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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.
