by Abby Green
‘They disowned my mother when she brought shame on the family name—in their eyes. They’ve never expressed any interest in meeting me.’
Sylvie felt a surge of emotion and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry that she had to go through that. She must have felt lonely.’
How bigoted and cruel of them, to just leave her. But she didn’t think Arkim would appreciate any further discussion on the subject, or hearing her saying she felt sorry for him.
She looked out of the window and took the opportunity to move things on to a less contentious footing. ‘It is beautiful here...so different to anything I’ve ever seen before.’
There was a mocking tone to his voice. ‘You don’t miss the shops? Clubs? Busy city life?’
She immediately felt defensive. ‘I love living in Paris, yes. But I actually hate shopping. And I work late almost every night, so on the nights I do have off the last thing I want to do is go out to a club.’
Arkim seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he settled back into his seat and angled his body towards her, one hand relaxed on the wheel and the other on his thigh.
‘So tell me something else about yourself, then... How did you end up in Paris at seventeen?’
Sylvie cursed herself. She’d asked for it, hadn’t she? By changing the subject. She looked at him and there was something different about him—something almost conciliatory. As if he was making an effort.
Because he wants you in his bed.
She ignored the mocking voice. ‘I left home at seventeen because I was never the most academic student and I wanted to dance.’
She deliberately avoided going into any more detail.
‘So why not dance in the UK? Why did you have to go to Paris? Surely your aspirations were a little higher?’
Arkim sounded genuinely mystified instead of condemning, and Sylvie felt a rush of emotion when she remembered those tumultuous days. Her hands clenched into fists in her lap without her realising what they were doing.
Suddenly one of his hands covered hers. He was frowning at her. ‘What is it?’
Shocked at the gesture, she looked at him. The warmth of his hand made her speak without really thinking. ‘I was just remembering... It was not...an easy time.’
Arkim took his hand away to put it on the wheel again, in order to navigate an uneven part of the road. When they were through it, he said, ‘Go on.’
Sylvie faced forward, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She’d never spoken of this with anyone—not really. And to find that she was about to speak of it now, to this man, was a little mind-boggling.
Yet even his judgement could never amount to the self-recrimination she felt for behaving so reactively. Even though she couldn’t really regret it. She’d learnt so much about herself in the process.
‘As is pretty obvious, my stepmother and I don’t get on. We never have since she married my father. And my father... Our relationship is strained. I rebelled quite a bit—against both of them. And Catherine, my stepmother, was making life...difficult for me.’
‘How?’ Arkim’s voice was sharp.
‘She wanted me to be sent to a finishing school in Switzerland—a way to get rid of me. So I left. I went to Paris to find some old contacts of my mother’s. I’d always wanted to dance, and I’d taken lessons as a child... But after my mother died my father lost interest. And when Catherine came along she insisted that dance classes weren’t appropriate. She had issues with keeping my mother’s memory alive.’
That was putting it mildly. Her father had had issues too, and his had had more far-reaching consequences for Sylvie. Her stepmother was just a jealous, insecure woman. She’d never known Sylvie well enough for her rejection to really hurt. But her father had known her.
‘So you took off to Paris on your own and started working at the revue?’
Sylvie nodded and settled back into her seat, the luxurious confines of the vehicle making it seductively easy to relax a little more. ‘I had about one hundred pounds in my pocket when I met up with Pierre and found a home at the revue. I had to pay my way, of course. He let me take dance classes, but only if I cleaned in my spare time.’
‘You took no money from your father?’
Sylvie glanced at Arkim’s frown and slightly incredulous expression and wondered why she was surprised at his assumption that she would have. ‘No, I haven’t taken a penny from my father since I left home. I’m very proud of the money I make—it’s not much, but it’s mine and it’s hard-earned.’
He schooled his expression. This information put everything he knew about Sylvie on its head and pricked his conscience. It was so completely opposite to everything he’d always assumed about her: that she was a trust fund kid, petulant and bored, seeking to disgrace her family just because she could. It sounded as if she’d sought refuge in Paris out of rebellion, yes, but also because she’d more or less been pushed away.
Very aware of that direct gaze on him, he said a little gruffly, ‘You should rest for a bit—it’ll take another hour or so to get there.’
Sylvie’s eyes flashed at his clear dismissal of the subject, but gradually the tense lines of her body relaxed and she curled her legs up on the seat. Her head drifted to one side, long red hair trailing down over her shoulder.
Her lashes were long and dark against her cheeks. She wore no make-up, and Arkim noticed a smattering of small, almost undetectable freckles across the bridge of her nose. Had that been the sun? Because he didn’t remember seeing them before. They gave her an air of innocence that compounded the naivety he’d seen in her dancing.
His chest felt tight. He looked back to the desert road, feeling slightly panicked. He shouldn’t have indulged his base desire like this. He’d already behaved completely out of character by bringing her to Al-Omar in the first place—like some medieval overlord. He should have called the helicopter and got them both back to civilisation. He’d made his point—he’d demonstrated his anger.
