Awakened by Her Desert Captor

by Abby Green

  He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. Pain was good. The pain reminded him that he craved order and respectability above all. He didn’t need his soul to be altered.

  Sylvie Devereux had been a brief and torrid interlude in his life and now he was moving on. For good.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A week later—L’Amour revue, final dress rehearsal...

  ‘SYLVIE! HURRY UP! You’re next.’

  Sylvie took a deep breath, grabbed her prop sword, and made her way to the spotlit stage. The mood was controlled chaos. The new show was opening in a few hours and they still had lots to prepare. She was in a more elaborate version of the belly dance outfit that she’d worn for Arkim in Al-Hibiz, and the reminder was jarring.

  When she got on stage the music started almost at once, so she had to jump straight into the routine. She wasn’t overly worried about how precise her movements were because this rehearsal was really for the technical team, to make sure that all the timings for cues and lights and so on were lined up properly.

  She had taken off her veil and head-covering and pushed her sword away, ready to move into the second part of the dance, when a loud ‘Stop!’ sounded in the dark theatre.

  Sylvie’s heart stuttered, but she told herself she was imagining that she knew the voice. She was on her feet now and she kept going. It was probably just one of the stage hands.

  Suddenly the music stopped.

  She whirled around to hear some kind of a scuffle going on in the darkness backstage, and then a man walked out onto the stage from behind the curtains. Even though he was in the shadow of the lights she knew it was Arkim, taller and broader than everyone else.

  He was holding something that looked like a vital piece of audio equipment. Sure enough, he was quickly followed by an irate sound engineer, spluttering and gesticulating furiously, grabbing back his piece of equipment and disappearing again.

  Sylvie wasn’t sure she wasn’t dreaming. ‘Arkim...?’

  He stepped forward into the spotlight. He wasn’t a mirage. And then she became aware of the fact that they had an audience of crew and other dancers.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? We’re in the middle of rehearsals—you can’t be here,’ she hissed at him. But her mind leapt to the million and one possibilities of why he might be there anyway.

  She noticed that the swelling on his eye had gone down, to be replaced by a dark bruise. He looked as if he’d just come from a brawl in an alley.

  Her fault.

  And, adding to her sense of everything being unreal, he was wearing faded worn denims and a close-fitting T-shirt, more casual than she’d ever seen him. It was almost as shocking as the time when she’d seen him naked in the pool at the oasis. His hair was messy and his overall demeanour was edgy and dangerous. He looked a million miles removed from the man she’d first seen in her father’s house in his three-piece suit, so controlled. So disdainful.

  ‘Arkim—’

  But he cut her off, saying baldly, ‘I don’t want you to strip. I don’t want anyone else to see you.’

  Shock reverberated through her. And something scarily like euphoria. But just as quickly she feared that she was reading this all wrong.

  She put her hands on her hips, anger flaring. ‘It’s okay for you to see me, but you’re so controlling and possessive that you can’t bear the thought that your ex-property might become a little more public?’

  He stepped closer, the inevitable electricity sparking between them. ‘No,’ he growled. ‘I don’t want anyone to see you because you’re mine.’

  Sylvie glared up at him. ‘Do I need to remind you that you’ve let me go—twice?’ The knowledge of her own weakness around him and the realisation that he’d never choose her to be a permanent part of his life made her say frigidly, ‘What is it, Arkim? You’re so concerned with your precious reputation that you’re afraid my debauched lifestyle will come back to haunt you?’

  A muscle in his jaw pulsed. ‘No, dammit. I don’t want anyone else to see what’s mine.’

  Emotion made Sylvie’s chest ache. This man had started out rejecting her before he’d even known her, and even after getting to know her—intimately—he’d still ultimately rejected her. He was just here beating his chest because he couldn’t bear the thought of sharing her.

  ‘But I’m not yours. You let me go.’

  They were so close now they were almost touching. Sylvie was unaware of anything but the man in front of her and those deep, dark eyes. Eyes that could look so cold and dead, but which she knew could turn her heart upside down and inside out.

  ‘I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay.’

  Hating the little tremor of emotion that made her heart jump with irrational hope, Sylvie threw out a hand. ‘We’ve had this conversation. For how long? Another two weeks? A month? And then you’ll move on with your perfect respectable life and you’ll meet some perfect respectable woman and you’ll marry her—like you wanted to marry Sophie because she was so perfect for you.’

  ‘You are perfect for me.’

  Sylvie’s mouth was still open. She shut it abruptly, aghast at everything that had tumbled out. And had he just said...?

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said that you are perfect for me. I don’t want anyone else.’

  His words impacted like a sledgehammer, knocking her to pieces. And even though she’d registered them she shook her head, took a step back. It wasn’t hard to envisage being rejected again, when Arkim woke up one morning and realised she wasn’t perfect for him, wasn’t really suitable for the life he wanted, and this time his rejection would be comprehensive and fatal. She wouldn’t recover. And the worst of it was she knew why it was so important to him...she wanted him to be happy.

