      Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she watched his mouth firm into a narrow line. He knew what she felt, all right, but he was gentleman enough to ignore her weakness. If she was lucky he’d dismiss it as a product of post-traumatic stress. As she intended to.

      ‘Ms Winters.’ In one supple move he sat before her and reached out one hand, palm up. ‘Let me see your wrists.’

      Wordlessly she complied, sucking in a long, calming breath as he took her hands in his and concentrated his attention on her torn, bruised skin. She already knew the touch of those long, capable fingers, the brush of calluses against her flesh. But familiarity didn’t prevent the melting sensation that spread through her.

      ‘It’s Belle,’ she said at last, her voice uneven.

      ‘Belle.’ He paused, her name on his tongue, and fire shot down to the centre of her being. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. ‘And you must call me Rafiq.’

      She nodded. ‘Rafiq.’ She should have guessed even his name would be sexy.

      ‘Your hands are knocked about, but with antibiotics to ward off infection they should heal.’ He opened his hands and she slid hers out of his hold.

      ‘Let me see your ankles now.’ He reached down and lifted her foot in one hand, gently brushing the sand away.

      ‘Not too bad, considering,’ he said finally, after a close inspection. ‘If you’re lucky you’ll only have minimal scarring.’

      Belle nodded, relieved when he released her. His nearness, even the whisper of his warm breath against her skin, set her senses reeling. She was so utterly attuned to him she was sure he could read the longing in her gaze.

      ‘Do you have any other injuries?’ Was that a thread of tension she detected in his tone?

      She turned from her contemplation of the empty ocean to find his attention fixed on her thigh. A large, multicoloured bruise marred her leg—unmistakably the mark of a massive hand.

      Belle shuddered as she remembered getting that bruise. Heavy, thickset men, rank with the smell of sour sweat and excitement. Cruel eyes that told her they’d enjoyed maiming Duncan, would enjoy hurting her. For an instant she was sucked back into the nightmare, confused and fighting the choking panic that threatened to take hold.

      She blinked, forcing herself to put aside the memory. There were more sore spots round her waist. Tentatively she touched them and winced.

      ‘A couple of bruises,’ she said, aiming for a matter-of-fact tone and failing. ‘They’ll heal in time.’

      A burst of guttural Arabic, savage and uncompromising, broke across her words. Startled, she raised her eyes to see a look of such fierce emotion on Rafiq’s face that she flinched. It was as if he’d transformed into a stranger. An intense, deadly stranger.

      Then his eyes met hers and the impression was dispelled, his face smoothing out into the familiar mask of cool control.

      ‘Forgive me, MsWinters—Belle.’ He paused, and she noticed the rapid tic of his pulse at the base of his throat. Not so calm, then.

      He gestured abruptly to the livid bruise on her leg. ‘This is untenable. That my countrymen have treated you in this way—’ He bit off the words and drew in a breath that made his broad chest heave. ‘Apologies are insufficient for such a crime. But, for what it’s worth, you have mine.’

      She shook her head, bemused. ‘It’s not your fault, Rafiq. You rescued us. Put yourself in danger to help.’

      A single slashing movement of his hand cut her off.

      ‘It sickens me that you have suffered violence at the hands of these men. Abduction and harm. When you are on the mainland, have no fear, you will be given the best of medical service. Counselling—whatever is appropriate.’

      She watched him stretch out his fingers in a deliberate movement of forced relaxation. It was totally at odds with the tension in his big frame.

      ‘And while you recuperate your attackers will be brought to justice. They will not long escape their punishment.’ The stormy light in his eyes sent a thrill of apprehension skittering down her spine.

      He paused. ‘We have extremely competent female doctors who can take care of you and discuss your…experiences.’

      He turned his gaze from her as if to give her privacy. And in that moment she realised why he’d been so outraged at the sight of her injuries. Embarrassment warred with relief and the need to reassure him.

      ‘Rafiq,’ she said, reaching out to touch his hand before she could change her mind. His fingers curled round hers and a jolt of blazing energy shot through her.

      ‘They didn’t…’She hesitated. ‘They only hurt me to get me to move, to obey them. They didn’t…’

      ‘Rape you?’ His voice was a husky murmur.

      ‘No.’

      She was fine. Really. She’d survived. Her injuries were minor. So why did the recollection of her kidnappers’ avid eyes upset her? Why did she choke on the bitter taste of tears that blocked her throat and prickled her eyes?

      ‘Habibti,’ Rafiq murmured, touching her cheek in a feather-light caress that loosened her hold on her welling emotions even further. ‘You’ve been through so much. There’s no need to fight yourself as well. There is no shame in feeling upset.’

      She responded to the sound of his voice, rich and warm, as much as to his words. Blindly she nodded, instinctively leaning towards the comfort of his solid frame. His hands closed round her arms and her rigid control slipped another notch. She felt as if she were unravelling, the very core of her loosening, unwinding, fraying. The dam that held her emotions