Awakened by Her Desert Captor (16 page)

He realised, somewhat moodily, that he seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time looking out of his window across the iconic cityscape, with an inability to focus.

Since he'd come back to London he'd been braced for the fallout from his very public humiliation. But, to his shock and surprise, when he'd requested a debriefing from his PR team he'd been informed that there
was
no discernible fallout. Yes, he'd lost some business initially, and the tabloid reports in the immediate aftermath had been bruising. Stocks had fallen sharply, but it had been very temporary. And ultimately not damaging.

Arkim was not a little stunned to realise that in the wake of his ruined wedding, the world hadn't stopped turning. The reputation he'd spent so long building up hadn't crumbled to pieces, as he'd feared. Many more scandals had come and gone. He was already old news. People couldn't care less if he'd really slept with Sylvie Devereux.

The deal with Grant Lewis had been signed off on, and the old man appeared to feel no rancour towards Arkim, despite what had happened. Lewis had been in straits far more dire than he'd led anyone to believe, and his eagerness to keep the deal on the table only reminded Arkim of how eroded his well-worn cynicism had become. Lust for power and wealth trumped even scandal.

A hum of ever-present frustration pulsed in his blood. Despite his best efforts to resist the urge, he'd had his team checking the papers and media daily for any news of Sylvie, but to all intents and purposes she'd vanished back into her life.

An image of her face, wide open and smiling, her skin lightly golden from the sun and dusted with freckles, came back to him so vividly that he sucked in a breath.

An ache had settled deep into his being from the moment he'd watched her helicopter take off from the oasis that day and it hadn't subsided. The truth could no longer be ignored or denied.
He still wanted her
.

In the last month he'd been to functions with the most beautiful women in the world, and they'd left him cold. Dead inside. But all he had to do was conjure up a memory of Sylvie—
that day in the pool
—and he was rewarded with a surge of arousal. About which he could do nothing unless he wanted to regress to being the age of fourteen in a shower stall.

The intercom sounded from his desk and Arkim welcomed the distraction, turning around. ‘Yes, Liz?'

‘There's a young lady downstairs to see you...'

Even before Arkim could ask her name, blood was rushing to his head and heat to his groin.

‘Who did you say?' He had to ask, after his assistant had said the name. Surely he'd misheard—?

‘Sophie Lewis...your...er...ex-fiancée.'

Disappointment was acute. So acute that Arkim knew he had a problem. And what on earth could Sophie Lewis possibly want with the man who had—allegedly—been unfaithful to her with her own sister?

‘Send her up,' he said grimly.

* * *

Sylvie had finished rehearsals with Pierre and the rest of the revue for the day and had stayed behind at the dance studios to practise on her own for her modern dance class.

She focused on the music and the athletic movements of her body, clad in dance leggings and a cropped tank top. Her hair was up in a high ponytail and her skin was sheened with perspiration from the exertion. But the burn of her muscles and the intense focus was good. Anything to block
him
and the fact that she would never see him again out of her mind. Block out the fact that he wanted nothing to do with her. That what had happened meant nothing to him...

Sylvie made an awkward move and landed heavily on her foot. Damn.
Damn him for invading her thoughts.

She bent down over her foot, but thankfully she hadn't strained it. They were close to the opening night for the relaunch of the club—Pierre would never forgive her if she injured herself now...especially when she wasn't even practising the revue's routines.

She stood up straight in front of the long mirror that spanned one whole wall and stretched her neck. She was about to start at the beginning again when she saw something move, and she looked towards where the door was reflected in the mirror to see a big dark shape.

Arkim.

This was really getting to be too much. Now she was seeing things. She blinked. But he didn't go away.

The door was pushed open and he walked in. Dressed in dark trousers and a light shirt, sleeves rolled up, top button open. As if he'd just strolled in from a nearby office.

Slowly, eyes widening, Sylvie turned around, half expecting him not to be there when she faced him. But he was. He was real.

To her utter horror she felt a welling of emotion: a mixture of anger, relief and the sheer need to run to him and wrap herself so tightly around him he wouldn't be able to breathe.

She took a deep, steadying breath, and curled her hands into fists. Had she already forgotten the brutality with which he'd let her go that day at the oasis? Coldly. Summarily.

Praying her voice wouldn't betray her, and lamenting her less than pristine physical state, she said coolly, ‘Hello, Arkim.'

‘Hello, Sylvie.'

