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Awakened By Her Desert Captor
ABBY GREEN
Seduction in the sands…Cabaret dancer Sylvie Devereux and Sheikh Arkim Al-Sahid have never seen eye to eye – not from their first antagonistic meeting to their last intoxicating kiss. And certainly not after she publicly stops his convenient society wedding to her beloved sister!Now Arkim wants revenge on the sinful seductress who cost him the respectable reputation he needs. Luring Sylvie to his luxurious palace in the desert, he’ll get her out of his system once and for all. But with her sass and sequins stripped away Sylvie is surprisingly vulnerable – and there’s one last secret Arkim’s not prepared for…her innocence!



‘You’re twenty-eight and you work in a strip club—how are you still a virgin?’
Sylvie hitched up her chin. ‘It’s not a strip club. And I just … was never interested before now.’
She started to look around for her things and Arkim caught her by the arm. The anger inside him was a turbulent mass. Everything in him wanted to lash out, blame someone—blame her. If she’d told him … What? asked a snide voice. You would have let her go?
Never.
‘Why, Sylvie? It’s not just because you weren’t interested. You’re a sexual being—it oozes from you. I had no idea. If I had—’
She wrenched her arm free, fire flashing in her eyes now, any hint of vulnerability gone. ‘You’d have what? Declined the offer?’
Irish author ABBY GREEN threw in a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com (http://abby-green.com) or e-mail abbygreenauthor@gmail.com (mailto:abbygreenauthor@gmail.com).
Awakened
by Her
Desert Captor
Abby Green


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This is for Iona, Heidi, Fiona and Susan … my support network. Love you ladies.
Contents
Cover (#ue100d09e-391a-5a6a-96a4-3a85ca16d605)
Introduction (#u2abd3386-4bd6-5ecc-95b7-f3b4d2cb4872)
About the Author (#uce35f6f4-0c8f-5310-a4cd-29be4d4797ed)
Title Page (#uba9f3242-0797-51bd-ac33-e0ae003ac911)
Dedication (#u033856ad-8bab-5030-886a-f1db3b1a68c3)
Prologue (#ub5187121-64e7-561c-9543-621e5a4da090)
CHAPTER ONE (#uba7a86e7-71fd-58a3-8e36-8e06d25f31a9)
CHAPTER TWO (#ud151fb79-6f19-5bf2-b3f8-2d8479e31ffb)
CHAPTER THREE (#ub573637f-7e73-5ac3-a35f-64d652634b29)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_ea21b019-9c44-50c8-9343-31aceff7d707)
THE PRIEST’S EYES widened as he took in the spectacle approaching down the aisle, but to give him his due he didn’t falter in his words, which came as automatically to him as breathing.
It was a slim figure, dressed from head to toe in black leather, the face obscured by a motorcycle helmet’s visor. The person stopped a few feet behind the couple standing before the priest, and his eyes widened even further as a young woman emerged from under the motorcycle helmet as she took it off and placed it under one arm.
Long red hair cascaded dramatically over her shoulders just as he heard himself say the words, ‘...or for ever hold your peace...’ a little more faintly than usual.
The woman’s face was pale, but determined. And also very, very beautiful. Even a priest could appreciate that.
Silence descended, and then her voice rang out loud and clear in the huge church. ‘I object to this wedding. Because last night this man shared my bed.’
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_83bcc6b9-a1a7-5534-8375-adbc6d03aa35)
Six months previously...
SYLVIE DEVEREUX STEELED herself for what was undoubtedly to be another bruising encounter with her father and stepmother. She reminded herself as she walked up the stately drive that she was only making an appearance for her half-sister’s sake. The one person in the world she would do anything for.
Lights spilled from the enormous Richmond house, and soft classic jazz came from the live band in the back garden, where a marquee was just visible. Grant Lewis’s midsummer party was an annual fixture on the London social scene, presided over each year by his smiling piranha of a wife, Catherine Lewis—Sylvie’s stepmother and mother to her younger half-sister, Sophie.
A shape appeared at the front door and an excited squeal presaged a blur of blonde as Sophie Lewis launched herself at her older sister. Sylvie dropped her bag and clung on, struggling to remain upright, huffing a chuckle into her sister’s soft, silky hair.
‘I guess that means you’re pleased to see me, Soph?’
Sophie, younger by six years, pulled back with a grimace on her pretty face. ‘You have no idea. Mother is even worse than usual—literally throwing me into the arms of every eligible man—and Father is holed up in his study with some sheikh dude who is probably the grimmest guy I’ve ever seen, but also the most gorgeous—pity it’s wasted on—’
‘There you are, Sophie—’
The voice broke off as Sylvie’s stepmother realised who her sister’s companion was. They were almost at the front door now, and the lights backlit Catherine Lewis’s slender Chanel-clad figure and blonde hair, coiffed to within an inch of its life.
Her mouth tightened with distaste. ‘Oh, it’s you. We didn’t think you’d make it.’
You mean you’d hoped I wouldn’t make it, Sylvie desisted from saying. She forced a bright smile and pushed down the hurt that had no place here any more. She should be over this by now, at the grand age of twenty-eight. ‘Delighted as ever to see you, Catherine.’
Her sister squeezed her arm in silent support. Catherine stepped back minutely, clearly reluctant to admit Sylvie into her own family home. ‘Your father is having a meeting with a guest. He should be free shortly.’
Then her stepmother frowned under the bright lights, taking in what Sylvie was wearing. Sylvie felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction at the expected wave of disapproval. But then she also felt incredibly weary...tired of this constant battle she fought.
‘You’re welcome to change in Sophie’s room if you wish. Clearly you’ve come straight from one of your...er...shows in Paris.’
She had actually. A matinée show. But she’d left work dressed in jeans and a perfectly respectable T-shirt. She’d changed on the train on the way. And suddenly her weariness fled.
She stuck a hand on her hip and cocked it out. ‘It was a gift from a fan,’ she purred. ‘I know how much you like your guests to dress up.’
The dress really belonged to her flatmate, the far more glamorous Giselle, who was a couple of bra sizes smaller than her. Sylvie had borrowed it, knowing full well the effect it would have. She knew it was childish to feel this urge to shock constantly, but right now it was worth it.
Just then there was movement nearby, and Sylvie followed her stepmother’s look to see her father standing outside his office, which was just off the main entrance hall. She barely registered him, though. He was with a man—a tall, very broad, very dark man. The most arresting-looking man she’d ever seen. His face was all sculpted lean lines, not a hint of softness anywhere. Dark slashing brows. Grim indeed, if this was who Sophie had been talking about.
Power and charisma was a tangible force around him. And a very sexual magnetism. He was dressed in a light grey three-piece suit. Dark tie. Pristine. The white of his shirt made the darkness of his skin stand out even more. His hair was inky black, and short. His eyes were equally dark, and totally unreadable. She shivered slightly.
The two men were looking at her, and Sylvie didn’t even have to see her father’s face to know what his expression would be: a mix of old grief, disappointment and wariness.
‘Ah, Sylvie, glad you could make it.’
She finally managed to drag her mesmerised gaze from the stranger to look at her father. She forced a bright smile and moved forward. ‘Father—good to see you.’
His welcome was only slightly warmer than her stepmother’s. A dry kiss on her cheek, avoiding her eyes. Old wounds smarted again, but Sylvie pushed them all down to erect the don’t care façade she’d honed over years.
She looked up at the man and fluttered her eyelashes, flirting shamelessly. ‘And who do we have here?’
With evident reluctance, Grant Lewis said, ‘I’d like you to meet Arkim Al-Sahid. We’re discussing a mutual business venture.’
The name rang a dim bell, but Sylvie couldn’t focus on how she knew it. She put out her hand. ‘Pleasure, I’m sure. But don’t you find discussing business at a party so dull?’
She could almost feel the snap of her stepmother’s censure from behind her, and heard something that sounded like a strangled snort from her sister. The man’s expression had a faint sneer of disapproval now, and suddenly something deep inside Sylvie erupted to life.
