Page 7 of Stolen By the Sheikh

“My mother had nothing to do with my creativity.” Lucy snapped. “My grandmother taught me to paint."

His formidable gaze searched her face, then drifted to her thumping heart. “Perhaps your grandmother guided your conception when you were born,” he conceded.

Lucy suddenly felt grateful to Anwar for rekindling her nostalgic feelings. Her grandmother had been more nurturing and kinder to her than her mother ever had.

“Yes, I think quite possibly she was,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I felt connected to my grandmother as I painted her portrait. I would sing and talk to her, even though she had died many years earlier.”

Just like she had sung and talked to their unborn child as she created the works in her exhibition, Lucy reflected as she felt a little kick in her belly. Anwar could never know that. He could never know of the child conceived in one ill-fated night of passion. His way of life, his Kingdom’s views on social issues, their customs, were all too different. Anwar’s world was alien to everything she wanted for her life.

She was suddenly aware of the irregular bump of her heart as the blazing heat of his presence engulfed her. Anwar’s sex hormones were steroids for fertility.And fantasy. How long could she stand beside her son’s father and pretend she didn’t care? How long could she keep her dangerous secret?

Her traitorous body might still dream of Anwar, but she could never surrender, she affirmed inwardly. Not if she wanted to retain her freedom.

“It’s a bitter-sweet tale,” Lucy continued, reluctantly focusing on the story of her childhood trauma instead of the pain he had inflicted. “When I told my mother that my portrait of my grandmother was a finalist in a prestigious portraiture competition, she said nothing."

“That’s appalling! What sort of mother wouldn’t encourage their child? She should have been proud.”

His voice swept over her skin as if he’d kissed her. Panicked at the attraction his sympathy instilled in her, she whirled around to face him, forcing a frosty dignity she was far from feeling. “A lot of children suffer worse hurts from their parents.”

His dark gaze probed the fearful confusion in her eyes.

"Everyone told me what a great accolade it was to be selected,” Lucy blurted. “I told my mother that as a finalist, they would like to hang the painting for two weeks in an exhibition. Instead of being pleased for me, she refused to let me take the painting for the short-term show. ‘It’s mine,’ she said, refusing to let me borrow it from her so I could exhibit it.”

“Why did she behave so awfully?”

"Maybe her mother never said kind words to her.” She was revealing too much. Saying too much. Inviting too much. Still, perhaps if he knew how screwed up her family was—she was—he might leave her alone.

“My grandmother was a beautiful, gifted piano player, singer, and painter. But she battled alcohol addiction all her life. When she had a few drinks, she said the most horrible things.”

"Family!” Anwar said sympathetically.

“I knew it was the drink talking,” Lucy offered in defense of her grandmother. “She had suffered so much trauma. I don’t blame her. Her father got into a drunken brawl and killed a man. She was sent into foster care when she was four and never saw her brother or parents again.”

Anwar’s eyes locked on Lucy. “You never mentioned this at your job interview.”

“You were hiring me, not my family,” she said forcefully.

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have started painting again, would you?” Anwar said with righteous arrogance.

Lucy scowled. “It always has to be about you, doesn’t it?”

He smiled dangerously as he looked down at the forbidden place where their bodies had once pressed together. She felt a hot pulse of need and fear sweep over her and settle like a lightning bolt between her legs.

He advanced toward her. She bucked against him as his powerful arms pressed her against the wall. He laughed. “Not just me. Us.” He bent down and pressed his mouth upon hers, silencing her protests.

There was nothing then but the fire of desire that fanned through her, one bright flame after another, torching all resistance.

Anwar pressed the proof of his need hard against her. His mouth bent to her breasts, teasing them through her dress, while his hands streaked beneath her hem, testing her shape, rising between her legs to her belly.

“Stop!” she cried out, hoping he had not discovered her secret. He dropped his hand and stepped back while she smoothed her crumpled dress.

Anwar stood above her, his dark face stern and his golden eyes glittering. “I believe congratulations are in order,” he said in a low, rough voice.

“Congratulations?” she stammered. “What do you mean?”

“You succeeded in distracting me. How long do you think you will evade me?”

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