But his hands gripped the steering wheel tight and he kept on driving. Because he wasn’t ready to call it quits, to let her go. And she’d made a very clear choice to stay, and the triumph he’d felt in that moment still beat in his blood. Why would he turn back now, when they could exorcise this lust between them and get on with their lives?
* * *
‘We’re here.’
Sylvie opened her eyes and looked out of her window, straightening up in her seat as wonder and awe filled her. Maybe she was still dreaming? Because this was paradise. They were surrounded by lush greenery—greener than anything she’d ever seen before.
Arkim had got out of the Jeep and was opening her door. She got out on wobbly legs, eyes on stalks.
Two big tents were set up nearby—dark and lavishly decorated, with their tops coming to a point in the centre. Smaller tents sat off at a distance, separated from the others by trees. Sand dunes rose up around the camp, almost encircling it on one side, and on the other side was a rocky wall. When Sylvie shaded her eyes to look, she saw the most exquisite natural pool.
She walked over, stunned. The water was so clear she could see right down to the rocks at the bottom. The air was warm and soft—a million miles from the harsh heat she’d experienced since she’d arrived.
She felt Arkim’s presence beside her but was afraid to look at him because her emotions were all over the place—especially so soon after waking up. It was as if she was missing a layer of skin.
‘This is obviously a very special place,’ she finally managed to get out, without sounding too husky.
‘Yes, it is. I think it’s the most peaceful spot on this earth.’
Sylvie looked at him at last and saw that he was staring down into the water. When he lifted his head and looked at her his gaze was so direct that it took her breath away. It was the most unguarded she’d ever seen him, and she c
ould see so many things in his eyes. But the one that hit her right in the belly was desire.
She had a feeling that whatever lay tangled between them—all the animosity, misjudgement and distrust—it was slipping away and becoming irrelevant. What was relevant was here and now. Just the two of them—a man and a woman.
It was so primal that Sylvie was almost taking a step towards Arkim before she realised that someone was interrupting them, telling him something.
Arkim’s gaze slipped from Sylvie’s and she held herself rigid, aghast that she’d come so close to revealing herself like that. Was she really so ready to jump into his arms? Even though she’d already tacitly capitulated by coming here?
Sylvie composed herself as Arkim talked to the man, and then he was turning towards her. ‘Lunch has been prepared for us.’
She welcomed the break in the heightened tension and followed him as he led her to an open area outside the tents, where a table had been set up under a fabric covering held up by four posts. It was rustic, but charming.
The table was low, covered in a deep red silk tablecloth, and there was no cutlery. Arkim indicated a big cushion on one side of the table for Sylvie and she sat down, mesmerised by the mouth-watering array of foods laid out on platters. The smell alone was enough to get her stomach growling.
Arkim settled himself opposite her and handed her a plate with an assortment of food which she surmised she was meant to eat with her hands. Silver finger bowls were set by their plates.
Sylvie experimented with something that looked like a rice ball, closing her eyes in appreciation as warm cheese melted into her mouth. When she opened them again she saw Arkim taking a sip of golden liquid and watching her. There was something very sensual about eating with her hands. And then she looked at Arkim’s strong hands and imagined them tracing her body... Heat suffused her face.
‘Try your drink—it’s a special brew of the region. Not exactly wine, but a relation.’
Sylvie hurriedly took a sip, hoping it might cool her down. It was like nectar—sweet but with a tart finish. ‘It’s delicious.’
Arkim’s mouth tipped up. ‘It’s also lethal, so just a few sips is enough.’
She frowned. ‘I thought people didn’t really drink in this part of the world?’
‘They don’t... But there are nomads from this region who have made a name for themselves with this brew. It’s a secret recipe, handed down over hundreds of years and made from rare desert berries.’
Sylvie took another sip and relished the smooth glide of the cold liquid down her throat. She realised that she’d always known what sensuality was in an abstract and intellectual way, and that she could exude it when she wanted to, but she’d never really embodied it herself. She felt as if she embodied it now, though, when this man looked at her. Or touched her.
She put the glass down quickly, shocked at how easily this place was entrancing her. And at how easily Arkim was intriguing her by making her believe that things had somehow shifted. They had...but in essence nothing much had changed. She was who she was, and he was who he was.
When this man set his mind to seduction it was nigh impossible to resist him, and Sylvie had a sense that she was far more vulnerable to him than she even realised herself. She knew it was irrational, because she’d already agreed to come here, but she felt she had to push him back.
She heard herself saying, ‘Why go to the trouble of bringing me here when we both know this isn’t about romance? You say you don’t hate me, but what you do feel for me isn’t far off that.’
Arkim looked at Sylvie from where he lounged across the table. Her hair glowed so bright it almost hurt to look at. Her skin was like alabaster—like a pearl against the backdrop of this ochre-hued place.
He replied with an honesty he hadn’t intended. ‘You’ve turned my life upside down. You irritate me and frustrate me...and I want you more than I’ve ever wanted another woman. What I feel for you is...ambiguous.’
Sylvie looked at him, and this time there was no mistaking the hurt flashing in her eyes. Before Arkim could react she stood up and paced away for a moment, and then she swung round, hair slipping over one shoulder, tunic billowing around her feet.