It goaded her into moving even closer to the man, when every instinct urged her to turn and run fast. Her hand was still held out and his nostrils flared as he finally deigned to acknowledge her. His much bigger hand swallowed hers, and she was surprised to feel that his skin was slightly calloused as long fingers wrapped around hers.
Everything suddenly became muffled. As if a membrane had been dropped around the two of them. A pulse throbbed violently between her legs and a series of out-of-control reactions gripped her so fast she couldn’t make sense of them. Heat, and a weakness in her lower belly and limbs. A melting sensation. An urge to move even closer and wind her arms around his neck, press herself against him, along with that urge to run, which was even stronger now.
Then he broke the connection with an abrupt move, extricating his hand from hers. Sylvie almost stumbled backwards, confused by what had happened. Not liking it at all.
‘Pleasure, indeed.’
The man’s voice was deep, with a slight American accent, and his tone said that it was anything but a pleasure. The sensual lines of his mouth were flat. That dark gaze glanced over her, dismissing her.
Immediately Sylvie felt cheaper than she’d ever felt in her life. She was very aware of how short her gold dress was—skimming the tops of her thighs. Her light jacket didn’t provide much coverage. She was too voluptuous for the dress, and she felt every exposed inch of it now. She was also aware of the fall of her unruly hair, its natural red hue effortlessly loud and attention-seeking.
She made a living from wearing not much at all. And she’d grown a thick skin to hide her innate shyness. Yet right now this man’s dismissal had blasted away that carefully built-up wall. Within mere seconds of meeting him—a total stranger.
Aghast to note that she was feeling a sense of rejection, when she’d developed an inbuilt defence mechanism against ever experiencing it again, Sylvie backed away.
Relief surged through her when her sister appeared, slid an arm through their father’s and said with forced brightness, ‘Come on, Daddy, your guests will be wondering where you are.’
She watched as her father, stepmother and sister walked off—along with the disturbing stranger who sent her barely a glance of acknowledgement.
On legs that felt absurdly shaky Sylvie finally followed the group outside and determined to stay out of that man’s dangerous orbit, sticking close to Sophie and her group of friends.
A few hours later, though, she found herself craving a moment’s peace—away from people getting progressively drunker, and away from the censorious gaze of her stepmother and the tension emanating from her father.
She found a quiet spot near the gazebo, where a river ran at the end of the garden. After sitting down on the grass and taking off her shoes she put her feet in the cool rushing water and breathed out a sigh.
It was only after she’d tipped her head back and had been contemplating the full moon, low in the sky, for a few seconds that she felt a nerve-tingling awareness that she wasn’t alone.
She looked around just as a tall, dark shape moved in the shadows of a nearby tree. Stifling a scream, Sylvie sat up straight, heart pounding, and asked, ‘Who’s there?’
The shadow detached itself, revealing the other reason for her need to escape: so she could find an opportunity to dwell on why she’d had such a confusing and forcible reaction to the enigmatic stranger.
‘You know exactly who’s here,’ came the arrogant response.
Sylvie could make out the glitter of those dark eyes. Feeling seriously at a disadvantage, sitting down, she stood again and shoved her feet back into her shoes, her heels sinking into the soft earth, making her wobble.
‘How much have you had to drink?’ He sounded disgusted.
Anger at the unjust question had Sylvie putting her hands on her hips. ‘A magnum of champagne—is that what you expect to hear?’
She’d actually had nothing to drink, because she was still on antibiotics to clear up a nagging out-of-season chest infection. Not that she was about to furnish him with that little domestic detail.
‘For your information,’ she said, ‘I came here because I believed I’d be alone. So I’ll leave you to your arrogant assumptions and get out of your way.’
Sylvie started to stalk off, only noticing then how close they were—close enough for Arkim Al-Sahid to reach out and touch her. Which was exactly what he did when her heel got caught in the soft earth again and she pitched forward into thin air with a cry of surprise.
He caught her arm in such a firm grip that she went totally off balance and was swung around directly into his chest, landing against him with a soft oof. Her first impression was of how hard he was—like a concrete block.
And how tall.
Sylvie forgot why she’d been leaving. ‘Tell me,’ she asked, more breathily than she would have liked, ‘do you hate everyone on sight, or is it just me?’
She could make out the sensual line of his mouth, twisting in the moonlight.
‘I know you. I’ve seen you... Plastered all over Paris on those posters. For months.’
Sylvie frowned. ‘That was a year ago—when the new show opened.’ And that wasn’t really me. She’d been chosen for the photo shoot as she was more voluptuous than the other girls...but in truth she was the one who bared the least of all of them.
She knew she should pull back from this man, but she seemed to be unable to drum up the necessary motor skills to do so—and why wasn’t he pushing her away? He was obviously one of those puritans who disapproved of women taking their clothes off in the name of entertainment.
His silent condemnation angered her even more.
She arched a brow. ‘So that’s it? Seeing me in the flesh has only confirmed your worst suspicions?’
She saw how his gaze dropped down between them, to where she could feel her breasts pressed against him. Her skin grew hot all over.
His voice sounded husky. ‘Admittedly, there is a lot of flesh to see.’ His gaze rose again and bored into hers. ‘But then I guess not half as much as is usually on show.’
That ripped away the illusion of any cocoon. Sylvie tugged herself free of his grip and pushed against him to get away. She was too angry, though, not to give him a piece of her mind before she left.
‘People like you make me sick. You judge and condemn and you’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
She took a step back towards him and stuck a finger in his chest, hating how aware she was of his innate masculinity.
‘I’ll have you know that the L’Amour revue is one of the most upmarket cabaret acts in the world. We are world-class trained dancers. It’s not some seedy strip joint.’
His tone was dry. ‘Yet you do take off your clothes?’
‘Well...’ The truth was that Sylvie’s act didn’t actually require her to strip completely. Her breasts were slightly too large, and Pierre preferred the flatter-chested girls to do the full nudity. It provided a better aesthetic, as far as he was concerned.
Arkim Al-Sahid emitted a sound of disgust. Sylvie wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or himself.
And then he said, ‘I couldn’t care less if you stripped naked and hung upside down on a trapeze in your show. This conversation is over.’
Sylvie refrained from pointing out that that was actually Giselle’s act, assuming he wouldn’t appreciate it.
He’d turned and was stalking away before she could say anything more anyway, and Sylvie bubbled with futile indignation and hurt pride. And something else— something deeper. A need to not have him judge her so out of hand when his opinion shouldn’t matter.
She blurted out the words before she could stop herself—an irritating side effect of her red hair: her temper. She hated being a cliché, but sometimes she couldn’t help it.
He halted in his tracks, his broad frame silhouetted by the lights of the party and the house in the distance.
Slowly he turned around, incredulity visible on his face.
For a moment Sylvie had to choke back a semi-hysterical giggle, but then he said in an arctic tone, ‘What did you say?’ and any urge to giggle died.
She refused to let herself be intimidated and drew back her shoulders. ‘I believe I said that you are an arrogant, uptight prat.’
Arkim Al-Sahid prowled back towards her. Deep in the garden as they were, he was like a jungle cat, in spite of his still pristine three-piece suit. All predatory and menacing. There was a thrill in her blood that was extremely inappropriate as she found herself backing away... Until her back slammed into something solid. The gazebo.
He loomed over her now...larger than life. Larger than anyone she’d ever known. He caged her in with his hands either side of her head. Suddenly her heart was racing, her skin prickling with anticipation. His scent was exotic and musky. Full of dark promise and danger and wickedness.
‘Are you going to apologise?’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘No.’
For a long second he said nothing, and then, almost contemplatively, ‘You’re right, you know...’
Her breath stopped... Was he apologising? ‘I am?’
He nodded slowly, and as he did so he lifted a hand and trailed one finger down over Sylvie’s cheek and jaw to where the bare skin of her shoulder met her dress.
She was breathing so hard now she felt as if she might hyperventilate. Her skin was on fire where he touched her. She was on fire. No man had ever had this effect on her. It was overwhelming, and she was helpless to rationalise it.
‘Yes,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’m very uptight. All over. Maybe you could help me with that?’
Before she could react his arm had snaked around her waist, pulling her into him, and his other hand was deep in her hair, anchoring her head so that he could plunge his mouth down onto hers, stealing what little breath she had left along with her sanity.
