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Sylvie cursed her big mouth and glanced away. She longed to match his cynicism with her own, but the truth was that even after witnessing how grief had torn her father apart she had seen real love for a while.
She looked back. ‘I think sometimes, yes, they can. But even a happy marriage can be broken apart very easily.’ By devastating illness and death.
He looked at her consideringly for a long moment and she steeled herself. But then he asked, ‘What was your mother like?’
Sylvie’s insides clenched harder. She looked at her glass.
‘She was amazing. Beautiful, sweet...kind.’ When Arkim didn’t respond with some cutting comment, she went on, ‘I always remember her perfume...it was so distinctive. My father used to buy it in the same shop for her whenever he was in Paris. It was opposite the Ritz hotel, run by a beautiful Indian woman. He took me with him once. I remember she had a small daughter...’ Her mouth quirked as she got lost in the memory. ‘I used to sit at my mother’s feet and watch her get ready to go out with my father. She used to hum all the time. French songs. And she would dance with me...’
‘Sounds just like one of those fairytales—too good to be true.’
Arkim’s voice broke through the memories like a rude klaxon. Sylvie’s head jerked up. She’d forgotten where she was for a moment, and with whom.
‘It was true. And good.’
She hated it that her voice trembled slightly. She wouldn’t be able to bear it now if Arkim was to delve further and ask about her mother’s death. That excruciating last year, when cancer had turned her mother into a shadow of her former self, would haunt Sylvie for the rest of her life. She’d lost both her parents from that moment.
She felt prickly enough to attack. ‘Why did you agree to marry my sister? Really?’
Arkim was expressionless. ‘For all the reasons I have already explained to you.’
Beyond irritated, and frustrated at the way he made her feel, Sylvie put down her napkin and stood up, walking over to the wall. She heard him move and turned around to face him, feeling jittery.
He stood a few feet away. Too close for comfort. Before she could say anything, Arkim folded his arms and said, ‘I won’t deny I had my doubts...’
Sylvie went still.
‘That night in the study, when you found me... I wasn’t altogether certain that I was going to go through with it. But then you appeared...’ Something like anger flashed in his eyes. ‘Let’s just say that you helped me make up my mind.’
Sylvie reeled. He might have called it off? And then his words registered. Anger flared. ‘So it was my fault?’
He ignored that. ‘Why did you break up the wedding? Was it purely for spite?’
The realisation that Arkim might have called the whole thing off was mixing with her anger, diluting it. Making her heart beat faster. Words trembled on her lips. Words that would exonerate her. But she couldn’t do it; she’d promised her sister.
She lifted her chin. ‘All you need to know is that if I had to do it over again I wouldn’t hesitate.’
Arkim’s face hardened even more. He didn’t like that. But his drawling voice belied his expression. ‘The motorbike was a cute touch. Did you learn how to ride one especially for dramatic effect?’
Sylvie flushed. ‘I used to have one in Paris—to get around. Until it got stolen. I hired one that day...more for expediency than anything else.’
He sneered now. ‘You mean a quick, cowardly getaway so you didn’t have to deal with the fallout...?’
Before Sylvie could formulate a response, Halima and some other discreet staff appeared at that moment, defusing the tension a little, and removed the remains of their dinner from the table.
When they were gone Sylvie was still facing Arkim, like an adversary in a boxing ring. The revelation that she’d inadvertently influenced his decision to marry Sophie was crowding everything else out of her head. Presumably it had been because she’d reminded him of exactly the kind of woman he didn’t want. And that stung.
She pushed down her roiling emotions and tried to appeal to his civilised side. ‘Arkim...you’ve made your point. You need to let me go now.’
His expression remained as hard as granite. Unforgiving. Sylvie shivered. This man wasn’t civilised here.
And then he said, ‘I’ve paid a substantial sum of money for your presence and I believe that I’d like to see you dance for me.’ The shape of his mouth turned bitter. ‘After all, thousands have seen you dance, so why shouldn’t I?’
The thought of performing in front of this man made Sylvie go cold, and then hot. ‘Now?’ Her voice squeaked slightly.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. ‘No, tomorrow evening. You’ll perform a very private dance. Just for me.’
She straightened her spine. ‘If you’re expecting a lap dance, I hate to disappoint you but I really don’t do that kind of thing.’
