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His heated gaze blatantly acknowledged the night he still remembered and the past Lucy would rather forget.
A barely perceivable tug lifted the corners of Maria’s lips. “I’ll leave you to get reacquainted.”
Lucy’s face blazed with heat. She steadfastly avoided Anwar’s gaze and fixed her eyes on the back of Maria’s glossy hair as she drifted back into the crowd.
“You’ve been hiding from me.” His deep, velvet voice held the trace of the Middle Eastern accent that had weakened her willpower six months before. She had steeled her resolve never to be moved by Anwar should their paths cross again. As that control slipped from her, panic buzzed through her chest.
The catalog she’d clenched in her hands fluttered to the floor. She stooped to pick it up as he lowered his powerful frame to retrieve the booklet showcasing her collection. As she lifted her gaze to Anwar’s face, his dark amber eyes magnetically pulled hers to his as he waited for her response.
For a stomach-clenching moment, she thought he knew the truth. “Hiding?” she stuttered.
“Your talent.”
Lucy exhaled in a whoosh of relief.
“You kept it a secret from me. Why?”
How could she tell him because she didn’t believe in herself? All her life, her narcissistic mother had told her to aim small. She’d been told repeatedly not to outshine her brothers and sisters. She felt her throat constrict. All those silent protests she’d swallowed congealed on her tongue. How could she speak to them now?
“I’m in awe.”
She so badly wanted to feel nothing but hatred for the man who had betrayed her so mercilessly. Hatred would steel her resolve. Hatred would keep her lips sealed. Hatred would keep her safe. But the sonorous tone of his praise made Lucy’s body flame with heat, sending a tell-tale crimson blush to her cheeks. It wasn’t the memory of that sensual, sexy night when their son had been conceived nor the compliment he offered now. It was how his voice resonated with every scarred artery in her heart, awakening the lingering dream of a happily-ever-after that refused to die.
Her eyes trailed the length of his 6-foot two-inch frame, then rose to his face. The curated gallery lights spotlighted the starkly molded framework of his features. He still exuded the authority and compelling magnetism that sent her pulse soaring and her willpower plummeting.
Damn it!
She should never have slept with him. But now, at least, she knew the truth. She was just another conquest in an endless sea of women. Common. Plentiful. Replaceable. As easy to possess as the seams of sapphire in his Ceylonese mines, the abundant priceless pearls beneath the sea surrounding his desert kingdom, and rich oil reserves that were readily replenished. For a man of his considerable wealth, nothing was priceless.Not even love.
Heat, longing, and fury shot through her loins as her awareness returned to the absurdly handsome sheikh who must never know he had fathered her child. Lucy shifted her gaze to Issy and Max, hoping to catch their attention and give her a reason to escape the awkward situation she now found herself in.
“How did you find me?”
“I was passing through.”
“New York?” she challenged disbelievingly.
Anwar turned and fixed his gaze momentarily on the stark white wall closest to the door. On the white panel was her name in gold letters,Lucy Ford, and the show's title,Desert Dreams.
“This is a solo exhibition, and you are the star. I was curious. What were these desert dreams, and who was having them?”
Lucy studied a splash of red wine puddling on the floor. She grimaced as her face blazed with heat. She wanted to say, ‘The desert dreams were those you promised me when you took my virginity. The desert dreams you stole when you abandoned me. The desert dreams I now carry.’ But she would not share her wound and dignify the hurt he had inflicted. Nor would he ever know her secret.
“Your paintings, you’ve captured the emotion exactly.”
“You’re being kind,” Lucy said, steeling her heart to his praise. Why was he flattering her? Her rational mind rallied to protect her. Don’t let your guard down. Not again. He can’t be trusted.
“The desolation. The loneliness. The isolation. But you’ve taken it further. You’ve seen the hope, healing, and beauty below the surface. The desert is not a barren wilderness. It dances with life. With dreams,” he corrected.
His gaze shifted from her to the painting he had just purchased, running along the soaring dunes troughed on the canvas with a hurtle of ochre and lashings of gold. Then his eyes rose along the formidable shaft of light that Lucy had painted with an intuitive blaze of gold, its beam towering over the dunes like a protective benefactor.
“You have a rare ability to capture feelings,” he said, turning to her again. Dark amber eyes, deep and solid as crystal, held her spellbound. “I knew you had to be mine.”
“You had your chance.”
He laughed, the easy laugh that only those with supreme confidence exuded. “What I meant was, I knew I had to make your paintings mine.”
She grimaced. There he was, rejecting her again. “We don’t need you,” she tossed at him, regretting the comment immediately. “I don’t need you,” she hastily corrected.