It was like going from zero to one hundred in a nanosecond. This was no gentle, exploratory kiss. It was explicit and devastating. Sylvie’s tongue was entwined with Arkim Al-Sahid’s before the impulse to let him in had even registered. And there wasn’t one part of her that rejected him—which was so out of character for her that she couldn’t appreciate the significance right now.
Her hands were on his chest, fingers curling into his waistcoat. Then they were climbing higher to curl around his neck, making her reach up on tiptoe to get closer.
Adrenalin and a kind of pleasure she’d never experienced before coursed through her blood. It radiated out from the core of her body and to every extremity, making her tingle and tighten with need.
His hand was on her dress now, at her shoulder, fingers tucking under the fabric, pulling it down.
There was something wild and earthy beating inside her as his mouth left hers and trailed down over her jaw, down to where her shoulder was now bare.
Sylvie’s head tipped back, her eyes closed. Her entire world was reduced to this frantic, urgent beat that she had no will to deny as she felt her dress being pulled down, and cool night air drifting over hot skin.
Her head came up. She felt dizzy, drugged. ‘Arkim...’ She was dimly aware that she didn’t even know this man. Yet here she was, entreating him to...to stop? Go on?
When he looked at her, though, those black eyes—like hard diamonds—robbed her of any ability to decide.
‘Shh...let me touch you, Sylvie.’
His mouth wrapped around her name...it made her melt even more. His other hand was on her thigh, between them, inching up under her dress, pushing it up. This was more intimate than she’d ever been with any man, because she didn’t let many get close, but it felt utterly right. Necessary. As if she’d been missing something her whole life and a key had just been slotted into place, unlocking some part of her.
Tacitly, her legs widened. She saw a glimmer of a smile on Arkim’s face and it wasn’t cruel, or judgemental. It was sexy.
He lowered his head to her now bared breast and closed his mouth over the pouting flesh, sucking her nipple deep and then rolling and flicking it with his tongue. Sylvie nearly shot into orbit. Electric shocks pulsed through her and tugged between her legs, where she was wet and aching...
And where Arkim’s fingers were now exploring... Pushing aside her panties and sliding underneath, searching between slick folds and finding where her body gave him access, then thrusting a finger deep inside.
Sylvie’s hands tightened, and it was only then that she realised she had them clasped on Arkim’s head as his mouth suckled her and his finger moved in and out of her body, making a strange and new tension coil unbearably tight within her. Was this what he’d meant about being uptight? Because she felt it too. Deep in her core. Tightening so much it was almost unbearable.
Overcome with emotion at all the sensations rushing through her, she lifted Arkim’s head from her breast, looking into those dark, fathomless eyes. ‘I can’t... What are you...?’
She couldn’t speak. Could only feel. One minute she’d thought he was the devil incarnate, and now...now he was taking her to heaven. She was confused. His whole body was flush against hers, his leg pushing hers apart, his fingers exploring her so intimately...
Frustrated by her lack of ability to say anything, she leant forward and pressed her mouth to his again. But he went still. And then suddenly he was pulling away so fast Sylvie had to stop herself from falling forward. He stood back and looked at her as if she’d grown two heads, his horrified expression clear in the moonlight. His tie was askew and his waistcoat was undone. His hair mussed up. Cheeks flushed.
‘What the hell...?’
Sylvie wanted to say, My thoughts exactly, but she was still struck mute.
Arkim backed away and said harshly, ‘Don’t ever come near me again.’ And then he stalked off, back up the garden and into the light.
Three months ago...
Sylvie couldn’t believe she was back at the house in Richmond again so soon. She usually managed to avoid it, because Sophie lived in central London in the family’s pied-à-terre.
But the pied-à-terre wasn’t suitable for this occasion: a party to celebrate the announcement of her little sister’s engagement...to Arkim Al-Sahid.
Sylvie could still hear the shock in her sister’s voice when she’d phoned her a few days ago: ‘It’s all happened so fast...’
Nothing would have induced Sylvie to come into the bosom of her family again except for this. No way was she going to let her little sister be a pawn in her stepmother’s machinations. Or that man’s.
The man she’d been avoiding thinking about ever since that night. The man who had at first dismissed her and then... She shivered even now, her skin prickling with awareness at the thought of meeting him again.
The memory of what had happened was as sharp and humiliating as if it had happened yesterday. His voice. The disgust. ‘Don’t ever come near me again.’
The shrill tones of Sylvie’s stepmother hectoring some poor employee nearby stopped her thoughts from devolving rapidly into a kaleidoscope of unwelcome images.
Her hands closed over the rim of the sink in the bathroom as she took in her reflection.
Despite her best efforts she could still remember the excoriating wave of humiliation and exposure when she’d watched Arkim Al-Sahid walk away and realised that her breast was bared and her legs still splayed in wanton abandonment. Panties pulled aside. One shoe on, one off. And she’d been complicit—every step of the way. She couldn’t even say he’d used force.
He’d crooked his finger and she’d all but come running. Panting. Practically begging.
The true magnitude of how easily she’d let him—more or less a complete stranger—reduce her to a quivering wreck was utterly galling.
Sylvie cursed herself. She was here for Sophie—not to take a trip down memory lane. She stood up straight and checked her appearance. A far cry from the gold dress she’d worn that night. Now she was positively respectable, in a knee-length black sleeveless shift and matching high heels, her hair pulled back into a low bun. Discreet make-up.
She didn’t like to think of the reaction in her body when her sister had informed her of the upcoming nuptials. It had been a mix of shock, incomprehension, anger—and something far more disturbing and dark.
Sylvie made her way into the huge dining room, which had been set up for a buffet-style dinner party. She was acutely aware of Arkim Al-Sahid, looking as grimly gorgeous as ever, and made sure to stay far away from him. It meant, though, that she couldn’t get Sophie to herself. And she needed to talk to her.
The evening was interminable. Several times, as Sylvie made mind-numbingly boring small talk, she felt the back of her neck prickle—as if someone was staring at her...or more likely glaring at her. But each time she looked around she couldn’t see him.
Not seeing her sister anywhere now, Sylvie determined to find her and went looking. The first place she thought to look was in her father’s study/library, and she opened the door carefully, seeing nothing inside the oak-panelled room filled with heaving shelves of books but the fire, which was dying down low.
The warmth and peace called to her for a minute, and she slipped in and closed the door behind her.
Then she saw a movement coming from one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. ‘Soph? Is that you?’ The room had always been her little sister’s favourite hiding place when she was younger, and Sylvie felt a lurch near her heart to think of her sister retreating here.
But it wasn’t Sophie—which became apparent all too quickly when a tall, dark shape uncoiled from the chair to stand up.
Arkim Al-Sahid.
Instinctively Sylvie backed away, and said frigidly, ‘At the risk of being accused of following you I can assure you I wasn’t.’ She turned to go, then stopped and turned back. ‘Actually, I have something to say to you.’
He folded his arms. ‘Do you, now?’
He was as implacable as a stone pillar. It infuriated Sylvie that he could so effortlessly arouse seething emotions within her. She stalked over to the chairs and gripped the back of the one he’d been sitting in. She hated it that he looked even more enigmatic and handsome. As if the intervening months had added more hard muscle to his form. Made his features even more saturnine.
He was dressed in similar pristine fashion to last time—in a three-piece suit. He sent a dismissive look up and down her body, and then said with a faint sneer, ‘Who are you trying to fool? Or are we all going to be treated to an exclusive performance, in which you reveal the truth of what lies beneath your pseudo-respectable façade?’
Sylvie’s anger spiked in a hot rush. ‘At first I couldn’t understand why you hated me on sight, but now I know. Your father is one of America’s biggest porn barons, and you’ve made no secret of the fact that you disowned him and his legacy to forge your own. You don’t even share his name any more.’
Arkim Al-Sahid’s body vibrated with tension, his dark eyes narrowing on her dangerously. ‘As you said, it’s no secret.’
‘No...’ Sylvie conceded, slightly thrown off balance by his response.
‘And your point?’
She swallowed. Lord, but he was intimidating. Not a hint of humanity anywhere in his whipcord form or on that beautiful face.
