Awakened by Her Desert Captor

by Abby Green

  His tongue swept into her mouth in a marauding move and he quickly became oblivious to everything except the rough stroke of his tongue against Sylvie’s, demanding a response.

  She resisted him for long seconds, but he felt her gradually relax, as if losing a battle with herself. Once again there was an almost unbelievable hesitance—as if she didn’t know what to do. The thought that she could do this—get under his skin so easily, make him doubt himself—made Arkim’s blood boil.

  He held the back of her covered head and put his hand to where her neck met her shoulder in an unashamedly possessive move, his thumb reaching for and finding that hectic pulse-beat, which was telling him that no matter how ingrained it was in her to act, she couldn’t control everything.

  And finally he felt her arms relax and start to climb around his neck, bringing her body into more intimate contact with his. Her mouth softened and she...acquiesced. The triumph was heady. Her tongue stroked his sweetly, sucking him deep—as deep as he imagined the exquisite clasp of her body would be around his in a more intimate caress.

  He wanted to throw her down on the ground right here and pull up that robe, yank down her jeans, until he could find his release. The desire was so strong he shook in a bid to rein it in. And that brought him back from the brink of losing it completely.

  Reality slammed into him. He was in the middle of the desert, under the merciless sun, about to ravage this woman. Make her his...brand her like some kind of animal.

  He wanted to push her away from him and yet never let her go.

  He hated her. He wanted her.

  He pulled back from the kiss even though everything in his body and his blood protested at the move. He felt the unrelenting beat of the sun on his head. Her eyes opened after a moment, wide and blue...and that intriguing blue-green. Her cheeks were flushed. Lips swollen.

  And then suddenly she tensed and scrambled free of his arms. Arkim might almost have laughed—even now she was intent on playing this game of push and pull. Acting her little heart out.

  ‘Have you forgotten that you’re a civilised man?’

  Even her voice sounded suitably shaky. But Arkim barely cast her a glance as he reached for the horse’s reins. ‘I don’t have to be civilised here.’

  That was why he’d brought her here in the first place—because he didn’t trust himself around her in more civilised surroundings. It was as if he’d known the desert was the only place big enough to contain what he felt for her.

  He picked up the reins, ignoring the dull throb of unsatisfied desire in his system...the way his arousal pressed against his trousers under his robe.

  ‘You really can’t turn it off, can you?’

  Sylvie scowled at him. She should have looked ridiculous. The keffiyah was askew on her head, and slivers of bright red curling tendrils of hair peeped out from under its folds. She crossed her arms. ‘Turn what off?’

  ‘Your constant need to act out some role—pretend you don’t want this.’

  ‘I’m not acting. And I don’t want this! I don’t know what happened there...a moment of sunstroke...but it won’t be happening again.’

  Arkim almost felt pity for her. He reached out and rubbed a thumb back and forth over her plump lower lip. ‘Oh, don’t worry—it’ll be happening again, and you’ll be fully participant in it when it does.’

  Sylvie slapped his hand away. She might have screamed at his arrogance, but he was lifting her up onto the horse again before she could take another breath. And, in any case, what could she say after she’d just melted all over him?

  It was pathetic. She was pathetic. She turned to mush when he came near her. So she’d just have to keep him at a distance.

  But then he got up on the horse behind her again, and predictably Sylvie’s body went into a paroxysm of anticipation as one arm snaked around her torso, holding her to him, and his other hand expertly gathered the reins to urge the horse on. Of course he would have to be an expert horseman too. Was there anything this man couldn’t do? Apart from act in a civil manner to her?

  His lower body was pressed against her backside now, and she could feel the thrust of something unmistakably hard. Her face flamed, and it had nothing to do with the sun. She yanked the material of the keffiyah back over her mouth. He wouldn’t have to ask her to cover up. She’d never uncover herself again in this man’s presence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SYLVIE SAT CURLED up on one of the vast couches in the living area of her suite. When she’d returned to her rooms a couple of hours ago she’d found Halima waiting for her, with ointment for her sun-tender skin and some lunch snacks—and plenty of water. Arkim’s efficiency at work. Afterwards she’d changed into loose pants and layered on a couple of her sleeveless workout tops to keep her arms bare.

  On their return Arkim had taken her into an expansive stables area at the back of the castle, and when he’d helped Sylvie off the horse she’d felt wobbly-legged and suitably chastened after being shown the very real dangers of the desert.

  Arkim hadn’t accompanied her back to the castle; he’d sent for one of his staff to do it. Sylvie had recognised him as one of the drivers of the Jeeps and had apologised to him for having dragged them out to look for her. She wasn’t even sure if he’d understood her, but he’d shaken his head and looked embarrassed, as if it was nothing.

  The night was falling outside now: the sky was a stunning deep violet colour and stars were appearing. Questions abounded in her head. Questions about Arkim. Seeing him against this backdrop was more intriguing than she liked to admit. And she hated to acknowledge it but she was also fascinated by the barely repressed emotions below the surface of his urbanity. He was different here. More raw. It should be intimidating. But it excited her.

  What was his connection to this place? And if he had a connection here, how could he—a man who had this desert in his blood, so timeless and somehow base—agree to marry purely for business and strategic reasons?