She crossed her arms. ‘This was a mistake. I should never have come here with you.’
Arkim cursed his mouth and surged to his feet. Yet again Sylvie was exposing all his most base qualities. He couldn’t believe how uncouth he was around this woman. He moved towards her and she took a step back. He controlled his impulse to grab her.
‘You’re here because you want to be, Sylvie—plain and simple. This isn’t about what’s happened. This is about us—here and now. Nothing else. I won’t dress it up in fancy language. There is a physical honesty between us which I believe has more integrity than any fluctuating and fickle emotions.’
He saw how she paled, but how her pulse stayed hectic. Arkim felt as if he held the most delicate of brightly coloured humming-birds in his palm and it was about to fly away, never to be seen again.
He wanted her full acquiescence—for her to admit she wanted him. It unnerved him how much he wanted that when he hadn’t given much consideration to her feelings before now.
Another truth forced its way out. ‘You were right last night. I don’t know you, but I want to. Sit down...finish eating. Please.’
Arkim was tense, waiting. But eventually Sylvie moved jerkily and sat down again. None of her usual grace was evident. She avoided his eyes as he took his seat again and they ate some more, awareness and tension crackling between them like a live wire.
After a minute she wiped her mouth with a napkin and took another sip of her drink. Then she looked at Arkim, her blue-green gaze disturbingly intense.
‘So...what was it like growing up in LA?’
Relief that she was engaging stripped away Arkim’s guardedness. His inner reaction to her question was a list of words. Brash. Artificial. Excessive. But he said, ‘I hated it. So much so that I’ve never been back.’
Sylvie assimilated that, and then said, ‘I’ve been to Las Vegas and I hated it there. It’s so fake—like a film set.’
A spurt of kinship surprised Arkim. ‘LA is massive—sprawling. Lots of different areas separated by miles of freeway...no real connection. Everyone is looking for a place in the spotlight—striving to be skinnier, more tanned, more perfect than the next person. There’s no soul.’
‘They say no one walks in LA.’
Arkim smiled and it felt odd—because he wasn’t used to smiling so spontaneously in the presence of anyone, much less a woman.
‘That’s true. Unless you go somewhere like Santa Monica, and then it’s like a catwalk.’
‘You really haven’t seen your father since you left?’
He shook his head. ‘Not since I was seventeen.’ Then he grimaced. ‘That’s not entirely accurate. I would have left voluntarily, but I was still too young. He threw me out.’
‘Why?’
Arkim steeled himself. ‘Because he caught me having sex with his mistress—a famous porn actress.’
He saw myriad expressions cross Sylvie’s face: shock, hurt, and then anger.
She put her napkin down, eyes flaming, jaw tight. ‘You absolute hypocrite! You have the gall to subject me to your judge and jury act and all the time—’
‘Wait.’ Arkim’s voice rang out harshly.
He hadn’t even been aware of the impulse to lean across the table and capture Sylvie’s wrist in his hand before he realised that was what he was doing. Panic made his gut clench. For the first time in his life he found that his words were tripping out before he could stop them—along with an urge to make her understand.
Because if Sylvie damned him then there truly was no hope for his redemption at all...
‘I didn’t seduce her. She seduced me.’<
br />
* * *
Sylvie looked at Arkim, her wrist still caught in his firm grip. There was something almost desperate in his eyes. Her anger, which had flared so quickly, started to fizzle out. ‘What do you mean?’
He let her wrist go and stood up, moving away from the table to pace, running a hand through his hair. Sylvie had never seen him like this. On the edge of his control.
He turned to face her, his face etched in stark lines. ‘I was back from England for the summer holidays. My father had refused to let me stay in Europe for the summer, even though I’d offered to pay my own way by working. I’d done my A levels. I was just biding my time until I had to go to college. My father knew I hated LA, so he taunted me with it.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Cindy was everywhere I was. Especially when my father wasn’t around. And invariably she was half-naked.’
Self-disgust was evident in his voice.
‘I thought I could resist her... I tried for the whole summer. I was only a few days from returning to the UK and she found me by the pool. I was too weak. The worst thing was that she stayed in control the whole time while I lost it. My father found us in the pool house.’
He didn’t have to elaborate on what had happened next for Sylvie to join the dots. She shouldn’t be feeling anything other than what he’d dished out to her—judgement and condemnation... But she couldn’t help it. Sympathy surged in her breast. She could well imagine that whatever judgement she might hurl at Arkim, he’d already judged himself a thousand times over—and far more harshly than anyone else could have.
‘You were seventeen, Arkim. There’s probably not a straight teenage hormonal boy on the planet who could have resisted the seduction of an older and more experienced woman—much less a porn star whose job is controlling sex.’
Arkim’s harsh lines didn’t relax. ‘She only did it because she wanted to make my father jealous...to push him into some kind of commitment. She gambled the wrong way, though. He threw her out too.’
He turned away from her then, to look out at the view. His back was broad, formidable. As if he didn’t want her to look at him.