‘You’re marrying my sister purely to gain social acceptance, and she deserves more than that. She deserves love.’
Arkim emitted a short, curt laugh. It was so shocking to see his face transformed by a smile—albeit a mocking one—that she almost lost her train of thought.
‘You’re for real? Since when does anyone marry for love? Your sister has a lot to gain from this union—not least a lifetime of security and status. At no point has she indicated that she’s not happy for this engagement to proceed. Your father is keen to secure her future—which is no surprise, considering how his eldest daughter turned out.’
Sylvie kept her expression rigid. Amazing how this man’s opinion sneaked under her guard with such devastating effect and struck far too close to the heart of her—which was the last place he should be impacting.
He continued. ‘I’m not stupid, Miss Devereux. This is as much a business transaction for him as it is a chance to secure his daughter’s future. It’s not a secret that his empire took a big hit during the downturn and that he’s doing all he can to bolster his coffers again.’
Business transaction. She felt nauseous. Sylvie knew vaguely that her father’s fortune had taken a dip...but she also knew perfectly well that her stepmother was the real architect behind this plan. She was a firm believer that a woman’s place was by her rich husband’s side, and no doubt had convinced Grant Lewis that this was their ticket to security for the future.
She ungritted her teeth and desisted from belabouring the point of whether or not love existed. Clearly in his world it didn’t.
‘Sophie’s not right for you—and you are certainly not right for her.’
An assessing look came over that starkly handsome face. ‘She’s perfect for me. Young, beautiful, intelligent. Accomplished.’ He looked her up and down. ‘And above all she’s refined.’
Sylvie held up a hand, hating it that that stung. ‘Please—save your insults. I’m perfectly aware where I come on your scale of condemnation. Clearly you have issues with certain industries, and you’ve deemed me worth judging on the basis of what I do.’
‘What you are,’ he said harshly.
Her hands clenched into fists. ‘You didn’t seem to have much of an issue with what I am the last time we met.’
His face flushed dark red and Sylvie felt the bite of his self-condemnation as sharply as if he’d just slapped her.
‘That was a mistake—not to be repeated.’
Something about that lash of recrimination made her want to curl up and protect herself. The look on his face was pure...disgust. And it would have been worse if it was solely for her. But she could tell it wasn’t. It was for himself.
Hurt lodged deep in her belly like a dark, malevolent thing, tugging on other hurts, reopening old wounds. Reminding her of the disgust on her father’s face when he’d looked at her after her mother had died...
She desperately wanted to lash back and see this man’s icy condemnatory control snap. Acting on blind instinct, and on that hurt, she stepped out from behind the chair and right up to Arkim Al-Sahid. She pressed her body to his, lifting her arms to wind them around his neck.
His nostrils flared and those black eyes flashed. His hands were on her arms, his grip tight. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
But he didn’t pull her arms down. Sylvie’s entire body was quivering with adrenalin at her bravado.
‘I’m proving that you’re a hypocrite, Mr Al-Sahid.’
And then, in the boldest move she’d ever made in her life, she reached up and pressed her mouth to his. She moved her lips over his and through the frantic thumping of her heart she could feel excitement flooding her at the sheer proximity of their bodies. Brain cells were scrambled in a rush of heat.
She could feel the tension holding his body rigid... But what he couldn’t disguise was the explicit thrust of his arousal against her belly. That evidence was enough to send a thrill of exultation through Sylvie and help her block out the memory of how he’d pushed her away the last time.
Except then she started to forget why she’d even started this. Her body moved against him, closer. Arms locked tighter. And after a heart-stopping infinitesimal moment his hands loosened from her arms and slid down the length of her torso to her hips, gripping her there as his mouth started to move on hers—slowly at first and then, like a storm gathering strength, with an almost rough intensity.
For a long moment everything faded into the distance as the kiss became hotter and more intense. Arkim Al-Sahid’s hands pulled Sylvie even closer—so close that she could feel his heart beating. And then something shifted. He went very still, before abruptly breaking the kiss.
Sylvie was left grasping air when he thrust her away from him. She stumbled backwards and found herself landing heavily in the chair behind her, her breathing laboured, her heart out of control. Dizzy.
Arkim’s mouth twisted and his voice was rough. ‘No. I will not do this. You dare to try and seduce me on the evening of the announcement of my engagement to your sister? Is there no depth to which you won’t descend?’
Sylvie was going cold all over. The lust which had risen up like wildfire dissipated under his murderous gaze. Her brain felt woolly...it was hard to think. Why had it been so important to kiss him like that? What had she been trying to prove? How did this man have the ability to make her act so out of character?
She looked up at him. ‘It wasn’t like that. I’d never do anything to hurt Sophie.’
Arkim made a rude sound just as a knock sounded at the door and it was opened.
Sylvie heard a voice say, ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Al-Sahid, but they’re ready to make the announcement.’
Sylvie realised that whoever was at the door wouldn’t be able to see her in the chair just as Arkim Al-Sahid answered with a curt, ‘I’ll be right there.’ The door closed again and he looked down at her, black eyes glittering with disgust and condemnation. ‘I think it would be best for all of us if you left now, don’t you?’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_3b89bfb1-7813-596b-b32f-0a06b4f13456)
Present day—a week after the ruined wedding...
ARKIM AL-SAHID LOOKED out over the view from his palatial office and apartment complex, high in the London skyline. And even though the past week had brought to life a lot of his worst nightmares all he could think about right at that moment was of how he’d only met Sylvie Devereux twice in the past six months—three times if you counted her memorable appearance in the church—and yet each time he’d let his legendary control slip.
And now he was paying for it. More than he’d ever thought possible.
Anger was a constant unquenchable fire within him. He was paying for the fact that she was a privileged spoilt brat, who didn’t take rejection well. Who had acted out of her poisonous jealousy of her younger sister to ruin their wedding.
Yet his conscience pricked him. It had been him who had fallen for her all too obvious charms. He’d had to fight it from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, when she’d stood in the reception hall of her father’s house with her hand on her hip, her beautiful body flaunted to every best advantage.
He could still see her eyes landing on him, widening, the familiar glitter of feminine awareness, the scenting of his power. Sensing a conquest. And then she’d sashayed over as if she owned the world. As if she could own him with a mere flutter of her eyelids. And, dammit, he had almost fallen right then—as soon he’d seen those amazing eyes up close.
One blue and the other green and blue.
An intriguing genetic anomaly in a perfect face—high cheekbones, patrician nose and a mouth so lush it could incite a man to sin.
His body had come to hot, pulsing life under that knowing feline gaze, showing him that any illusion that he mastered his own impulses was just that: a flimsy illusion.
His mouth compressed now as he stared unseeingly out of the window, as if he could try to compress the memories.
The full repercussions of his weakness sat like lead in his belly. The marriage to Sophie Lewis was off. And Arkim’s very substantial investment in Grant Lewis’s extensive industrial portfolio was teetering on the brink of collapse. Losing the deal wouldn’t put much of a dent into Arkim’s finances, but the subsequent loss of professional standing would.
He was back to square one. Having to prove himself all over again. His team had been fielding calls from clients all week, expressing doubts and fears that Arkim’s solid business reputation was as shaky as his personal life. Stocks and shares were in freefall.
The tabloids had salivated over the story, featuring a caricaturised cast of characters: the stoical and long-suffering father; the scandalous daughter bent on revenge borne out of jealousy; the sweet innocent bride—the victim—and the ruthless social-climbing mother.
And Arkim—son of one of the world’s richest men, who was also one of its most infamous, dominating the world’s porn industry.
Saul Marks lived a life of excess in Los Angeles, and Arkim hadn’t seen him since he was seventeen. He’d made a vow a long time ago to crawl out from under his father’s shameful reputation, even going so far as to change his name legally as soon as he’d been able to—choosing a name that had belonged to a distant ancestor of his mother’s as he hadn’t thought her present-day immediate family would appreciate their bastard relative making a claim on their name.
Arkim’s mother had come from a wealthy and high-born family in the Arabian country of Al-Omar. She’d been studying in the States at university when she’d met and been seduced by Saul Marks. Naive and innocent, she’d been bowled over by the handsome charismatic American.
