Awakened by Her Desert Captor (8 page)

She thought of how he was doing everything he could to distance himself from his parent and she was doing everything to follow in her mother's footsteps. The opposite sides of one coin.

‘I don't know about your mother—were they married?'

His look could have sliced through steel. Clearly this wasn't a subject he relished, and it buoyed her up to see him lose that icy control he seemed to wield so effortlessly. It reminded her of how she'd wanted to shatter it when she'd first met him. Well, it had shattered all right—taking her with it.

Arkim's tone was harsh. ‘She died in childbirth, and, no, they weren't married. My father doesn't
do
marriage. He's too eager to hang on to his fortune and keep his bedroom door revolving.'

Sylvie didn't like the little dart of sympathy she felt to hear that his mother had died before he'd even known her. She moved away from that kernel of information. ‘So, you grew up in America?'

His mouth tightened. ‘Yes. And in England, in a series of boarding schools. During holidays in LA I was a captive audience for my father's debauched lifestyle.'

Sylvie winced inwardly. There was another link in the chain to understanding this man's prejudices.

Hesitantly she said, ‘You've never been close, then?'

Arkim's voice could have chilled ice. ‘I haven't seen him since I was a teenager.'

Sylvie sucked in a breath.

Before she could think how to respond, Arkim inserted mockingly, ‘Living with him taught me a valuable lesson from an early age: that life isn't some fairytale.'

The extent of his cynicism mocked Sylvie's tender memories of her own parents. ‘Most people don't experience what you did.'

His eyes glittered like black jewels. He looked completely relaxed, but she could sense the tension in his form.

The question was burning her up inside. ‘Is that one of the reasons why you agreed to marry Sophie? Because you don't believe real marriages can exist?'

‘Do you?' he parried.

Sylvie cursed her big mouth and glanced away. She longed to match his cynicism with her own, but the truth was that even after witnessing how grief had torn her father apart she
had
seen real love for a while.

She looked back. ‘I think sometimes, yes, they can. But even a happy marriage can be broken apart very easily.'
By devastating illness and death.

He looked at her consideringly for a long moment and she steeled herself. But then he asked, ‘What was your mother like?'

Sylvie's insides clenched harder. She looked at her glass.

‘She was amazing. Beautiful, sweet...kind.' When Arkim didn't respond with some cutting comment, she went on, ‘I always remember her perfume...it was so distinctive. My father used to buy it in the same shop for her whenever he was in Paris. It was opposite the Ritz hotel, run by a beautiful Indian woman. He took me with him once. I remember she had a small daughter...' Her mouth quirked as she got lost in the memory. ‘I used to sit at my mother's feet and watch her get ready to go out with my father. She used to hum all the time. French songs. And she would dance with me...'

‘Sounds just like one of those fairytales—too good to be true.'

Arkim's voice broke through the memories like a rude klaxon. Sylvie's head jerked up. She'd forgotten where she was for a moment, and with whom.

‘It
was
true. And good.'

She hated it that her voice trembled slightly. She wouldn't be able to bear it now if Arkim was to delve further and ask about her mother's death. That excruciating last year, when cancer had turned her mother into a shadow of her former self, would haunt Sylvie for the rest of her life. She'd lost both her parents from that moment.

She felt prickly enough to attack. ‘Why did you agree to marry my sister? Really?'

Arkim was expressionless. ‘For all the reasons I have already explained to you.'

Beyond irritated, and frustrated at the way he made her feel, Sylvie put down her napkin and stood up, walking over to the wall. She heard him move and turned around to face him, feeling jittery.

He stood a few feet away. Too close for comfort. Before she could say anything, Arkim folded his arms and said, ‘I won't deny I had my doubts...'

Sylvie went still.

‘That night in the study, when you found me... I wasn't altogether certain that I was going to go through with it. But then you appeared...' Something like anger flashed in his eyes. ‘Let's just say that you helped me make up my mind.'

Sylvie reeled. He might have called it off? And then his words registered. Anger flared. ‘So it was
my
fault?'