  ‘This is just lust talking,’ she said.

  Before Sylvie could react Arkim had closed the distance between them and cupped her face in his hands. He blotted out the world when he lowered his mouth to hers. Sylvie might have expected devastation, bruising passion...but his kiss was like a kind of benediction. A kiss that was gentle and restrained, but with the unmistakable promise of more.

  And, damn him, she couldn’t help but respond. A sob of reaction was working its way up her throat, making her grab his T-shirt in order to stay standing. She just wasn’t able to defend herself. The last week had been torture.

  Eventually Arkim pulled back, his eyes glittering down into hers. Sylvie felt exposed...vulnerable.

  ‘I know what I want and I want you.’

  I want. Not I love. And Sylvie needed love. After feeling so bruised all her life from her father’s rejection, she couldn’t go through that with someone else. Better to be the rejecter. Arkim didn’t want her. Not really. No matter what he said or how he kissed her.

  She pulled free. ‘It wasn’t enough of a wake-up call that you got punched in the face? Are you so blinded that you’ve forgotten what I do? What I am? Wherever we go there’s always going to be a risk that someone will recognise me...’ She crossed her fingers behind her back at the white lie she was about to tell. ‘And especially when I become famous for taking my clothes off completely. I won’t be one of the less risqué acts any more, Arkim. Everyone will know what I look like naked.’

  Sylvie could see him pale slightly under the olive tones of his skin. His face was starker, leaner than she’d ever seen it. As if he’d lost weight in the space of a week.

  ‘If that’s what you really want to do I won’t pretend that I’ll like it, but I’ll support you.’

  Sylvie reeled. Her jaw dropped. Eventually she got out, ‘You’re saying you’d accept me, no matter what?’ She couldn’t believe it for a second. Because if she did... Her heart contracted painfully.

  She shook her head. ‘This is not you talking... This is lust...desire. And once it’s g
one, Arkim—’ Her voice broke traitorously. ‘I won’t let you send me away again when you realise that I’m not perfect after all...because I’m a constant reminder of some weakness you feel, of your life with your father.’

  She’d moved to turn away, her vision blurring, when Arkim’s hand shot out and caught her shoulder. She saw Pierre standing and watching, his gnarled old face incredulous. They had an avid audience. Everyone had gathered to watch the show.

  Sylvie let Arkim turn her back towards him, saying in a choked voice, ‘Arkim, you have to—’

  ‘Stop talking, Sylvie.’

  Her mouth closed. He had to know they were being observed. Why wasn’t he leaving? Why wasn’t he preserving what was left intact of his reputation?

  Maybe because he means what he says? said a small seductive voice.

  But before she could do or say anything more Arkim was reaching for the bottom of his T-shirt, pulling it up over his head and off, revealing his very taut and perfect musculature.

  There was a collective intake of appreciative breath and a low whistle, which sounded as if it was quickly stifled by an elbow in the ribs.

  Sylvie barely noticed, she was so shocked. ‘What are you doing?’

  His hands were on his jeans now. He looked grim. ‘I’m trying to prove to you that I’ll do whatever it takes to make you trust in me.’

  He was starting to undo his top button, and Sylvie realised that he fully intended to strip completely. She put out a shaking hand. ‘Stop.’ And then she shook her head. ‘Why...?’

  Arkim dropped his hands, and now he looked bleak. ‘Because I need to show you that I’m willing to bare myself totally for you. And that if you wanted me to stand in front of Notre Dame and do it, I would. I need you to know that I won’t ever judge you again. I’m proud of you, and of everything you’ve achieved with such innate dignity and pride. You shame me. Everything I’ve been aiming for my whole life is empty. Meaningless. Without you.’

  Sylvie was struck dumb.

  He seared her alive with the intensity in his dark gaze. ‘Don’t you get it yet? I love you... But it took me a really long time to understand it because I’ve never loved anyone, so I didn’t know what it felt like...and I’m sorry.’

  To her absolute shock Arkim proceeded to get down on one knee in front of her. He took something out of his pocket. A small velvet box. He opened it up and took something out, held it up between his fingers. She could see that his hand was trembling.

  He took her hand in his and said, ‘Sylvie Devereux, I know I’ve given you every reason in the world to hate me...but will you please consent to be my wife? Because I love you, and without you I’m just an arrogant, uptight prat.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Whatever it is you want to do in this life I will support you, and I will take a thousand blows for you if that’s what comes my way. Because you’re mine to protect and cherish and love, and I pledge to do this for as long as I have breath in my body.’

  Sylvie felt dizzy, anchored to the earth only by Arkim’s hand wrapped around hers. She wasn’t even looking at the ring, glinting with a green flash of colour in her peripheral vision. She wanted to believe...so badly. And then she realised that she was just as guilty as he of wanting to protect herself. She had to trust or she’d never move on from her old hurts.

