Awakened by Her Desert Captor (3 page)

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

Present day
—a week after the ruined wedding...

A
RKIM
A
L
-S
AHID
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.