  A noise made her tense and she looked round to see the object of her thoughts in the doorway to her living room. Dressed in a robe again, with his head bare, he looked...powerful. Mysterious.

  Sylvie’s belly tightened. ‘Come to check your prisoner is still here?’

  Arkim’s mouth lifted slightly at one corner, as if he were wryly amused, and Sylvie felt it like a punch to the gut.

  ‘Somehow I don’t think even you would be so foolish as to try and escape again.’

  Sylvie scowled. ‘Next time I’ll prepare better.’

  His smile faded. ‘There won’t be a next time—believe me. You won’t be leaving until I do.’

  She stood up, frustration running through her blood. ‘Look, this is crazy. I need to get back to Paris. I have to—’

  Arkim interrupted her. ‘You have to eat.’

  She could see staff now, coming up behind him, carrying things.

  He stood aside and said, ‘I’ve arranged for dinner to come to you this evening. We’ll have it on the terrace.’

  She felt completely impotent. What could she do? Storm off to another part of the castle in protest?

  She preceded Arkim out to where the staff were setting up on the terrace, and when she saw lanterns being lit, sending out soft golden light, her heart flipped. She’d imagined this seductive scenario...

  Plates of fragrant steaming food were being placed on a low table and the scents teased Sylvie’s nostrils. She was an unashamed foodie, and the prospect of an exotic feast was too much temptation to resist.

  Halima arrived then, with a bottle of champagne which she put in an ice bucket by the table. Sylvie scowled at it, just as Arkim came into her line of vision and held out a hand.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’

  Sylvie sat down cross-legged on a low chair, and watched as Arkim lowered himself athletically int
o a similar pose on the other side of the delicately carved table. It should have made him look less manly, but of course it didn’t.

  ‘How are your arms?’

  She glanced down, noting with relief that the vivid pink had faded and they weren’t so hot. In this day and age of knowledge of sun damage she’d been very stupid.

  She said, ‘Much better. Halima’s ointment was very effective.’

  She looked at Arkim and words of apology for running off earlier trembled on her tongue. But he wasn’t looking at her—he was piling a plate high with different foods before handing it to her. Like a coward, she swallowed the words back and took the plate, telling herself that he would only spurn an apology.

  There was a faint popping sound as he expertly opened the champagne and poured her a glass of the sparkling wine. She accepted it after a moment’s hesitation.

  Arkim arched a brow. ‘You don’t like champagne?’

  ‘I don’t drink much of any alcohol, I never really acquired the taste.’

  Arkim made a noise and she looked at him, seeing him fill his own glass as he said, ‘You forget that I’ve seen you inebriated.’

  Sylvie frowned, and then that night in the garden flooded back. Hotly she defended herself. ‘My shoe got stuck in the ground. I was still on antibiotics from a chest infection that night—the last thing I’d have done was drink alcohol.’

  He just looked at her, eyes narrowed, and she glared at him. After a long moment he shrugged and said, ‘It hardly matters now, in any case.’

  Sylvie was disconcerted by how much it did matter to her. She looked away from him and put down her glass without taking a sip, choosing to focus on the food instead and trying to block him out. Ha! As if that was possible.

  * * *

  Arkim could see how tense Sylvie’s body was as she resolutely avoided his eye and picked at the food. Her jaw was so tight he thought she might break it if she had to chew. Her vibrant hair was piled high in a haphazard bun, tendrils trailing down to frame her face. His fingers itched to undo the knot and let her hair fall around her shoulders and down her back.

  He diverted his attention from the urge he felt to undo that knot and watched with growing incredulity, and something much earthier, as Sylvie seemed to be absorbed by the food—spearing large morsels and evidently taking extreme pleasure out of the discovery of the various tastes. It was incredibly sensual to watch.

  She seemed to be completely oblivious to Arkim and he sat back slightly, the better to observe her. He knew she wasn’t oblivious to him, though—it was there in the tension of her body, and in the pulse beating under the delicate pale skin of her throat.

  He’d noticed for the first time this evening that his impression of her being tall actually wasn’t correct. He might have registered it before if she hadn’t distracted him so easily, but she’d always seemed a lot taller. Maybe it was because she consistently stood up to him in a way no one else did.

  That revelation wasn’t welcome. It made him think of the fact that he’d overheard her trying to apologise to a member of his staff earlier. He’d have assumed it was for show, but she had been almost out of his earshot, so patently not doing it for his benefit.

  Sylvie was actually only just above average height, and her whole frame was on the petite side. He didn’t like the way this fact made his conscience smart a little. It made him see a vulnerability he’d blocked out before, and reminded him of the way her stepmother had slapped her in the church...

  She leaned forward at that moment, to get some bread, and her full breasts swayed with the movement. Arkim’s whole body seemed to sizzle, and he was reminded of exactly who he was dealing with here—a mistress of selfishness and manipulation.

  ‘You like the food?’ he asked now, in some kind of effort to wrench his mind off Sylvie’s physical temptations, angry with himself.

