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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.