When she’d become pregnant, however, Marks had already moved on to his next girlfriend. He’d supported Arkim’s mother, but wanted nothing to do with her or the baby...until she’d died in childbirth and he’d been forced to take his baby son into his care after Zara’s family in Al-Omar had expressed no interest in their deceased daughter’s son.
Arkim’s early life had been a constant round of English boarding schools and impersonal nannies, interspersed with time spent with a reluctant father and his dizzying conveyer belt of lovers, who invariably came from the porn industry. One of whom had taken an unhealthy interest in Arkim and given him an important life lesson in how vital it was to master self-control.
But a week ago, when the society wedding of the decade had imploded in scandalous fashion, all those ambitions and his efforts to distance himself from shame and scandal had turned to dust.
And all because of a red-haired witch.
A witch who had somehow managed to sneak under his impenetrable guard. It was galling to recall how hard it had been to let her go that night in the study. How hard he’d been. From the moment he’d first seen her appear. Looking like a schoolteacher. With her hair pulled back, her face pale. Covered up.
He’d only come to his senses because there had been something in the way she’d kissed him—something he hadn’t believed... Something innocent. Gauche. But it was a lie—as if she’d been trying to figure out what he liked. Acting sweet and innocent after she’d just been completely brazen. Attempting to seduce him away from her sister.
The only thing that had got Arkim through the past week of ignominy and public embarrassment had been the prospect of making Sylvie Devereux pay. And the kind of payment he had in mind would finally exorcise her from his head, and his body, once and for all.
For months she’d inhabited the dark, secret corners of his mind and his imagination. She’d been the cause of sleepless nights and lurid dreams. Even during his engagement to her far sweeter and infinitely more innocent sister.
Apart from the injury Sylvie had caused to Arkim with her selfish behaviour, she’d also recklessly played with her sister’s life. The young woman had been inconsolable, absolutely adamant that she wouldn’t give Arkim another chance. And could he blame her? Who would believe the son of a man who lived his life as if it was a bacchanal?
The words Sylvie Devereux had said in the church still rang in his head: ‘This man shared my bed.’ And yet even now his body reacted to those words with a surge of frustration. Because she most certainly had not shared his bed. It had been a bare-faced lie. Conjured up to create maximum damage.
Sylvie Devereux wanted him so badly? Well, then, she’d have him—until he was sated and he could throw her back in the trash, where she belonged.
But it would be on his terms, and far out of the reach of the ravenous public’s gaze. The damage to his reputation stopped right here.
* * *
Sylvie looked out of the small private plane’s window to see a vast sea of sand below her, and in the distance, shimmering in a heat haze, a steel city that might have come directly from a futuristic movie.
The desert sands of Al-Omar and its capital city, B’harani.
Some called it the jewel of the Middle East. It was one of its most progressive countries, presided over by a very dynamic and modern royal couple. Sylvie had just been reading an article about them in the in-flight magazine: Sultan Sadiq and his wife Queen Samia, and their two small cherubic children.
Queen Samia was younger than Sylvie, and she’d felt a little jaded, looking at the beaming smile on the woman’s face. She was pretty, more than beautiful, and yet her husband looked at her as if he’d never seen a woman before.
She’d seen her father look at her mother like that.
Sylvie ruthlessly crushed the small secret part of her that clenched with an ominous yearning. The cynicism she’d honed over years came to the fore. Sultan Sadiq might well be reformed now, but she could remember when he’d been a regular visitor to the infamous L’Amour revue and had cut a swathe through some of its top-billed stars.
Not Sylvie, though. Once she was offstage and dressed down, with her hair tied back, she slipped unnoticed past all her far more glamorous peers. She courted endless teasing from the other girls—and from the guys, who were mostly gay—having earned the moniker of ‘Sister Sylvie’, because of the way she would prefer to go home and curl up with a book or cook a meal rather than head out to party with their inevitably rich and gorgeous clientele. A clientele that appreciated the very discreet ethos of the revue and any liaisons that ensued out of hours.
But even they—her friends, who were more like her family now—didn’t know the full extent of her duality...how far from her stage persona she really was.
‘Miss Devereux? We’ll be landing shortly.’
Sylvie looked up at the beautiful olive-skinned stewardess, with her dark brown eyes and glossy black hair. She forced a smile, suddenly reminded of someone with similar colouring. Someone infinitely more masculine, though, and more dangerous than this courteous flight attendant.
That fateful day almost two weeks ago rushed back with a garish vividness that took her breath away. Reminding her painfully of the searing public scrutiny, judgement and humiliation. And his face. So dark and unforgiving. Those black eyes scorching the skin from her body.
He’d moved towards her, his anger palpable. But her stepmother had reached her first, slapping Sylvie so hard that her teeth had rattled in her head and the corner of her lip had split. It was still tender when she touched her tongue to it now.
And then she saw in her mind’s eye her sister’s face. Pale and tear-streaked. Eyes huge. Shocked. Relieved. That relief had made it all worthwhile. Sylvie didn’t regret what she’d done for a second. Sophie hadn’t been right for Arkim Al-Sahid.
Her feeling of vindication had been fleeting, though. The truth was, when she’d stood behind them in that church her motivation for stopping the wedding had felt far more complex than it should have.
Arkim was the only man who’d managed to breach the defences Sylvie hadn’t even been aware she’d erected so high. She’d bared herself to him in a way she’d never done with anyone else—which was ironic, considering her profession—only to be cruelly pushed aside...as if she was a piece of dirt on his shoe. Not worthy to look him in the eye.
But her sister was worthy. Her beautiful blonde, sweet sister. Just as Sophie was worthy of their father’s affections. Because she didn’t remind him of his beloved dead first wife.
Maybe it was this stark landscape that was making her think about all of that—and him. Forcing him up into her consciousness. She buckled her seat belt, diverting her mind away from painful memories and towards what lay ahead. The problem was that she wasn’t even entirely sure what lay ahead.
She and some of the other girls from the revue had been invited over to put on a private show for an important sheikh’s birthday celebrations. Sylvie wasn’t flying with the others because they’d travelled before her. She’d only been asked to join them afterwards—hence her solo trip on the private jet.
It wasn’t unusual for this kind of thing to happen. Their revue had performed privately for A-list stars around the world, much as a pop star might be asked to perform, and they’d done a residency one summer in Las Vegas. But this... Something about this made Sylvie’s skin prickle uncomfortably.
She tried to reassure herself that she was being silly. The other girls would be waiting for her, they’d rehearse and perform, and then they’d be home before they knew it.
They were landing now, and she noticed that they were quite far outside the city limits, with nothing but desert as far as the eye could see. The airport didn’t look like a busy capital city’s airport. Just a few small buildings and a runway carved into the arid landscape. She pushed the nervous flutters down.
Once the small jet had taxied to a gentle stop Sylvie was escorted to the door of the plane—and the heat of the desert hit her so squarely that she had to suck in a breath of hot, dry air. Sweat instantly dampened the skin all over her body. But along with the trepidation she felt at what lay ahead was a quickening of something like exhilaration as she took in the clear blue vastness of the sky and the rolling dunes in the distance.
She was so far away from everything that was familiar in this completely alien landscape, but it soothed her a little after the last tumultuous couple of weeks. It was as if nothing here could hurt her.
‘Miss, your car is waiting.’
Sylvie looked down to see a sleek black car. She put on her sunglasses and went down the steps and across the scorching runway to where a driver was holding the back door open. He was dressed in a long cream tunic, with close-fitting trousers underneath and a turban on his head. He looked smart and cool, and she felt ridiculously underdressed in her jeans, ballet flats and loose T-shirt. Like a gauche westerner.
Someone was putting her cases into the boot, and Sylvie smiled as the driver bowed deferentially, indicating for her to get in.
She did so—with relief. Already craving the cool balm of air-conditioning. Already wanting to twist her long, heavy hair up and off her neck.
The door was closed quickly behind her and then a lot of things seemed to happen simultaneously: she heard the snick of the door locking, the driver slid into the front seat and the privacy partition slid up, and Sylvie realised that she wasn’t alone in the back of the car.