That voice.
His
voice. It reached inside her and squeezed tight. She remembered him saying
Sylvie
with a guttural groan as his climax had made his whole body go taut over hers.

‘I can't imagine that you were just passing.'

Arkim put his hands in his pockets and walked into the room, his every step gracefully athletic. Masculine. He was clean-shaven. And he'd had a haircut.

He was still quite simply the most astoundingly handsome man she'd ever seen.

He stopped a couple of feet away. Close enough for his scent to tickle her nostrils and for her body to go into meltdown at his proximity. Her heart seemed to have been in shock, because it started again at about triple its normal rate.

‘No, I wasn't just passing. I came especially. To see you.'

She dampened down the surge of excitement. Her hurt at the way he'd sent her off was still acute. She lifted her chin. ‘Why? Did I leave something behind?'

Arkim's face was impassive, but she saw a muscle work in his jaw. His throat moved. Sylvie could have spent hours just studying every minute part of his olive-skinned anatomy.
She had.

‘You could say that.
Me.
'

Her eyes clashed with the darkest brown. Incredulity made her mouth gape before she found the wherewithal to say, ‘I left
you
behind?'

‘Yes...' he breathed, and moved even closer.

His eyes were roving hungrily over her now, making a hot flush spread out all over Sylvie's body from between her legs. This man had changed her utterly, in so many ways. So much so that the minute Pierre had seen her again the older patriarchal man had looked her up and down and said accusingly, ‘Something's different...what's happened to you?'

Sylvie had been mortified beyond belief to think that someone might be able to
see
what had happened to her. But she could feel it even when she danced. A new awareness of her body...her sexuality.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Arkim, the architect of all of this. His eyes met hers again and she saw the fire in them. But before she could say anything—not even sure what she
wanted
to say—he asked, ‘What was that dancing you were just doing? It was different to the way you danced for me.'

Taken aback, Sylvie said, ‘It's something I'm working on for my contemporary dance class.'

‘I liked it...it was beautiful.'

And just like that Sylvie's jagged emotions stopped pricking her. ‘You did?'

Arkim reached out and touched a loose tendril of hair. He nodded. ‘You looked as if you were lost in another world.'

She was finding it hard to breathe. ‘I choreographed the dance.'

It was only when she said it that she felt totally exposed. A lot of that dance had been born out of the pain she'd felt for the past month.

She stepped back and his hand fell away. His eyes flashed. Still the same arrogant Arkim. And what had he meant when he'd said she'd left him behind?

‘What do you want, Arkim? I haven't finished practising, and I only have this space for another twenty minutes.'

‘I want to talk to you. And I have something for you at my apartment.'

‘Your apartment?'

‘I have an apartment here in Paris. I'm working here for the next few weeks—in my Paris office.'

Of
course
he had an office and an apartment here. He
would
.

But still, she resisted. ‘Why, Arkim? Why do we have to talk? I think we said everything, don't you? Or you certainly did, anyway.'

He looked for a moment, as if he didn't want to say anything, but then he did. ‘Your sister came to see me... I
know
, Sylvie.'

Sylvie could feel her blood draining south so quickly that she swayed. Immediately Arkim's hand was on her arm. To her awful shame, her first thought was not of Sophie but of the fact that Arkim hadn't come because he wanted her back at all...

‘Sophie...came to see you?' Sylvie was vaguely aware that her phone had been off all day during rehearsals, so she'd been uncontactable.

He nodded. Grim. ‘Look, finish your practice. I'll wait, and then you'll come with me...yes?'

There was no way Sylvie could focus now. She'd break her ankle. And that was just at the thought of Arkim waiting for her. She shook her head. ‘No, I'll change now and come with you.'

She had no choice. She had to know what Sophie's visit to him meant. And that was
all
Arkim wanted to talk to her about. As long as she remembered that she'd be okay.

He let her go. ‘I'll wait for you downstairs. My car is at the door.'

* * *

As Arkim waited in the back of his chauffeur-driven car he couldn't dampen down the swell of triumph...or the swell of his erection. His whole body had gone on fire as soon as he'd seen Sylvie through the door...her lithe dancer's body moving with such grace and power...in a way he'd never seen before. Beautiful, elegant...passionate. He'd been mesmerised. In awe. In lust.