He ignored that. ‘Why did you break up the wedding? Was it purely for spite?'

The realisation that Arkim might have called the whole thing off was mixing with her anger, diluting it. Making her heart beat faster. Words trembled on her lips. Words that would exonerate her. But she couldn't do it; she'd promised her sister.

She lifted her chin. ‘All you need to know is that if I had to do it over again I wouldn't hesitate.'

Arkim's face hardened even more. He didn't like that. But his drawling voice belied his expression. ‘The motorbike was a cute touch. Did you learn how to ride one especially for dramatic effect?'

Sylvie flushed. ‘I used to have one in Paris—to get around. Until it got stolen. I hired one that day...more for expediency than anything else.'

He sneered now. ‘You mean a quick, cowardly getaway so you didn't have to deal with the fallout...?'

Before Sylvie could formulate a response, Halima and some other discreet staff appeared at that moment, defusing the tension a little, and removed the remains of their dinner from the table.

When they were gone Sylvie was still facing Arkim, like an adversary in a boxing ring. The revelation that she'd inadvertently influenced his decision to marry Sophie was crowding everything else out of her head. Presumably it had been because she'd reminded him of exactly the kind of woman he
didn't
want. And that stung.

She pushed down her roiling emotions and tried to appeal to his civilised side. ‘Arkim...you've made your point. You need to let me go now.'

His expression remained as hard as granite. Unforgiving. Sylvie shivered. This man wasn't civilised here.

And then he said, ‘I've paid a substantial sum of money for your presence and I believe that I'd like to see you dance for me.' The shape of his mouth turned bitter. ‘After all, thousands have seen you dance, so why shouldn't I?'

The thought of performing in front of this man made Sylvie go cold, and then hot. ‘Now?' Her voice squeaked slightly.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. ‘No, tomorrow evening. You'll perform a very
private
dance. Just for me.'

She straightened her spine. ‘If you're expecting a lap dance, I hate to disappoint you but I really don't do that kind of thing.'

He moved close enough to reach out and trail a finger down over her cheek and jaw, and said softly, ‘I'm looking forward to seeing what you
do
do.'

She slapped his hand down, terrified of the way his touch made her melt so easily. Terrified he'd kiss her again. ‘And why on earth should I do anything you ask me to?'

Arkim's jaw clenched, and then he said baldly, ‘Because you owe me, and I'm collecting.'

* * *

The following evening Halima held up one of Sylvie's rhinestone-encrusted outfits and stroked it reverently. ‘This is so beautiful.'

The thought of the robed young woman wearing it, baring her skin so comprehensively, made Sylvie feel a little uncomfortable, and she gently took the garment out of Halima's hands to hang it up, along with the other costumes the girl had insisted on taking out of her suitcase.

She hadn't been able to eat since breakfast that morning, and her belly had been doing somersaults all day at the thought of dancing for Arkim. She'd realised that of course he'd be expecting her to rebel, refuse. And then maybe he'd initiate another cosy dinner and tell her more things about himself that would put her on uneven ground where her feelings towards him were concerned.

As she'd lain in bed last night and gone over everything he'd told her she had found her antipathy hard to cling on to. So she'd decided to keep him at arm's length and do the opposite of what he was expecting and dance for him. She realised with some level of dark irony that if he was reverse psychoanalysing her, then it was working.

And if Sylvie was being completely honest with herself, a part of her still wanted to provoke Arkim—make him admit that he was just like everyone else.

It was that damned icy façade of his that had sneaked under her skin and made her want to break it apart as soon as he'd looked at her for the first time with such disdain. And where had breaking that control apart got her? To one of the hottest places on earth. About to strip herself bare in front of a man who wanted her, yet despised her.

Words trembled on Sylvie's tongue. Words to instruct Halima to go and tell the Sheikh that she wasn't available this evening after all. But she couldn't back down now.

She surveyed herself in the mirror as Halima clipped a veil behind her head, obscuring her mouth, so only her heavily kohled eyes were visible. Her hair was tucked and hidden under another veil.