  She spoke with a rush. ‘I’m not really taking Pierre’s offer... I just said that to try and make you see how inappropriate I was for you. I’m only performing tonight as a favour, because we’re stuck for an act. My modern dance teacher is putting together a company, here in Paris, and he wants me to be a part of it—as one of their lead dancers. I won’t be taking my clothes off, but I still won’t be perfect.’

  He smiled a crooked smile. ‘You are perfect. If you want to ride naked on a horse through the streets of Paris then I’ll take off all my clothes too and join you.’

  Another voluble sigh came from someone nearby. Sylvie ignored it.

  Arkim’s hand gripped hers. ‘I just want you to be happy...’

  And finally it sank in, and spread through her whole body like a warm glow, lighting up the dark corners that had been filled with pain and uncertainty for a long time.

  Sylvie realised that Arkim was looking a little strained... He was still waiting for her answer. Unsure.

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly, her heart swelling. ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’ She got down on her knees and faced him, touching his face, tracing his mouth. She looked at him and said shakily, ‘I love you so much... I think I’ve loved you for ever. And I knew it the moment I saw you, even though I couldn’t understand how...’

  For a second Arkim looked stunned, as if he truly hadn’t known what she would say. Then she felt him push the ring on her finger, and glanced down to see a huge emerald flanked by smaller blue sapphires and diamonds. Like her eyes.

  She reached for him just as he reached for her, their mouths fusing, bodies pressed close enough to hurt.

  And then a very loud and obvious cough from nearby made Sylvie jerk in Arkim’s arms. The theatre and their surroundings filtered back into her consciousness as if she were coming out of a particularly delicious dream.

  She looked around to see a sea of faces and a lot of suspiciously shiny eyes. Pierre, however, looked familiarly stern. But she could see the glint of affection in his expression.

  He eyeballed Arkim. ‘If you’ve quite finished with my dancer, Mr Al-Sahid, I have a theatre to run and a show to put on in less than an hour...’

  Arkim had a tight grip on Sylvie’s hips and he was still unashamedly half naked. Something Sylvie was becoming more and more burningly aware of. The ring he’d put on her finger felt heavy and solid. A happy weight.

  Arkim, totally unfazed by Pierre, looked at Sylvie. ‘There’s nothing I want more than to take you home right now...but do you want to do the show?’

  The Arkim she’d first met might have carried her out of here over his shoulder. Or paid Pierre to release her.

  Sylvie looked between the men and then back to Arkim. Her voice was husky when she said, ‘Yes, I’d like to do it. It’s to be my last performance, and it’s thanks to Pierre I got a place with the modern dance company.’ Sylvie grinned. ‘He only offered me the bigger role because he knew I’d say no and that it was the push I needed to move on...’

  Arkim looked at the older man, his eyes suspiciously bright. He stood up and, bringing Sylvie with him, reached out to shake the man’s hand. ‘Thank you for taking care of her—and for seeing her potential.’

  Now Pierre looked suspiciously emotional. Sylvie fought back her own tears and pulled away from Arkim. She had to finish getting ready. He let her go with a look that told her he’d be in the front row, waiting for her. For ever.

  Just before Sylvie went out of earshot, though, she thought she heard Pierre say hopefully, ‘Mr Al-Sahid, are you sure you don’t have any dance experience...?’

  EPILOGUE

  THE PRIEST’S EYES widened as he took in the spectacle approaching down the aisle. There was the slim figure of the bride, dressed from head to toe in white satin and lace, her face obscured by a gauzy veil. Her arm was tucked into the arm of the young woman who was giving her away. She was blonde and very pretty, dressed in dusky pink, and—the priest frowned—very familiar. Because, he realised, he’d watched her come down the aisle dressed as a bride only a few short months before. To stand with the same groom.

  The groom now turned to look and the priest could sense his nervous tension. He hadn’t been half as jumpy the last time.

  The woman in pink handed the bride over to the groom with a smile and a look that said, Take care of her or I’ll kill you. But the priest could tell that the groom needed no such warning. He looked as if he’d kill anyone who dared to come between him and this woman, who was now stepping up to the altar, her hand firmly in his.


  But then, before the priest could open his mouth to start the proceedings, the groom lifted the veil from his bride’s radiant face and pushed it over her head, before pulling her close to lower his head and press a kiss to her mouth.

  Eventually, after realising that this was the same woman who had so sensationally interrupted the last wedding, the priest coughed loudly. They separated, the bride’s face flushed, her eyes shining.

  The priest was feeling rather hot under the collar by now himself, and said testily, ‘If you’re quite ready, shall we proceed?’

  They both looked at him and the groom smiled.

  ‘We’re ready.’

  And thankfully, when the moment came for anyone to object, there was nothing but happy silence...

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE ITALIAN’S RUTHLESS SEDUCTION by Miranda Lee.

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