She'd looked wary at seeing him again, even though he'd felt the resurgence of the powerful sexual connection between them. Yet could he blame her for being wary? He'd behaved like an idiot that last day at the oasis... He'd been acting on a knee-jerk reflex to get rid of Sylvie before she slid herself even more indelibly under his skin...but it had been too late.

He had to concede that even if Sophie hadn't come—

His thoughts stopped working as Sylvie walked out through the door, her vibrant hair tied back in a knot—damp from a shower? She wore faded skinny jeans that showed her long legs off to perfection, ballet flats and a loose off-the-shoulder T-shirt, with the straps of a vest visible underneath. Her skin was pale again...like a pearl.

Arkim let his driver get out to open the door for her. He literally couldn't move for fear of making a complete idiot of himself.

When she slid into the back seat on the other side she didn't look at him, putting her slouchy bag firmly on her lap as she strapped her seat belt on. Arkim wanted to reach across and force her to meet his eyes, force her to know how much he wanted her before he crushed that soft mouth under his and found some sense of peace for the first time in a month.

A flutter of panic at the strength of how much he wanted her made his gut tighten. How relieved he'd been as soon as he'd laid eyes on her...

Sylvie Devereux was still completely wrong for him on so many levels. This was lust. Pure and simple. Unprecedented, but not without its sell-by date.

Then she looked at him with those wide eyes, blue and blue-green, and Arkim's thoughts scattered to pieces.

‘Why did Sophie come to see you?'

Arkim dragged his brain back into some kind of functioning order. ‘She told me everything.'

CHAPTER NINE

T
HE
CAR
WAS
moving at a snail's pace in the early-evening Paris traffic as Arkim's words sank in. And even though Sylvie was preoccupied by what he was saying, and what it meant, she was acutely aware of that big, powerful body so close to hers. Legs spread, chest broad.

She had to get it together.
Sophie.
Hesitantly she asked, ‘When you say “everything”, do you mean—?'

‘I mean,' Arkim said, cutting her off, ‘I know that she's gay, Sylvie. She told me everything. About how she was afraid to come out. About how she was railroaded into marriage by her parents because they thought it would sweeten the deal for me. I'd made no attempt to hide the fact that I wanted to settle in England, and I wasn't averse to settling down with a suitable wife.'

The kind of wife who would remove Arkim permanently from his sordid past...
Sylvie thought to herself, with a lurch of pain near her heart.

He continued, ‘She told me about her girlfriend in college, and how she was too terrified to stand up to her mother...that she's always had trouble standing up to her.' Arkim's mouth twisted. ‘I can understand why.'

Sylvie reeled. ‘My God...she really
did
tell you everything.'

Arkim nodded. ‘She also told me that she'd refused to let you do anything at first, because she didn't want you to damage your already contentious relationship with your father and stepmother, and they'd inevitably blame you even though it had nothing to do with you... But the week of the wedding she was panicking so much that she accepted your offer to step in at the last minute if she needed it. Which is what you did...in your own inimitable way.'

Sylvie blushed, thinking of that daring moment again. Arkim looked equable enough right now, but she knew how deep his emotions went, and how he simmered.

Trepidation gripped her. ‘Were you angry with her?'

For a second he just looked at her, and then he said with faint incredulity, ‘Even now your first concern is whether or not I got angry with her?'

Sylvie squirmed. ‘Well, I know how intimidating you can be.'

Arkim's mouth thinned. ‘At first I was angry, yes.' He reacted to the look that crossed Sylvie's face. ‘I had a right to be. Both of you made me a laughing stock. If Sophie had just come to me and explained I would have understood. I'm not such an ogre.
Hell.
'

He turned away in disgust, to look out of the window. Sylvie felt immediately chastened. She knew that he wouldn't have taken it out on Sophie...all of Arkim's anger was only ever for
her
.

She pushed down the sense of futility. ‘You're right,' she said in a quiet voice. ‘I should have come to you myself and said something... If we'd been able to stop the wedding a week before it would have avoided the messy scandal it became. But I knew how unlikely it was that you'd believe anything I said...'

Some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders. He turned back, those black eyes like pools of obsidian. To Sylvie's surprise, his mouth quirked ever so slightly on one side.

‘I guess I have to give you that... I would have seen it as just another jealous attempt to make me notice you.' His expression became shuttered. ‘I believed you were
jealous
...you let me believe that, like a fool.'

She knew she owed him total honesty now—especially after Sophie's bravery—albeit belated. She forced herself to look at him. ‘The truth is...as much as I was doing it for Sophie I
was
jealous. I wanted you...for myself.'

