Awakened by Her Desert Captor(5)

 But a week ago, when the society wedding of the decade had imploded in  scandalous fashion, all those ambitions and his efforts to distance  himself from shame and scandal had turned to dust.

 And all because of a red-haired witch.

 A witch who had somehow managed to sneak under his impenetrable guard.  It was galling to recall how hard it had been to let her go that night  in the study. How hard he'd been. From the moment he'd first seen her  appear. Looking like a schoolteacher. With her hair pulled back, her  face pale. Covered up.         

     



 

 He'd only come to his senses because there had been something in the  way she'd kissed him-something he hadn't believed... Something innocent.  Gauche. But it was a lie-as if she'd been trying to figure out what he  liked. Acting sweet and innocent after she'd just been completely  brazen. Attempting to seduce him away from her sister.

 The only thing that had got Arkim through the past week of ignominy  and public embarrassment had been the prospect of making Sylvie Devereux  pay. And the kind of payment he had in mind would finally exorcise her  from his head, and his body, once and for all.

 For months she'd inhabited the dark, secret corners of his mind and  his imagination. She'd been the cause of sleepless nights and lurid  dreams. Even during his engagement to her far sweeter and infinitely  more innocent sister.

 Apart from the injury Sylvie had caused to Arkim with her selfish  behaviour, she'd also recklessly played with her sister's life. The  young woman had been inconsolable, absolutely adamant that she wouldn't  give Arkim another chance. And could he blame her? Who would believe the  son of a man who lived his life as if it was a bacchanal?

 The words Sylvie Devereux had said in the church still rang in his  head:'This man shared my bed.' And yet even now his body reacted to  those words with a surge of frustration. Because she most certainly had  not shared his bed. It had been a bare-faced lie. Conjured up to create  maximum damage.

 Sylvie Devereux wanted him so badly? Well, then, she'd have him-until  he was sated and he could throw her back in the trash, where she  belonged.

 But it would be on his terms, and far out of the reach of the ravenous  public's gaze. The damage to his reputation stopped right here.

 * * *

 Sylvie looked out of the small private plane's window to see a vast  sea of sand below her, and in the distance, shimmering in a heat haze, a  steel city that might have come directly from a futuristic movie.

 The desert sands of Al-Omar and its capital city, B'harani.

 Some called it the jewel of the Middle East. It was one of its most  progressive countries, presided over by a very dynamic and modern royal  couple. Sylvie had just been reading an article about them in the  in-flight magazine: Sultan Sadiq and his wife Queen Samia, and their two  small cherubic children.

 Queen Samia was younger than Sylvie, and she'd felt a little jaded,  looking at the beaming smile on the woman's face. She was pretty, more  than beautiful, and yet her husband looked at her as if he'd never seen a  woman before.

 She'd seen her father look at her mother like that.

 Sylvie ruthlessly crushed the small secret part of her that clenched  with an ominous yearning. The cynicism she'd honed over years came to  the fore. Sultan Sadiq might well be reformed now, but she could  remember when he'd been a regular visitor to the infamous L'Amour revue  and had cut a swathe through some of its top-billed stars.

 Not Sylvie, though. Once she was offstage and dressed down, with her  hair tied back, she slipped unnoticed past all her far more glamorous  peers. She courted endless teasing from the other girls-and from the  guys, who were mostly gay-having earned the moniker of'Sister Sylvie',  because of the way she would prefer to go home and curl up with a book  or cook a meal rather than head out to party with their inevitably rich  and gorgeous clientele. A clientele that appreciated the very discreet  ethos of the revue and any liaisons that ensued out of hours.

 But even they-her friends, who were more like her family now-didn't  know the full extent of her duality...how far from her stage persona she  really was.

'Miss Devereux? We'll be landing shortly.'

 Sylvie looked up at the beautiful olive-skinned stewardess, with her  dark brown eyes and glossy black hair. She forced a smile, suddenly  reminded of someone with similar colouring. Someone infinitely more  masculine, though, and more dangerous than this courteous flight  attendant.

