by Abby Green
She was surprised he hadn’t had a pole installed so she could shimmy up and down it. Clearly she’d done such a good job of doing absolutely nothing to amend Arkim’s bad opinion of her, she’d merely raised his expectations.
It had taken more nerve than she’d thought she possessed to come in here and dance for him. It had taken all her strength to look at him and through him—even though he’d sat there like some kind of lord and master, surveying her as if she was some morsel for his delectation.
But she’d still been acutely aware of that powerful body, its inherent strength barely leashed. He’d dressed in western style, in dark trousers and an open-necked shirt. And somehow, after seeing him in nothing but pristine three-piece suits and then the traditional Arabic tunic, it was a little shocking—as if he was unravelling, somehow.
Suddenly there was a flurry of movement as staff entered the cavernous space and rushed to close the huge open doors.
Sylvie had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed how the sky had darkened outside—dramatically. There was so much electricity in the air she could swear it was sparking along her skin.
And then Halima appeared, a look of excitement on her pretty face. ‘The Sheikh has told me to help you. We must close all your doors and windows—the storm is coming.’
As Halima ushered her out of the room, eager to do her Sheikh’s bidding, Sylvie’s rage spiked—as if in tandem with the escalating weather outside. If Arkim wanted a damn lap dance so badly, then maybe she should give him exactly what he wanted.
They got back to Sylvie’s rooms, and Halima was about to close the French doors but turned around, eyes wide. ‘You can see the sandstorm coming!’
‘Really?’ Curiosity distracted Sylvie momentarily and she went to the doors to look outside. She sucked in a breath when a powerful gust of wind made the curtains flap. She hadn’t noticed how strong the winds had become.
‘Look—see there? In the distance?’
Sylvie followed Halima’s finger and saw what looked like a vast cloud against the darkening sky. It took her eyes several seconds to adjust to the fact that it was a bank of sand, racing across the desert towards them. It was like a special effect in a movie.
‘My God...’ she breathed, more in awe than in fear at the sight. ‘Will we be okay?’
Halima shut the doors firmly and nodded. ‘Of course. This castle has withstood much worse. We will be quite safe inside, and by morning it will be gone. You’ll see.’
Sylvie shivered at the thought of all that energy racing across the desert—the fury she’d seen in the cloud-like shape. Not unlike the fury she’d seen in Arkim’s eyes...
Halima left Sylvie to get ready, telling her she must make sure all the other doors and windows were closed.
Sylvie was grateful for that when she surveyed her outfit in the mirror a short time later. She might have winced if she hadn’t still been so angry.
She’d customised one of her short skirts and now it barely grazed the tops of her thighs. The rest of her legs were covered in over-the-knee black socks. She wore a simple white shirt, knotted just under her bust, leaving her midriff bare. Underneath the skirt she wore a pair of black dance shorts, embellished with costume gems sewn into the edges, and under the shirt she wore a glittering black bra top.
She tied her hair back now, in a high ponytail. Her eyes were still heavily kohled, lashes long and dark. Lips bright red.
She felt like a total fraud, just aping what she’d seen in a million images and movies as to what constituted a lap dance outfit. It was ridiculously similar to something a famous pop-star had worn in one of her videos.
The fact was that the L’Amour revue prided itself on doing avant-garde strip routines, burlesque in nature. They didn’t do anything as hokey as this. Sylvie’s mouth firmed—Arkim clearly wasn’t appreciative of the more subtle side of her profession.
Just then there was a knock at the door and Sylvie grabbed for her robe, slipping it on over her clothes. She didn’t want Halima to see her like this. She felt tawdry.
The girl appeared. ‘The Sheikh is ready for you, Miss Devereux.’
Sylvie tightened the belt of her robe and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you.’
But as she walked to the ceremonial room again, behind the young girl, she felt the anger start to drain away. Doubts crept in. She was not what Arkim thought she was, and yet here she was—letting him goad her into pretending to be something she wasn’t.
Because he’d never believe you, inserted a small voice.
She was at the door now, and her circling thoughts faded as Halima gently nudged her over the threshold. The door closed behind her. The interior was darker than it had been, with the encroaching storm turning the world black outside. Too late to back out now. Girding her loins, Sylvie straightened her shoulders and walked in.
Arkim was sitting in his chair again, with a table beside him holding more wine and food. The anger surged back. He was so arrogant. Demanding. Judgemental. Cold.
She did her best to avoid his eyes, but she was burningly aware of him. He looked dark and unreadable when she sneaked a glance at his face. He seemed so in control. As if nothing would ruffle his cool.
Sylvie badly wanted to ruffle his cool.
She put on her music again, aware of the tension spiking in the room when the slow, sultry, sexy beat filled the space. She saw the chair that she’d asked Halima to provide in the centre of the dais, and she slowly unbelted her robe and then slid it off, throwing it to one side.
Did she hear an intake of breath coming from his direction?
She ignored it and walked up to the chair, turning to face Arkim with her hands on the back of it. And now she looked him straight in the eye. Unashamed. Exuding confidence even if she was quivering on the inside.