‘I trust you had a pleasant flight?’
The voice was deep, cool—and instantly, painfully, recognisable. Sylvie turned her head and everything seemed to go into slow motion.
Arkim Al-Sahid was sitting at the far side of the luxurious car, which was now moving. A fact she was only vaguely aware of. She went hot and cold all at once. Her belly dropped near her feet. Her breath was caught in her chest. Shock was seizing at her ability to respond.
He was dressed in his signature three-piece suit. As if they were in Paris or London. En route to some civilised place. Not here, in the middle of a harsh sun-beaten land. Here in the middle of nowhere. Here where she’d just thought nothing could touch her.
Arkim Al-Sahid looked so dark, and his face was etched in lines of cruelty.
A small voice jeered at Sylvie, Did you really think he would do nothing? And underneath the shock was the pounding of her heart that told her that perhaps, in some very deep and hidden secret space, she hadn’t thought he would do nothing. But she’d never expected this...
He reached forward and her sunglasses were plucked off her face and tucked away into his pocket before she could react. She blinked, and he came into sharp, clear focus. Dark hair brushed back from a high forehead. Deep-set eyes over sharp cheekbones. His patrician nose giving him a slightly hawk-like aspect.
And that mouth... That cruel and taunting mouth. The mouth that even now she could recall being on hers. Hard and demanding, sending her senses into overdrive. It was curved up into the semblance of a smile, but it was a smile unlike anything Sylvie had ever seen. It was a smile that promised retribution.
When she remained mute with shock, one dark brow arched up lazily. ‘Well, Sylvie? I’ll be exceedingly disappointed over the next two weeks if you’ve lost the ability to do anything with your tongue.’
* * *
Arkim tried to ignore the frantic rate of his pulse, which had burst to life as soon as he’d seen her distinctive shape appear in the doorway of the plane. Slim, yet womanly. Even in casual clothes.
Her glorious red hair glowed like the setting sun over the Arabian sea. Her face was as pale as alabaster, her skin perfect and flawless. Her eyes were huge and almond-shaped, giving her that feline quality, her left eye with that distinctive discolouration. It did nothing to diminish her appeal—it only enhanced it.
Irritation rose at her effortless ability to control his libido.
Arkim was about to say something else when she got out a little threadily, ‘Where are the other girls?’
He felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it down deep. He glanced briefly at his watch. ‘They’re most likely performing, as arranged, for the birthday celebrations of one of the Sultan’s chief advisors—Sheikh Abdel Al-Hani. They’ll be on a plane first thing tomorrow morning.’
If possible, Sylvie paled even more. It sent a jolt of something horribly like concern through him, reminding him of when her stepmother had slapped her in the church and how his first instinctive reaction had been to put himself between them. Not something he relished remembering now.
But now the shocked glaze was leaving her face, colour was surging back into her cheeks and her eyes were sparking. ‘So why am I not there too? What the hell is this, Arkim?’
Nurturing the sense of satisfaction at having Sylvie where he wanted her, rather than his other more tangled emotions, Arkim settled back into his seat. ‘Believe it or not, people here call me Sheikh too—a title conferred upon me by the Sultan himself...an old schoolfriend. But I digress. This is about payback. It’s about the fact that your jealous little tantrum had far-reaching consequences and you aren’t going to get away with it.’
Sylvie put out a hand and Arkim noticed it was trembling slightly. He ruthlessly pushed down his concern. Again. This woman didn’t deserve anything but his scorn.
‘So...what? You’re kidnapping me?’
Arkim picked a piece of lint off his jacket and then looked at her. ‘I’d call it a...a holiday. You came here of your own free will and you’re free to go at any time... It’s just not going to be that easy for you to leave when there’s no public transport and no mobile phone coverage, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I’m leaving too. In two weeks.’
Sylvie clenched her hands into fists on her lap, her jaw tight. ‘I’ll damn well walk across the desert if I have to.’
Arkim was calm. ‘Try it and you’ll be lucky to last twenty-four hours. It’s certain death for anyone who doesn’t know the lie of this land—not to mention the fact that someone as fair as you would fry to a crisp.’
Sylvie was reeling, and trying hard not to show it. She felt as if she’d fallen through a wormhole and everything was upside down and inside out. Panic tightened her gut.
‘What about my job? I’m expected back—it was only supposed to be a one-night event.’
Arkim’s face was scarily expressionless. It made her want to reach across and slap him, to see some kind of reaction.
‘Your job is unaffected. Your boss has been recompensed very generously for the use of your time. So much so, in fact, that I believe he can finally start the renovations he’s been wanting to do for years. As a result of my generous donation the revue is actually closing for a month from next week, while they do the work.’
She had to choke back a lurch of even greater panic; it was common knowledge how much Pierre wanted to renovate—he’d been begging for loans from banks for months. And this would be perfect timing...before the high tourist season.
She spluttered. ‘Pierre would never let one of his girls go off on an assignment alone. He’ll raise hell when I don’t return, no matter how much you’ve offered him!’
Arkim smiled, and it was cold. ‘Pierre is like anyone else in this world—mesmerised when large sums of money are mentioned. He’s been assured that your services are required as dance teacher to one of the Sheikh’s daughters and her friends, who want to learn the western way of dancing. The fact that you’re here with me instead is something he doesn’t need to be aware of.’
Sylvie folded her arms, trying to not let on how scared she was. She injected mockery into her voice. ‘I’m surprised. I would have thought your morals wouldn’t allow you to come within ten feet of me—much less arrange a private performance.’
Arkim was no longer smiling. ‘I’m prepared to risk a little moral corruption for what I want—and I want you.’
She sucked in a breath at hearing him declare it so baldly. ‘I should have known you’d have no scruples. So you’ve effectively bought me? Like some kind of call girl?’
Arkim’s mouth curled up into that cruel smile again. ‘Come now...we both know that that’s not so far from the truth of what you are.’
This time Sylvie couldn’t hold back. She was across the seat and launching herself at Arkim, hand outstretched, ready to strike, when he caught her wrists in his hands. They were like steel manacles, and she fell heavily against his body.
Instantly awareness sparked to life, infusing her veins with heat and electricity. Even now, when she was in the grip of panic and anger.
‘Let me go.’
Arkim’s jaw was like granite, and this close she could see the depths of anger banked deep in his eyes. He was livid. She felt a quiver of real fear—even though, perversely, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her physically.
‘No way. We have unfinished business and we’re not leaving this place until it’s done.’
Sylvie was excruciatingly aware of her body, pressed to Arkim’s much harder and more powerful one. Of the way her breasts were crushed against him, as they’d been crushed against him once before...when he’d thrust her back from him and looked at her as if she’d given him a contagious disease.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.
The expression in his eyes changed for the first time, flashing with a heat that Sylvie felt deep in her belly.
‘What I’m talking about is the fact that I’m going to have you—over and over again—for however long it takes until I can think straight again.’ A note of unmistakable bitterness entered his voice. ‘You’ve done it, Sylvie—you’ve got me.’
She finally broke free from Arkim’s grip and sat back, as far away as she could. ‘I don’t want you.’ Liar, whispered an inner voice. She ignored it. She hated Arkim Al-Sahid. ‘As soon as this car stops I’m out of here, and you can’t stop me.’
Arkim merely looked amused. ‘Each time we’ve met you’ve demonstrated how much you want me, so protesting otherwise won’t work now. Where we’re going has no public transport, and it would take you about a week to walk to B’harani—days in any other direction before you hit civilisation.’
Sylvie crossed her arms over her chest, a feeling of claustrophobia threatening to strangle her. ‘This is ridiculous.’ The thought of being alone with this man in some remote desert for the next two weeks was overwhelming. ‘You can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do, you know.’
He looked at her, and there was something so explicit in his gaze that she felt herself blushing.
‘I won’t need to use force, Sylvie.’
And just like that the humiliation she’d felt that night in the study of her father’s house came back and rolled over her like a wave.
She fought it. ‘This just proves how little you really felt for my sister. Hurting me will only hurt her.’
