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He was rebellious enough to choose any profession that defied family tradition, but becoming one of the world’s most famous art collectors had the added benefit of allowing him to surround himself with things he loved. Not people who were far too flawed and fickle, but paintings that improved with age—in value and beauty.
He had very definite opinions on what he liked and didn’t like. He was discerning, unlike his Russian counterparts, who purchased art purely to elevate their status. He did not need that. He was the son of a king, born into royalty, and a natural leader. When he chose paintings, especially by new and upcoming artists, their fortunes were favorably fated.
He liked that he could elevate others, not to feed his ego but because of the joy their paintings created. When he found a painting that spoke to his soul, he would inevitably acquire it, whatever the cost. This was the reason, the only reason he had purchased all the artworks in Lucy’s exhibition.
How could a woman with eyes like hers have done anything criminal? Whatever the answers were, he was dead set on one thing— ensuring harmony within his family. His brother Hamad had been insistent that Lucy had defrauded him, setting him up to spend a fortune on a painting now everyone believed worthless.
Though it might be considered one of those escapist fantasies Anwar was sometimes accused of possessing, he wanted to believe she was innocent of any wrongdoing. Hamad, less so. Ultimately, there was no choice but to sever Lucy’s curatorial services and expel her from the kingdom, for her sake as much as anything. His brother’s vengeful nature was well known. Once crossed, Hamad never forgave. Perhaps it was the scorpion in him.
The evidence Hamad presented to Anwar and his other brothers supporting his fraud claim was compelling. Copies of correspondence, email exchanges, and Lucy‘s recommendation of the art expert tasked with authenticating the painting left little doubt of her crime. It was better for everyone, especially Lucy, that he had consciously aided and abetted her escape. Had he deliberately led her to believe he was expelling her? Had he severed her contract to save her the indignity of being brought to trial under Arabic law? All these thoughts weighed on him now.
CHAPTERSIX
Anwar had said he wanted to settle matters discretely. Did that mean dangerously, Lucy wondered, as she unlocked the door to the art gallery that evening?
Why did Anwar want a private viewing? He had made his purchase. The deal was done. That left what? The lure of a personal conquest? To take the only thing Lucy had left to give? Was that what he meant when he reappeared in her life and told her he wanted to resolve their past discretely? Well, he would be disappointed. Lucy would never yield to any arrogant, self-entitled claim he felt he had over her.
Concern wormed through her gut as she surveyed the dimly lit space filled with mystery and enchantment. Maria had left the lights on low, ensuring Lucy‘s paintings were exquisitely spotlighted. “We don’t want the Sheikh suffering buyer’s remorse and changing his mind,” Maria had said, handing Lucy the keys and reminding her to turn off the lights when she left. “We want to ensure Anwar remains enchanted—then maybe he’ll return for more.”
More!Lucy didn’t want Anwar coming back for more. The less she saw of him, the better. But she hadn’t been able to tell Maria that. If only she could have confided in her and saved them both from the over-the-top ordeal. Instead, Maria had channeled her inner movie star director and curated the encounter like a love scene in a romantic play.
Soft classical music filled the air, its melodious notes floating gently from hidden speakers, providing a romantic soundtrack to the evening. The music, combined with the soothing ambiance of the gallery, was expertly curated to create an atmosphere that encouraged heartfelt conversation and stolen glances. The seductive scent of oil paint and varnish mingled with the lingering aroma of exotic perfumes worn by beautiful women at her opening. To the left, near Maria’s gleaming white marble desk, a giant crystal vase bloomed with scented orchids and magnolias expertly created by celebrity florist Rose Lilly.
The whole room looked magical, like a harem to love, Lucy muttered under her breath as Anwar strode into the art gallery, looking like he owned the place.Owned her, Lucy conceded to her dismay.
His dark gaze fastened on her with such searing intensity it made her skin burn with self-awareness. All she wanted to do was run away, but she had no choice but to do his bidding.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble,” he purred.
Danger prickled down her spine, fracturing the reserve she had so carefully erected. “I didn’t,” she shot back, thrusting her arms over her chest.
What little protest she had initially offered when Maria had told her of Anwar’s demand for a private viewing had been quickly extinguished. They both needed the injection of cash that Anwar’s purchase of Lucy’s collection had provided. Without Maria, there would have been no solo exhibition. She owed it to her. But to Anwar, she owed nothing, Lucy reminded herself. But here they were. Together. Alone. Nothing to keep them apart but memories she refused to rekindle.
"Why did you keep your talent a secret from me?” The steely glint in Anwar’s eyes warned that he would not be diverted from his purpose.
“It was a private passion,” Lucy threw at him. “At least it was until I suddenly found myself out of a job.”
“You blameme?”
"I had always painted as a hobby,” she continued, refusing to dignify his arrogant denial with her rebuttal.
His gaze trawled the length of her body, then rose to her face and lingered on her lips. “You have a God-given gift, Lucy.”
Lucy wiped her mouth and shrugged. She couldn’t allow herself to fall prey to his kindness. Not again. She pressed her hand to her belly, feeling the emptiness and longing. She was doing the right thing. It was better for everyone that their child remained a secret.Wasn’t it?
Doubt and fear crawled through the lining of her gut as his dark brows knitted together in puzzled surprise. He was staring at her belly, she thought with alarm. Why? Did he know? No, that was impossible. She barely showed.
She racked her mind, scrambling for ways to divert Anwar’s attention from the uncomfortable truth.
“Some years ago, my mother looked up at a painting of a woman on the wall of her dining room, and she asked me, 'Why can’t I have a painting of my mother? I thought I'd create a portrait of my grandmother as a surprise gift so my mother could hang it on her wall. I took classes, studied books on portrait painting, and tried to master the skill. To please my mother. I was always trying to please her, never realizing it was futile. I would never win my mother's affection. She never wanted me,” Lucy said, instantly regretting her disclosure.
She froze as Anwar feasted his dark gaze on her. She wanted to flee from his penetrating stare and the magnetic attraction that wrapped an electric force field around them, stained with the tainted memories that united them both.
“In my culture, we believe we choose our parents.” Anwar smiled dangerously as his eyes traveled over her breasts.
She crossed her arms over her chest protectively, conscious that her pregnancy had made them more prominent. She hoped he had forgotten how they felt that night they had made love—or even, if he hadn’t, that he’d be too distracted now to care. A whoosh of relief escaped her mouth as he turned his attention toward her paintings.
“We believe that before birth, our souls are bestowed with talents because of this choice,” he said.