She started to move, using a mixture of what she’d seen some of the other girls do for their routines and her own modern dance moves. And a hefty dose of inspiration from one of her favourite movies of all time: Cabaret.
She kept eye contact with Arkim, even though her confidence threatened to dissolve when his gaze moved down, over her body, over her splayed legs as she sat in the chair. She dipped her head down between her legs before coming back up, deliberately making sure her cleavage would be visible, and running her hands up her bare thighs.
His gaze was so black it seemed to suck all the light out of the room—or was that the storm? Sylvie didn’t know. She only knew that as his eyes tracked her movements she became more and more emboldened. She felt as if she was becoming one with the music. The throbbing bass beat was deep in her blood...telling her where to move next. Telling her to stand up, to put her hands on the seat of the chair and bend over, while sending a sideways look to Arkim. Telling her to straighten and then arch her back as she pulled her hair tie off so her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.
And telling her to open the buttons on her shirt, down to where it was tied under her breasts, so that they would be revealed.
Something dangerous was pounding through her blood—the same something that had coursed through it that night in the garden, when Arkim had pressed against her, letting her feel how aroused he was by her...even though he disapproved of her.
Sylvie felt powerful—because she could sense his control cracking. Arkim’s cheeks were flushed, eyes glittering darkly. Jaw clenched. This was what she wanted...to make him admit he was a hypocrite.
Without really thinking about what she was doing, Sylvie stepped down from the dais and walked over to Arkim. His chin tipped up and their gazes clashed—just as the music faded away and stopped, bursting the bubble of illusion around them.
She knew instantly that she’d made a tactical error. Desperate to try and regain her sense of power, she started to walk away from his chair—but a big hand shot out and gripped h
er wrist, stopping her in her tracks.
She looked down at him, heart bumping violently. That obsidian gaze glittered up at her, and she saw the fire in their depths. The knowledge that she’d managed to ruffle him wasn’t as satisfying as she’d expected when she was this close to him.
He stood up and they were almost touching. The air sizzled.
‘What the hell,’ he said in a low voice, ‘do you think you’re doing?’
The disgust Sylvie read in his eyes made her pull her wrist free of his grip with a jerk. She was aware that the huge sand cloud was approaching closer and closer through the massive windows behind Arkim, about to envelop them totally, blotting everything out. It made her feel reckless—as if everything was about to be altered for ever.
‘Isn’t this what you expected of me?’ she asked tauntingly. ‘I’m giving you exactly what you want.’
‘Exactly what I want?’ he asked.
And before she could say anything, just before the sandstorm inexorably claimed the castle in its path, Arkim speared both hands into her hair, angling her face up to his.
‘I’ll show you exactly what I want,’ he said gutturally.
* * *
Arkim crushed Sylvie’s mouth under his, his need too great to be gentle or finessed. He wanted to devour her.
Her lips were soft, but she kept her mouth closed and there was tension in her body. Damn her. She would not deny him. Not after that cheap little show. Yet even in spite of the tackiness he’d still been turned on. Again. And she was right—he’d asked for this.
That knowledge wasn’t welcome.
Neither was her resistance.
Arkim was aware of the changing quality of sound around them. How everything was muffled. The sandstorm must have enveloped them by now. But all of that was secondary to the woman in his arms. The woman who would pay for turning his life upside down.
He took his mouth off hers and looked down to see those extraordinary eyes glaring at him. If he wasn’t acutely aware of how her body quivered against his he would have let her go, been done with her. A reluctant lover was not something he was interested in—not that he had much experience of that.
But Sylvie wanted him. It had sparked between them from the moment their eyes had met—from the moment he’d rejected her outright. And in spite of that rejection they were here now, as if this course had always been inevitable.
There was no turning back until this was done and she’d paid. And he was sated.
He relaxed his hands in her hair, started to subtly massage her skull. It felt fragile under his hands.
‘What are you doing?’ she said huskily.
Her hands were against his chest, but she wasn’t pushing him away. His arousal was so hard he ached with the need to sheathe himself inside her body, feel her contract around him. But her innate fragility did something to him...it tempered his anger, turned it into a need to seduce. To make her acquiescent.
‘I’m making love to you.’
Her hands pushed against his chest now. ‘Well, I don’t want to be made love to.’
Arkim shook his head, his fingers all the while massaging her skull in slow, methodical movements. ‘You’ve admitted you want me. And I think you do want to be made love to—very much. After all, you’re a highly sexed woman...aren’t you, Sylvie?’
Sylvie looked up into his eyes. Even in heels she felt tiny next to him. Puny. Weak. His fingers were in her hair, massaging her... She felt like purring. Not like pushing him away. But she had to. Highly sexed? If he found out what she really was—
She went cold at the thought and pushed him again, but his chest was like a steel wall. Immovable. At the same time she was aware that she wasn’t scared; the fight to get away from him was as much a fight with herself as it was with him. More so. And he knew it—the bastard.
His hands were moving now...down to her jaw, cradling her face. Something dangerous lurched inside Sylvie—some emotion that had no place there. It seemed to be the hardest thing in the world to free herself completely and move away.
