Awakened By Her Desert Captor

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.