  She glanced at him—a flash of blue and green. She nodded and swallowed what she was eating. Her voice was low, husky, when she said, ‘It’s delicious. I’ve never tasted flavours like this before.’

  ‘The lamb is particularly good.’

  He speared a morsel of succulent meat with his fork and held it across the table. When she reached for it with her hand he pulled it back and looked at her. She scowled.

  ‘Coward,’ Arkim said softly.

  Something in him exulted when he saw the fire flash in her eyes as she took the bait and leant across the table to take the piece of meat off his fork and into her mouth.

  Her loose tops swayed, giving Arkim an unrestricted view of her lace-clad breasts. Full and perfectly shaped. She moved back before he could make a complete fool of himself by grabbing her and hauling her across the table.

  Her cheeks were flaming. And he didn’t think it was from the spices in the lamb. Their mutual chemistry was obvious. So why would she fight it like this?

  He leant back on one arm again. She took a sip of champagne and he watched the long, graceful column of her throat work, jealous of even that small movement. She might have passed for eighteen, with her face free of make-up.

  Something niggled at him—where was the femme fatale? So far he had to admit that the Sylvie he had here was nothing like the woman who had provoked him beyond measure each time he’d seen her before. Not least when she’d appeared in the church, dressed from head to toe in motorcycle gear. The soft black leather jacket and trousers had moulded to her body in a way that had been indecent—and even more so in a church.

  He’d expected her to be a lot more sophisticated, knowing... Giving in to her situation and manipulating him as much as she could. That was how the women he knew operated—ultimately they would follow the path of least resistance and take as much as they could.

  That was what had attracted him to Sophie Lewis and made him believe he could marry her—her complete lack of guile or artifice. A rare thing in this world.

  And that was as far as the attraction had gone.

  Arkim ignored the voice. But he had to acknowledge uncomfortably that if the wedding had gone ahead and he’d married Sophie Lewis he wouldn’t be here now with her sister. And for a sobering and very unpalatable moment Arkim couldn’t regret that fact.

  A deeper, darker truth nudged at his consciousness—the very real doubts he’d had himself about the wedding as it had come closer and closer. But he wasn’t a man who spent fruitless time wondering about what might have been. And he didn’t entertain doubts. He made decisions and he dealt in reality, and this was now his reality.

  Sylvie was avoiding looking at him and he hated that.

  He said, ‘Your eyes... I’ve never seen that before.’

  * * *

  Sylvie was straining with every muscle she had not to let Arkim see how much he was getting to her, lounging on the other side of the table as he was, like some kind of robed demigod. When she’d leant across the table— provoked into taking that food off his fork—and she’d seen him looking down her top, she’d almost combusted.

  Distracted, and very irritated, she said, ‘They’re just eyes, Arkim. Everyone has them. Even you.’

  She risked a look and saw that half-smile again. Lord.

  ‘Yes, but none as unusual as you. Blue and blue-green.’

  Sylvie hated the frisson she felt to think of him studying her eyes. ‘My mother had it too. It’s a condition called heterochromia iridum. There’s really nothing that mysterious about it.’

  Arkim frowned now. ‘Your mother was French, wasn’t she?’

  Sylvie nodded, getting tenser now, thinking of Arkim’s judgmental gaze turning on her deceased mother. Sophie must have mentioned it to him.

  ‘Yes, from just outside Paris.’

  ‘And how did your parents meet?’

  Sylvie glared at him. ‘You’re telling me you don’t know?’

  He
shrugged lightly and asked, ‘Should I?’

  For a moment she processed that nugget. Maybe he genuinely didn’t.

  From what she’d learnt of this man, he would not hesitate to take advantage of another excuse to bash her—so, anticipating his scathing reaction, she lifted her chin and said, ‘She was a dancer—for a revue in Paris that was in the same building where I now dance. It had a different name when she was there and the show was...of its time.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ he drawled derisively. ‘Not so much skin?’

  Sylvie cursed herself for being honest. Why couldn’t she just have said her mother had been a nurse, or a secretary? Because, her conscience answered her, her mother would never have hidden her true self. And neither would Sylvie.

  ‘Something like that. It was more in the line of vintage burlesque.’

  ‘And how did your father meet her? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who frequents such establishments.’

  Sylvie pushed down the hurt as she recalled sparkling memories full of joy—her father laughing and swinging her mother around in their back garden. She smiled sweetly and said, ‘Just goes to show that you can’t always judge a book by its cover.’

  Arkim had the grace to tilt his glass towards her slightly and say, ‘Touché.’

  She played with her champagne glass, which was still half full. She grudgingly explained, ‘He was in Paris on a business trip and went with some of his clients to the show. He saw my mother...asked her out afterwards...that was it.’

  Sylvie would never reveal the true romance of her parents’ love story to this cynical man, but the fact was that her father had fallen for Cécile Devereux at first sight—a coup de foudre—and had wooed her for over a month before her mother had finally deigned to go out with him—an English businessman a million miles removed from the glamorous Cécile Devereux’s life. Yet she’d fallen in love with him too. And they’d been happy. Ecstatically.

  Familiar emotion and vulnerability rose up inside Sylvie now and she knew she didn’t want Arkim to probe any further into her precious memories.