The expression on Arkim’s face became incredulous at the mention of Sophie ‘You dare speak to me of hurting your sister? When you were the one who callously humiliated her in public?’
Words of defence trembled on Sylvie’s tongue, but she bit them back. She would never betray her sister’s confidence. Sophie had just been a pawn to him. It never would have worked. She had to remember that. She’d done the right thing.
But then she saw something in the distance and became distracted.
Arkim followed her gaze and said, ‘Ah, we’re here.’
Here was another, even smaller airfield, with a sleek black helicopter standing ready.
Slightly hysterically Sylvie remembered something she’d learnt when she’d taken self-defence classes after a—luckily—minor mugging in Paris. The tutor had told the class the importance of not letting an attacker take you to another location at all costs. Because if he did get you to another place, then your chances of survival were dramatically cut down.
It would appear to be common sense, but the tutor had told them numerous stories of people who had been so frightened they’d just let themselves be taken to another place, when they should always have tried to get away during the initial attack.
And okay, so technically Arkim wasn’t attacking Sylvie, but she knew that if she got into that helicopter her chances of emerging from this encounter unscathed were nil.
The car came to a stop and he looked at her. ‘Time to go.’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘I’m not getting out. I’m staying in this car and it’s going to take me back to wherever we landed. Or to B’harani. I hear it’s a nice city—I’d like to visit.’
She hoped the desperation she was feeling wasn’t evident.
He turned to face her more fully. ‘This car is driven by a man who speaks only one language, and it’s not yours. He answers to me—no one else.’
The sheer hardness of Arkim’s expression told her she was on a hiding to nothing. A sense of futility washed over her. She wouldn’t win this round.
‘Where is it that you’re proposing to take me?’
‘It’s a house I own on the Arabian coast. North of B’harani and one hundred miles from the border of Burquat. Merkazad is in a westerly direction, about six hundred miles.’
The geographical details somehow made Sylvie feel calmer, even though she still had no real clue where they were. She’d heard of these places, but never been.
Something occurred to her. ‘This...’ her mouth twisted ‘...this fee you’ve paid Pierre. I assume it’s conditional on my agreeing to this farcical non-existent dance tuition?’
Arkim nodded. ‘That’s good business sense, I think you’ll agree.’
Sylvie wanted to tell him where he could stick his business sense, but she refrained. She didn’t doubt that there really was no option but to go with Arkim. For now.
‘Once we’re at this...this place, you won’t force me to do anything I don’t want to?’
Arkim shook his head, eyes gleaming with a disturbing light. ‘No, Sylvie. There will be no force involved. I’m not into sadism.’
His smug arrogance made her want to try and slap him again. Instead, she sent him a wide, sunny, smile. ‘You know, work has been so crazy busy lately I’m actually looking forward to an all-expenses-paid break. The fact that I have to share space with you is unfortunate, but I’m sure we can stay out of each other’s way.’
Arkim just smiled slowly, and with an air of sensual menace, as if he knew just how flimsy her bravado was.
‘We’ll see.’
* * *
Sylvie had never been in a helicopter before, and she’d been more mesmerised than she cared to admit by the way the desert dunes had unfolded beneath them, undulating into the distance like the sinuous curves of a body. It all seemed utterly foreign and yet captivating to her.
Her stomach was only just beginning to climb back down from her throat when she heard a deep voice in her ear through the headphones.
‘That’s my house, Al-Hibiz, directly down and to your left.’
Sylvie looked down and her breath was taken away. House? This was no house. It looked like a small but formidable castle, complete with ramparts and flat roofs. It was distinctly Arabic in style, with ochre-coloured walls. Within those walls she could see lush gardens, and in the distance the Arabian sea sparkled. What looked like an oasis lay far off in the distance, a spot of deep green. It was like something out of a fairytale.
It distracted her from the shock she still felt after realising that Arkim was co-piloting the helicopter, and the way his hands had lingered as he’d strapped her in, those fingers resting far too close to her breasts under her thin T-shirt.
He should have looked ridiculous, getting into the cockpit still dressed in his suit, against the backdrop of the stark desert, but he hadn’t. He’d looked completely at home, powerful and utterly in control.
And now the helicopter was descending onto a flat area just outside the walls of the castle, which looked much bigger from this vantage point.
Sylvie could see robed men waiting, holding on to their long garments and the turbans on their heads as the helicopter kicked up sand and wind. When the craft bounced gently onto the earth she breathed out a deep sigh of relief, unaware of how tense she’d been.
The helicopter blades stopped turning and a delicious silence settled over them for a moment, before Arkim got out and the men approached. She watched as he greeted the men heartily in a guttural language that still managed to sound melodic, a wide smile on his face.
It took her breath away. It was the first genuine smile she’d ever seen on his face. Admittedly their previous encounters hadn’t exactly been conducive to such a reaction. Not unless she counted that sexy smile when his hand had explored between her legs—
‘Time to get out, Sylvie. I’m afraid the chopper has to go back and you’re not going to be in it.’
She scowled, hating to be caught out in such a memory. She fumbled with the seat belt and swatted his hand away when he would have helped. Eventually it came undone and she extricated her arms, unaware of how the movement pulled her T-shirt taut over her breasts, or of how Arkim’s dark gaze settled there for a moment with a flash of hunger. If she’d seen that she might well have barricaded herself into the helicopter, come hell or high water.
But then she was out, and swaying a little unsteadily on the firm sun-baked ground.
Staff dressed in white rushed to and fro, loading luggage into the back of a small people carrier, and then Arkim was leading Sylvie over to what looked like a luxurious golf buggy. He indicated for her to get in, and after a moment’s futile rebellion she did so.
She really was stuck here now—with him.
He got in beside her and drove the small open-sided vehicle to the entrance of the castle, where huge wooden doors were standing open. They entered a beautiful airy courtyard, with a fountain in the centre. A deliciously cool gentle mist of moisture settled on her skin from the spray.
But the vehicle had stopped now, and Arkim was at her side, holding out a hand. Sylvie ignored it and stepped out, not wanting to see what would undoubtedly be a mocking look on his face.
When he didn’t move, though, she had to look at him. He gestured with a hand and—damn him—a mocking smile.
‘Welcome to my home, Sylvie. I expect our time here to be...cathartic.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2480ed87-295e-5ea0-95ed-e5507ddae1ba)
SYLVIE PACED BACK and forth in the rooms she’d been shown to by Arkim. Cathartic! The arrogant, patronising son-of-a—
A knock sounded on the door and she halted, her breathing erratic. Her hands balled into fists at her sides—she wasn’t ready to see Arkim again.
Cautiously she approached the ornately decorated door and opened it, ready to do battle, only to find two pretty, smiling women on the other side. They had her two wheelie suitcases. One filled with now redundant dance costumes, the other with her own clothes.
She forced a smile and stood back. They entered meekly and she observed their pristine white dresses. Like long tunics. They wore white head coverings too, but not veils obscuring their faces. They looked cool and fresh, and Sylvie felt sticky and gritty after the tumultuous day.
As they were leaving again one of the girls stopped and said shyly, ‘I’m Halima. If you need anything just pick up the phone and I will come to you.’
She ducked her head and then was gone, leaving Sylvie feeling a little slack-jawed. She had her own maid?
Arkim had left her here with a curt instruction to rest and said that he’d let her know when dinner would be ready. Sylvie could see the sky outside turning blood-red from the setting sun, and for the first time took in the sheer opulence of the rooms.
She was in a reception area that would have housed her small Parisian apartment three times over. It was a huge octagonal space, with a small pond in the centre with a tiled bottom and sides, where exotic fish swam lazily.
There were eight rooms off this main area. Two guest bedrooms, a dining room, and a living room complete with state-of-the-art sound system and media centre which had had all channels available when Sylvie had flicked it on.
The decor throughout was subtle and understated. The stone walls of the castle had been left exposed. and modern artwork and an eclectic mix of antiques enhanced the rather austere ancient building. Huge oriental rugs adorned the floors, softening any sharp edges further. The windows were all open to the elements, and even though it was sweltering outside, the castle had been designed so that balmy breezes wafted through the open rooms.