She hadn't even properly admitted that to herself until this moment. Her head felt light.

Arkim's eyes gleamed. He breathed out. ‘I
knew
it...'

For a second she thought he was about to reach for her, and her whole body tingled, but then a discreet tap came from nearby. It took a minute for her to figure out that the driver was knocking on the partition, alerting them to the fact that they'd pulled up outside a building on a quiet street.

Sylvie felt a little dizzy. She looked out of the window and didn't immediately recognise much, except for the fact that they were in a very expensive part of Paris. Her voice was husky. ‘Where are we?'

‘My apartment building on the Île Saint-Louis.'

She looked back to Arkim. She felt confused, she wasn't sure where they stood any more.

He said, ‘I have something for you upstairs.'

She joked weakly, ‘That's not a very original chat-up line.'

He was serious. ‘It's not a chat-up line. I really
do
have something for you.'

‘Oh.' She instantly felt silly. The driver—as if knowing just the perfect moment to capitalise on her doubts—appeared at her door and opened it. By the time she was standing, clutching her bag, Arkim was waiting for her, darkly handsome and very vital-looking against the grey stone of the old building.

How was it that he could look so devastating, no matter what milieu he was in? she grumbled to herself as she let him lead her into the building. She felt very dishevelled when she saw the marble floor and discreetly exquisite furnishings. And the uniformed concierge who treated Arkim like royalty.

There was a lift attendant, and Sylvie almost felt like giggling. It was so far removed from the constantly out of use elevator in her rickety building in Montmartre.

The lift came to a smooth stop and Arkim led her into a luxuriously carpeted hall, with one door at the end. He opened it and she walked in cautiously, her eyes widening as she took in the parquet floors and quietly sumptuous decor.

The reception rooms were spacious, with floor-to-ceiling French doors looking out over Paris and the Seine. The furniture was antique, but not fussy. Comfortable, inviting.

Drawn by something she'd spotted, she walked over to the opposite side of the room and stood before a black and white photo.

‘It's Al-Hibiz.'

Arkim's voice was close enough to set Sylvie's nerve endings alight. ‘Yes,' she said, remembering her first view of the majestic castle. A terrible sense of longing for that wide open landscape washed over her.
The oasis.

This was torture, being so close to Arkim again and yet not really knowing what he wanted from her. She whirled around and he was a lot closer than she'd expected, within touching distance.

‘Arkim?' Her voice croaked humiliatingly.

He was staring at her mouth. ‘Yes...'

So she looked at his...at the strong sensual lines. And his jaw, so resolute. From the moment she'd first seen him she'd had that instinct to smooth the stark lines of his face.

She didn't know who moved first, but it was as if attracting ions finally overcame the tension between them, and then she was in his arms, her whole body straining against his, her arms tight around his neck. Their mouths were fused, tongues tangled in a desperate hungry kiss, the breath being sucked out of each other's bodies to mix and mingle and go on fire. Arkim's hands shaped and cupped Sylvie's buttocks, lifting her up, encouraging her legs to wrap around him.

She wasn't even aware that Arkim had collapsed onto a couch behind them until she pulled back from the kiss to gasp in air and realised that her thighs were wedged open, tight against his, and she could feel the potent thrust of his arousal against where she ached.

She felt shaky. The fire had blasted up around them so quickly. ‘Arkim...what are we—?'

He put a finger to her lips. He looked fierce. ‘Don't say anything—please. I need this. I need
you
. Now.'

There was something raw in his tone...something that resonated deep inside her. Who was she kidding? She needed this too. Desperately.

She levered herself against him, pushing back. Infused with a sense of confidence borne out of what this man had given her at that oasis, Sylvie stood up and slowly and methodically took off her clothes until she was naked.

He looked...stunned. Hypnotised. In shock. In awe.

Sylvie came back and straddled him again, every inch of her skin sensitised just from his look. His hands came to her waist and she felt a slight tremor in them. She reached down between them and undid his trousers, pulled him free, smoothing her hand up and down the silken length of his erection, her whole body flushing red with lust.

The fact that she was naked and he was still almost fully dressed was erotic in the extreme. But when Arkim's mouth latched on to her nipple, Sylvie's fleeting sense of being in control quickly evaporated, and he skilfully showed her who was the real master here. She was rubbing against him, thick and hard between her legs, feeling her juices anointing his shaft.