Sylvie wondered if Arkim would appreciate the fact that the act she'd decided to do was based on the story of
Scheherazade
. Somehow, she didn't think he'd be amused.

She took a deep breath and turned to Halima. ‘Now all I need is a sword...do you think you can find one here?'

The young girl thought for a moment, then brightened. ‘Yes!'

* * *

Anticipation lay heavy and thick in Arkim's bloodstream as he waited for Sylvie to appear. He'd given instructions for her to be brought to one of the ceremonial rooms, where traditionally the Sheikh would greet and entertain his important guests. The room was open to the elements behind Arkim. Lanterns lit the space with golden flickering shadows.

Just then he noticed that a strong gust of wind whipping through the open space had almost put out one of the candles. The storm. It was coming. It made Arkim feel reckless. Wild. He'd gone out on Aziz earlier that day, tracking it, seeing the wind pick up. The stallion had moved skittishly, wanting to get back to cover.

There was a raised marble dais in the centre of the room, where the Sheikh would usually sit to greet his guests, and it was also sometimes used for ceremonial performances and dances. Arkim didn't doubt that he was about to bring this space into serious disrepute by having Sylvie dance here, but he couldn't seem to care too much.

He took a sip of his wine.
Where was she?
He tensed at the thought that she was defying him again.

Just as he was about to put down his glass and stand up and go to her, his blood fizzing, she appeared. She was slight and lissom...in bare feet. Arkim blinked as blood roared up into his head and south to another part of his anatomy.

She didn't look in his direction or acknowledge him as she stepped up onto the dais. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't this. She was wearing gold figure-hugging trousers that were flared at the ends and partially slit up the sides, embellished with jewels and lace. They sat low on her hips, along with a belt from which tassels dropped and moved and swayed with her body.

Her middle was toned and bare, and encircled with a delicate gold chain that sat just above the curve of her hips. A cropped black top with long trailing sleeves was tied in the front, between her breasts, worn over a gold-coloured and very ornate-looking bra.

Her breasts were...perfection. Full and luscious, beautifully shaped. Her provocative cleavage was framed by the top.

She still hadn't even so much as flicked a glance in his direction, and he noticed properly for the first time that the lower half of her face was obscured by a black veil, and that a black covering also hid her hair. Arkim wanted to rip it off and see those red tresses tumbling around her shoulders.

All that was visible of her face were her heavily kohled eyes. She was bending down now, doing something with speakers, and then a slow, sultry and distinctly Arabic beat filled the space.

Arkim's eyes widened when he saw her pick up a large curved sabre—he'd been too distracted to notice it before. He frowned. It looked disturbingly like the one that hung in the exhibition room that housed all his precious antiques and old weapons.

Sylvie faced away from him now, and all he could see was the tempting curve of her buttocks, the tantalising line of her waist and hips, and that gold chain glinting in the flickering glow of the lamps. And then she lifted the sword high in her hands over her head and slowly turned to face him. Those distinctive eyes met his, and she started to move sinuously to the beat of the music.

And Arkim's brain stuttered to a halt.

He was aware of pale skin, dips and hollows, a toned belly. She played with the huge sword as if it was a baton—twirling it in one hand and then in the other. She was on her knees now, one leg raised at a right angle, and arching her body backwards like a bow, with the sword resting on its tip behind her and her free arm stretched out in front of her. The line of her throat was long and graceful, and curiously vulnerable.

The music seemed to be pounding in time with Arkim's blood. And then it changed and became a little faster, with a different beat.

Sylvie straightened up and bent forward with impressive flexibility, bringing the sword back in front of her to place it on the ground and push it away. And then, still bending forward, she lifted the veil and head covering off her head. She undid the tie on her black top and removed that too.

Now her hair tumbled down, free and wild, and the ornately decorated gold bra was revealed. He could see the faint sheen of perspiration on her pale skin and his insides tightened with pure, unadulterated lust. Would her skin be sheened like that when he joined their bodies for the first time?