There was also a gym, and an accompanying thermal suite with hot-tub and sauna/steam room. And then there was the main bedroom suite, dressed in tones of dark red and cream. A fan circled overhead, distributing the air to keep it cool.
She’d never considered herself much of a sensualist, beyond tapping into her inner performer for her work, but right now her senses were heightened by everything she’d seen since she’d arrived in this country.
The bed was situated in the middle of the room, and strewn with opulent coverings and pillows. It had four posters and luxurious drapes, which were held back in place by delicately engraved gold curtain ties. The bed looked big enough to hold a football team with room to spare, let alone one person... Or two, inserted a snide voice, which Sylvie ignored.
One thing she was sure of: Arkim Al-Sahid would not be sharing her bed. Yet something quivered to life deep inside her and she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off it...an image filled her brain of naked pale limbs entwined with much darker ones.
For years Sylvie had seen her peers indulge in casual sexual relationships and on some level had envied them that ease and freedom. She’d gone on dates...but the men involved had all expected her to be something she wasn’t. And when they’d pushed for intimacy she’d found herself shutting down. The prospect that they’d somehow ‘see’ the real her and reject her was a fear she couldn’t shake.
It was galling that she seemed to be hardwired to want more than casual sex—based on a fragile memory of the happiness and joy that had existed between her parents before her mother had so tragically died. She’d somehow clung to it her whole life, letting it sink deep into her unconscious.
It was even more galling, though, that Arkim Al-Sahid could look at her with explicit intent and have the opposite effect from making her shut down. When he looked at her she felt as if something was flowering to life deep inside her.
Irritated with the direction of her thoughts, and telling herself she was being ridiculous, Sylvie walked over to the French doors of the main bedroom and stepped outside. Heat washed over her like a dry caress, sinking into her bones and melting some of the tension away in spite of her wish to stay rigid at all costs.
She had her own private terrace, complete with a sparkling lap pool, its turquoise tiles illuminating the water. Low seats were scattered in twos and threes around low tables, with soft raw silk cushions. Lanterns hung from the walls, but weren’t lit. Sylvie could imagine how seductive it might be at night, with only the flickering lights and the vast expanse of a star-filled night sky surrounding her.
And then she berated herself for getting sucked into a daydream so easily. Pushing the images out of her head, she walked over to the boundary wall, with its distinctive Arabic carvings. Outside she could see nothing but desert and dunes. A bird of prey circled lazily against the intense blue of the sky.
It compounded her sense of isolation and entrapment, and yet...much to her chagrin...Sylvie couldn’t seem to drum up any sense of urgency. She realised that she was exhausted from the shock and adrenalin of the day.
A sound made her whirl around from the wall, her heart leaping into her throat. But it was only Halima again, with her shy smile.
‘Sheikh Al-Sahid has sent me to tell you that he would be happy for you to join him in an hour for dinner. He said that should give you time to freshen up.’
Sylvie felt grim. ‘Did he, now?’ She thought of something and said, ‘Wait here a moment—I’d like you to give him something, please.’
When she came back she felt unaccountably lighter. She handed the girl a folded-up note and said sweetly, ‘Please give this to Sheikh Al-Sahid for me.’
The girl scurried off and Sylvie closed the door. A wave of weariness came over her, dousing any small sense of rebellious triumph. She set about unpacking only the most necessary items from her case, having no intention of staying here beyond a night. Whatever she had to do to persuade Arkim to let her go, she’d do it.
She was disappointed but unsurprised to see that her mobile phone didn’t work. Exactly as he’d told her. She put it down and sighed, then took off her clothes, finding a robe. When she got to the door leading into the bathroom she had to suck in a breath. The sinks and the bath seemed to be carved out of the stone itself, with gold fittings that managed to complement the stark design without being tacky.
The bath was more like a small pool. When she’d filled it up, and added some oils she’d found in a cleverly hidden cabinet, exotically fragrant steam wrapped around her in a caress.
She drew off the robe and took the few steps down into the bath, trying not to feel too overwhelmed by the sheer luxury. The water closed over her body and as she tipped her head back she closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of Arkim Al-Sahid out of her mind, trying to pretend she was on a luxury mini-break and not in the middle of an unforgiving desert, cut off from civilisation with someone who hated her guts.
* * *
Arkim stood looking out over the view, at the fading twilight casting the dunes into mysterious shadows. He had claimed this part of his maternal ancestral home for himself. His mother’s family had no interest in him, and he’d told himself a long time ago that he didn’t care. They’d rejected her and he wanted nothing to do with them—even if they came begging.
He’d come here initially as an exercise in removing himself from his father’s sphere. He’d never expected this land to touch him as deeply as it had done on first sight. Almost with a physical pull. His mind automatically felt freer, less constrained, when he was here. He felt connected with something primal and visceral.
When he’d made his first million this property had been his first purchase, and he’d followed it up with properties in Paris, London and New York. He’d surpassed his goals one by one. All of them. Only to fall at the last hurdle: gaining the stamp of social approval and respect that would show everyone that he was not his father’s son. That he was vastly different.
He thought of Sophie Lewis now and his conscience twinged. He hadn’t thought of her very often. In truth, he’d had his doubts—their relationship had been very...platonic. But Arkim had convinced himself that it suited him like that. Her father had been the one to suggest the match, and the more Arkim had thought about it the more the idea had grown on him.
In contrast to her flame-haired provocative sister, Sophie had been like a gentle balm. Shy and innocent. Arousing no hormone-fuelled lapses of character. He’d courted her. Taken her for dinner. To the theatre. Each outing had soothed another piece of his wounded soul, making him believe that marriage to her would indeed offer him everything he’d ever wanted—which was the antithesis of life with his father.
He would be one of those parents who was respectable—respected—who came to school to pick up his son with his beautiful wife by his side. A united front. There would be no scandals. No children born out of wedlock. No mistresses. No sordid rumours and sniggering behind his back. No child of his would have to deal with bullying and fist fights when another kid taunted him about the whores his father took to his bed.
But the gods had laughed in his face at his ambitions and shown him that he was a fool to believe he could ever remove the stain of his father’s legacy from his life.
He looked at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and opened it out again to read.
Thank you for the kind ‘invitation’ to dinner, but I must decline. I’ve already made plans for this evening.
Sincerely, Sylvie Devereux.
Arkim had to battle both irritation and the lust that had held his body in an uncomfortable grip since he’d seen Sylvie earlier that day. He fought the urge to go straight to her room to confront her. No doubt that was exactly what she wanted.
He’d annoyed her by bringing her here and she was toying with him to get her own back. His mouth tipped up in a hard smile. No matter. He didn’t mind being toyed with as long as she ended up where he wanted her— underneath him, naked and pliant and begging for mercy. Begging forgiveness.
* * *
When Sylvie woke it was dawn outside. She felt as if she’d slept for a week, not just the ten or so hours she had slept. Strangely, there was no disorientation—she knew exactly where she was.
She was still in the robe and she sat up, looking around warily, as if she might find Arkim lurking in a corner, glaring at her. She wondered how he’d reacted when she hadn’t shown for dinner. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know...
She got up and opened the French doors, the early morning’s cool breeze a balm compared to the stifling heat which would no doubt come once the sun was up. She walked to the boundary wall again and sucked in a deep breath. The intense silence wrapped around her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced this level of stillness—if ever. It seemed to quiet something inside her...some sense of restlessness. It was disconcerting—as if she was betraying herself by finding an affinity with any part of this situation.
She went back inside and dressed in jeans and a clean T-shirt, loath to make any kind of effort with clothes or to leave her rooms in case it showed acquiescence to Arkim. But she was also feeling somewhat trapped, and she didn’t like it.
In the end Halima appeared, fresh-faced and smiling, with a tray of breakfast, bringing it into the dining room.
Sylvie’s stomach rumbled loudly and she realised that because she’d turned down dinner the previous evening she’d not eaten since she’d been on the plane the day before. She was starving, and when Halima pulled back a cloth napkin to reveal a plate of fragrant flat breads Sylvie had to bite back of a groan of appreciation. It was a mezze-style feast, with little bowls of olives and different cheeses, hard and soft. And a choice of fragrant coffee or sweet tea.

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