Arkim groaned and dropped his head against her and said, ‘I need to be inside you...
now
.'

Sylvie raised herself up in wordless acquiescence while Arkim extricated protection from his pocket, smoothing the thin latex sheath onto his penis.

His hands were back on her waist—tight, urgent. He positioned her so that her slick body rested just over his tip and with exquisite care, as if savouring the moment, he brought Sylvie down onto his erection. She inhaled as he filled her, almost to the point of pain but still on the side of pleasure. When he was as deep as he could go he held her there for a moment, before it got too much and he had to move again...

There was nothing but the sound of their laboured breathing in the quiet apartment as the frenzy overtook them. Her knees were pressed to his thighs, her hands gripping his shoulders. Her whole body tightened and quickened as Arkim thrust hard and deep up into her, hips welded to hers. He was so deep...deeper than ever before. She could feel her heart beating out of time. And when the explosion hit there was nowhere to hide.

Sylvie's head was thrown back, her eyes shut, every muscle and sinew taut, as waves and waves of release flowed through her body, wrenching her soul apart. And Arkim was with her every step of the way, his own body as taut as a whip under hers.

It was so excruciatingly exquisite that it almost felt like a punishment. As if Arkim was doing this on purpose, just to torture her. It was shattering.

And when the waves subsided Sylvie subsided too, unable to keep herself upright, collapsing against Arkim's chest, her head buried in his neck.

She felt like a car crash victim. As if some kind of explosion had really just happened, knocking her out of orbit. The fact that his heart was thundering under hers was no consolation. Her skin was hot, sticky, but she was too wiped out to care.

She whispered into his damp neck, ‘What are we doing?'

She felt Arkim's chest swell underneath hers, making her sensitive breasts ache. His voice rumbled around her.

‘We're doing that again...as soon as I can move...'

* * *

Much later, when it was dark outside, Sylvie woke alone in a massive bed. She was disorientated for a moment, and then the pleasurable aches and tingles in her body and the tenderness between her legs helped her to remember the last few cataclysmic hours.

Arkim had been true to his word. As soon as he'd been able to move he'd carried Sylvie into the bedroom, stripped, and proceeded to make love to her all over again. Then they'd taken a shower...and barely made it back to the bed before making love again.

Sylvie groaned and rolled over, mashing her face into a soft pillow. What was she
doing
?

She flipped back again and looked up at the exquisitely corniced ceiling, her mind racing with the implications of what it all meant. Arkim knew now. He knew everything. Everything she hadn't been able to tell him out of loyalty to her sister.

Feeling curious, and wondering where he was, Sylvie sat up, wincing as tender muscles protested. She saw a robe at the end of the bed and reached for it, sitting up to pull it on. It dwarfed her slim frame but she belted it tightly around her, blushing when she thought of her clothes, which must still be strewn in that elegant reception room.

She padded barefoot out of the bedroom and back towards the main part of the apartment. As she was passing a door that was slightly ajar she noticed a dim golden light and heard a suspicious-sounding
yap
.

She pushed open the door to find a study, three walls lined with bookshelves and books. A huge desk was in front of the window, its surface covered with a computer, laptop and papers... But her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw Arkim sitting on the ground, his back against the only bare wall in the room, wearing only a pair of sweats and cradling a familiar-looking puppy in his arms.

They both looked up at the same time, and it would have been comical if Sylvie hadn't been so shocked. The little dog shot out of Arkim's arms and raced over to Sylvie, yapping excitedly, its stubby little tail waggling furiously. She crouched down and was almost bowled over by his enthusiasm, his tongue licking wherever he could reach.

When she was over her shock she looked at Arkim, who was still sitting there, looking for all the world as if nothing untoward was going on. ‘What on earth...? How did you get him here?'

And why?
Sylvie wanted to ask, but was afraid.

Arkim shrugged one shoulder negligently. ‘I brought him back to the castle with me that day...and then I just ended up bringing him to Europe.'

Sylvie's breath felt choppy all of a sudden, and her heart was thumping hard. In a flight of fancy in her head she was imagining all sorts of reasons that were all very,
very
dangerous.

She buried her nose in his fur. When she looked up again she said, ‘He's all cleaned up...what is he?'

Arkim's mouth quirked. ‘A Highland Westie mixed with something indeterminate.'

‘Have you got a name for him yet?'

He shook his head. ‘I couldn't think of one. But I want to give him to you...so you choose a name.'