Arkim’s scent was heady, masculine. It enticed her on a very basic female level. He didn’t even say anything this time. He just bent his head and kissed her again, those sensual lips moving over hers with masterful precision and an expertise she couldn’t resist even though she tried.
She tried to keep her mouth closed, like before. But Arkim was biting gently on her lower lip, making it tingle, making her want more... She felt some of her resistance give way, treacherously, and he took advantage like the expert he was—slipping his tongue between her lips, finding hers and setting her world on fire.
His hands moved over her shoulders, down her back, urging her into him, against the hard contours of his body. Her scanty costume offered little protection. She was helplessly responding to his kiss, to the tantalising slide of his tongue against hers, urging her to mimic him, initiate her own contact.
Sylvie couldn’t think. Everything was blurry, fuzzy. Except for this decadent pleasure, seeping into her veins and making her feel languorous. Treacherously, she didn’t want this moment to stop. Ever.
Her hands were moving, lifting of their own volition, sliding around Arkim’s neck so that she could press closer. She was aware of her breasts, crushed to his chest, tightening into hard points. One of his hands was on her lower back and it dipped down further, cupping one buttock, squeezing gently. Between her legs she felt hot, moist...
But as Arkim’s hand slipped even lower, precariously close to where Sylvie suddenly wanted to feel him explore her, she had a startling moment of clarity—this man hated her. He believed that she was little more than a common tart, debauched and irredeemable, and she was about to let him be more intimate with her than anyone else had ever been.
Disgusted with her lack of control, Sylvie took Arkim by surprise and pushed herself free of his embrace. For a second when he opened his eyes they looked glazed, unfocused, and then they cleared and narrowed on her. She felt hot and dishevelled. And exposed.
She put her arms around herself. ‘I told you. I don’t want this.’
Colour slashed Arkim’s cheekbones. He was grim. ‘You want this, all right—you’re just determined to send me crazy for wanting it too.’
Something enigmatic lit his eyes, and for a split-second Sylvie had the uncanny impression that it was vulnerability.
That impression was well and truly quashed when he said coldly, ‘I don’t play games. Go to bed, Sylvie.’
He turned on his heel, and he was walking away when something rogue goaded her to call after him, ‘You don’t know a thing about me. You think you do, but you don’t.’
Arkim stopped and turned around, his face etched in stern lines. It made Sylvie want to run her fingers over them, see them soften. She cursed herself.
‘What don’t I know?’ he asked, with a faint sneer in his tone.
‘Things like the fact that I’d never sleep with someone who hates me as much as you do.’
He walked back towards her slowly and Sylvie regretted saying anything. He stopped a few feet away.
‘I thought I hated you...especially after what you did to ruin the wedding...but actually I don’t feel anything for you except physical desire.’
Sylvie was surprised how strong the dart of hurt was, but she covered it by saying flippantly, ‘Oh, wow—thanks for the clarification. That makes it all so much better.’
To her surprise, Arkim just looked at her for a long moment, and then he reached for the robe that lay on the ground near their feet and handed it to her, saying curtly, ‘Put it on.’
Now he wanted her to cover up... Why didn’t that make her feel vindicated in some way?
She slipped her arms into the sleeves and belted the thick material tightly around her waist. Arkim was still looking at her intently, but
it had a different quality to any expression she’d seen before. She felt exposed, and a little disorientated. For a moment when he’d handed her the robe she could have sworn he’d seemed almost...apologetic.
As much as she didn’t want to hear his scathing response again, she was tired of playing a role that wasn’t really her. ‘There’s something else you don’t know.’
Arkim arched a brow.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never actually...stripped. The main act I do in the show is the one with the sword. I do other routines too, but I’ve never taken all my clothes off. What I did just now... I made it up... I was just proving a point.’
He frowned, shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘Why don’t I believe that?’
Sylvie lifted her chin. ‘Because you judged me before you even met me, and you have some seriously flawed ideas about what the revue actually is. Why would I lie? It’s not as if I have anything to lose where you’re concerned.’
She saw a familiar flash of fire come into Arkim’s eyes and went on hurriedly.
‘The man who runs the revue—Pierre—he knew my mother. They were contemporaries. When I arrived in Paris I was seventeen years old. He took me under his wing. For the first two years I was only allowed to train with the other dancers. I wasn’t allowed to perform. I cleaned and helped keep the books to pay my way.’ Sylvie shrugged and looked away, embarrassed that she was telling Arkim so much. ‘He’s protective of me—like a father figure. I think that’s why he doesn’t allow me to do the more risqué acts.’
When she glanced back at Arkim his face was inscrutable. Sylvie realised then that he probably resented her telling him anything of the reality of her life.
When he spoke his voice was cool, with no hint of whether or not he believed her. ‘Go to bed Sylvie, we’re done here.’
She felt his dismissal like a slap in the face and realised with a sense of hollowness that perhaps she should have been honest from the beginning. Then they could have avoided all of this. Because clearly Arkim had no time for a woman who didn’t match up to his worst opinions.