 That fateful day almost two weeks ago rushed back with a garish  vividness that took her breath away. Reminding her painfully of the  searing public scrutiny, judgement and humiliation. And his face. So  dark and unforgiving. Those black eyes scorching the skin from her body.         

     



 

 He'd moved towards her, his anger palpable. But her stepmother had  reached her first, slapping Sylvie so hard that her teeth had rattled in  her head and the corner of her lip had split. It was still tender when  she touched her tongue to it now.

 And then she saw in her mind's eye her sister's face. Pale and  tear-streaked. Eyes huge. Shocked. Relieved. That relief had made it all  worthwhile. Sylvie didn't regret what she'd done for a second. Sophie  hadn't been right for Arkim Al-Sahid.

 Her feeling of vindication had been fleeting, though. The truth was,  when she'd stood behind them in that church her motivation for stopping  the wedding had felt far more complex than it should have.

 Arkim was the only man who'd managed to breach the defences Sylvie  hadn't even been aware she'd erected so high. She'd bared herself to him  in a way she'd never done with anyone else-which was ironic,  considering her profession-only to be cruelly pushed aside...as if she  was a piece of dirt on his shoe. Not worthy to look him in the eye.

 But her sister was worthy. Her beautiful blonde, sweet sister. Just as  Sophie was worthy of their father's affections. Because she didn't  remind him of his beloved dead first wife.

 Maybe it was this stark landscape that was making her think about all  of that-and him. Forcing him up into her consciousness. She buckled her  seat belt, diverting her mind away from painful memories and towards  what lay ahead. The problem was that she wasn't even entirely sure what  lay ahead.

 She and some of the other girls from the revue had been invited over  to put on a private show for an important sheikh's birthday  celebrations. Sylvie wasn't flying with the others because they'd  travelled before her. She'd only been asked to join them  afterwards-hence her solo trip on the private jet.

 It wasn't unusual for this kind of thing to happen. Their revue had  performed privately for A-list stars around the world, much as a pop  star might be asked to perform, and they'd done a residency one summer  in Las Vegas. But this... Something about this made Sylvie's skin  prickle uncomfortably.

 She tried to reassure herself that she was being silly. The other  girls would be waiting for her, they'd rehearse and perform, and then  they'd be home before they knew it.

 They were landing now, and she noticed that they were quite far  outside the city limits, with nothing but desert as far as the eye could  see. The airport didn't look like a busy capital city's airport. Just a  few small buildings and a runway carved into the arid landscape. She  pushed the nervous flutters down.

 Once the small jet had taxied to a gentle stop Sylvie was escorted to  the door of the plane-and the heat of the desert hit her so squarely  that she had to suck in a breath of hot, dry air. Sweat instantly  dampened the skin all over her body. But along with the trepidation she  felt at what lay ahead was a quickening of something like exhilaration  as she took in the clear blue vastness of the sky and the rolling dunes  in the distance.

 She was so far away from everything that was familiar in this  completely alien landscape, but it soothed her a little after the last  tumultuous couple of weeks. It was as if nothing here could hurt her.

'Miss, your car is waiting.'

 Sylvie looked down to see a sleek black car. She put on her sunglasses  and went down the steps and across the scorching runway to where a  driver was holding the back door open. He was dressed in a long cream  tunic, with close-fitting trousers underneath and a turban on his head.  He looked smart and cool, and she felt ridiculously underdressed in her  jeans, ballet flats and loose T-shirt. Like a gauche westerner.

 Someone was putting her cases into the boot, and Sylvie smiled as the  driver bowed deferentially, indicating for her to get in.

 She did so-with relief. Already craving the cool balm of  air-conditioning. Already wanting to twist her long, heavy hair up and  off her neck.

 The door was closed quickly behind her and then a lot of things seemed  to happen simultaneously: she heard the snick of the door locking, the  driver slid into the front seat and the privacy partition slid up, and  Sylvie realised that she wasn't alone in the back of the car.