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Permanently, Lucy thought the next day as she prepared to shower. Whatever matter Anwar had wanted to settle discretely remained a hot topic. At least as far as Anwar was concerned. Maria had already transferred an advance on the commissions earned from selling her paintings. She would leave Manhattan and enjoy a much-needed break before the birth of her son. Hopefully, Anwar would lose interest in pursuing the matter and be long gone by the time she returned.
She didn’t want to think about the thick, dark fall of hair that brushed her face as he kissed her. She didn’t want to think about how her treacherous body burned with need in his presence. She didn’t want to think about why he had reappeared in her life.
No matter how much she craved affection, she couldn’t afford to think about Anwar at all. The sooner she was out of his reach, the happier and safer she and her unborn child would be.
CHAPTERSEVEN
When Anwar arrived at Lucy’s apartment, he was shocked to find the door ajar. Did she have no concern for her safety? Her carelessness troubled as much as it infuriated him. She needed protecting, he thought to his chagrin. Not because he cared about her, he told himself, noticing the lurch in his gut calling him a liar. He cared only for himself and the continuity of his legacy. He had the element of surprise. She thought he hadn’t detected her secret, he affirmed as he stepped into Lucy’s small, unassuming apartment.
The vibrant atmosphere that met him was as surprising as it was astonishing. Despite its modest size and Lucy’s limited resources, her humble dwelling burst with creativity and inspiration.
The living area was modestly furnished, yet the space pulsed with her unique energy. An impressive collection of paintings, sketches, and photographs adorned the walls, each capturing the essence of the landscape he recognized immediately as Avana. While the collection of her paintings he had purchased were landscapes from her mind, these passionate renderings were clearly from her soul, he mused as he noticed his heart pulse. Could the woman who had deceived him have found a route into the fortress he strove so hard to erect?
No, he vowed silently. They were paintings, inanimate artworks. That was all he told himself as a subtle spell wove around him. He folded his arms over his chest. No matter what magic Lucy may feel the artworks possessed, no matter the temptation or pleasures she promised, he knew he couldn’t succumb. He had come to New York seeking redemption for this family, and now he had discovered her secret pregnancy.
She thought he hadn’t registered the tiny swell of her belly last night, but it had not gone unnoticed. But he would not confess that he knew until he could ensure she would not escape again. Once she had served her purpose, he would leave Lucy alone. Once and for all.
Where was she, he wondered as he strolled through the living space. The kitchenette was tiny yet efficiently organized, and the shelves overflowed with vibrant mismatched plates and mugs, reflecting Lucy’s eclectic taste. The air was infused with the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the remnants of paint and the faint hum of creative energy.
His eyes were drawn to the half-finished canvases lining a narrow hallway leading to what looked like her bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Another security breach! Did the infuriating woman think she was untouchable? He would soon relieve her of that naive belief, he thought as he entered the cozy sanctuary she had created, adorned with an iconic lava lamp that cast a bright rouge glow upon the room.
The bed was adorned with a patchwork quilt, creating a haven of comfort and tranquillity. Despite the lack of wealth and luxury Anwar was used to, there was something, dare he admit it, heartwarming about her sweet abode. He grimaced. To indulge in such sentimentalities would be fatal.
A small studio space was tucked away in the corner of Lucy’s bedroom. Canvases of all sizes adorned the walls, displaying her vivid imagination and skill and reflecting the ever-evolving nature of her mind. Easels stood proudly, holding works in progress, and a cluttered desk was home to an array of paints, brushes, and other supplies.
Anwar was astonished and inspired by Lucy’s resourcefulness. Somehow, she had transformed her simple apartment into a vibrant haven of artistic expression. Despite the limited resources available to her, she had managed to pursue her passion and create a beautiful oasis amid the bustling, chaotic metropolis of New York City.
He wondered how her creativity would flourish if she could inhabit a space a thousand times more significant. That was not his concern, he affirmed as a muffled sound of running water reached his ears. A symphony of droplets cascading onto tiles heightened his senses. Desire and intrigue urged him forward. He gently pushed the door to the bathroom open. Steam billowed out, obscuring his view momentarily before dissipating to unveil Lucy, enveloped in a cloud of ethereal mist.
His heart slammed against his chest as she stepped from the shower, her silhouette illuminated by softly glowing sunlight filtering through the frosted window. Droplets of water adorned her radiant porcelain skin like delicate pearls. He held his breath lest her awareness break the trance of feminine grace. Her slender fingers, adorned with large paint-splattered rings, ran through her dampened locks, coaxing rivulets of water to trickle down her shoulders.
A sense of reverence washed over Anwar as he observed this intimate moment, realizing that he had unintentionally invaded her private sanctuary. In that instant, he understood the profound beauty of this encounter, transcending the boundaries of wealth and status. Two souls, worlds apart, yet bound by the shared appreciation for life's simple pleasures, he mused.
The sheikh and the artist. They were momentarily suspended in time, transcending their differences, connected through the vulnerability and innocence of a beautiful woman stepping out of a shower. In that fleeting moment, he knew that even he, a billionaire sheikh with everything money could possess, could find solace and inspiration amidst ordinary moments. True wealth, he affirmed, lay not in material opulence but in the beauty discovered in unexpected places.
His body pulsed with an animalistic desire to claim Lucy and make love to her in the shower. His poise faltered as he tried to regain control. He wanted to engulf her in his embrace, hold her tight against him, and possess her sweet mouth in his hungry lips. It took every ounce of his self-restraint to hold back the torrent of sharp, almost manic delirium that threatened to drown him.
He forced his gaze to her. How he would love to scoop her wet, sensuous body into his arms, look into her startled eyes as he strode across to the soft quilt, and lay her down on her back. How he would love to claim the pleasure he knew awaited, driving them both to heights of stolen passion.
Instead, he bent his formidable will back to his sole purpose. Silently, he retreated from the scene, leaving her to reclaim her privacy. He retraced his footsteps, returned to the apartment door, and knocked loudly. As his fist rapped on the darkened timber of the door, he fortified his resolve. This was not a time to indulge in nostalgic dreams of lust and intimacy. Lucy had kept the truth from him. Now, she must pay the price of her deception.
CHAPTEREIGHT
“Anwar! What are you doing here?” Lucy’s heart pounded as she registered Anwar’s smoldering eyes surveying the floor-length fuchsia kaftan clinging to her damp skin.
“I thought we could go sightseeing.”
“I can’t. I’ll be late.” She had nowhere to go, nowhere to be–other than to flee. But she wouldn’t tell Anwar that.
“Late for what?” Anwar pressed.
“Stuff,” she said, coiling rivulets of wet hair around her fingers and wringing excess moisture from the damp locks.
God, he was arrogant, she thought as droplets of water pooled on her bare feet. Did he think he had a monopoly on living an interesting, unrestricted life? Of course, he did. Being an infinitely eligible prince, the son of a king. Not a struggling artist and soon-to-be solo mother. Anwar could indulge all his sensual pleasures without fear or restraint—forever and always.
If it weren’t for the knowledge that, thanks to his purchase of all her paintings, she could pay her rent arrears and escape for a short-term break, she would push him out the door and tell him to disappear. Her dire finances worried her. How could they not? She didn't have just herself to worry about now, but providing for her child.
Their child.
