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‘They don’t... But there are nomads from this region who have made a name for themselves with this brew. It’s a secret recipe, handed down over hundreds of years and made from rare desert berries.’
Sylvie took another sip and relished the smooth glide of the cold liquid down her throat. She realised that she’d always known what sensuality was in an abstract and intellectual way, and that she could exude it when she wanted to, but she’d never really embodied it herself. She felt as if she embodied it now, though, when this man looked at her. Or touched her.
She put the glass down quickly, shocked at how easily this place was entrancing her. And at how easily Arkim was intriguing her by making her believe that things had somehow shifted. They had...but in essence nothing much had changed. She was who she was, and he was who he was.
When this man set his mind to seduction it was nigh impossible to resist him, and Sylvie had a sense that she was far more vulnerable to him than she even realised herself. She knew it was irrational, because she’d already agreed to come here, but she felt she had to push him back.
She heard herself saying, ‘Why go to the trouble of bringing me here when we both know this isn’t about romance? You say you don’t hate me, but what you do feel for me isn’t far off that.’
Arkim looked at Sylvie from where he lounged across the table. Her hair glowed so bright it almost hurt to look at. Her skin was like alabaster—like a pearl against the backdrop of this ochre-hued place.
He replied with an honesty he hadn’t intended. ‘You’ve turned my life upside down. You irritate me and frustrate me...and I want you more than I’ve ever wanted another woman. What I feel for you is...ambiguous.’
Sylvie looked at him, and this time there was no mistaking the hurt flashing in her eyes. Before Arkim could react she stood up and paced away for a moment, and then she swung round, hair slipping over one shoulder, tunic billowing around her feet.
She crossed her arms. ‘This was a mistake. I should never have come here with you.’
Arkim cursed his mouth and surged to his feet. Yet again Sylvie was exposing all his most base qualities. He couldn’t believe how uncouth he was around this woman. He moved towards her and she took a step back. He controlled his impulse to grab her.
‘You’re here because you want to be, Sylvie—plain and simple. This isn’t about what’s happened. This is about us—here and now. Nothing else. I won’t dress it up in fancy language. There is a physical honesty between us which I believe has more integrity than any fluctuating and fickle emotions.’
He saw how she paled, but how her pulse stayed hectic. Arkim felt as if he held the most delicate of brightly coloured humming-birds in his palm and it was about to fly away, never to be seen again.
He wanted her full acquiescence—for her to admit she wanted him. It unnerved him how much he wanted that when he hadn’t given much consideration to her feelings before now.
Another truth forced its way out. ‘You were right last night. I don’t know you, but I want to. Sit down...finish eating. Please.’
Arkim was tense, waiting. But eventually Sylvie moved jerkily and sat down again. None of her usual grace was evident. She avoided his eyes as he took his seat again and they ate some more, awareness and tension crackling between them like a live wire.
After a minute she wiped her mouth with a napkin and took another sip of her drink. Then she looked at Arkim, her blue-green gaze disturbingly intense.
‘So...what was it like growing up in LA?’
Relief that she was engaging stripped away Arkim’s guardedness. His inner reaction to her question was a list of words. Brash. Artificial. Excessive. But he said, ‘I hated it. So much so that I’ve never been back.’
Sylvie assimilated that, and then said, ‘I’ve been to Las Vegas and I hated it there. It’s so fake—like a film set.’
A spurt of kinship surprised Arkim. ‘LA is massive—sprawling. Lots of different areas separated by miles of freeway...no real connection. Everyone is looking for a place in the spotlight—striving to be skinnier, more tanned, more perfect than the next person. There’s no soul.’
‘They say no one walks in LA.’
Arkim smiled and it felt odd—because he wasn’t used to smiling so spontaneously in the presence of anyone, much less a woman.
‘That’s true. Unless you go somewhere like Santa Monica, and then it’s like a catwalk.’
‘You really haven’t seen your father since you left?’
He shook his head. ‘Not since I was seventeen.’ Then he grimaced. ‘That’s not entirely accurate. I would have left voluntarily, but I was still too young. He threw me out.’
‘Why?’
Arkim steeled himself. ‘Because he caught me having sex with his mistress—a famous porn actress.’
He saw myriad expressions cross Sylvie’s face: shock, hurt, and then anger.
She put her napkin down, eyes flaming, jaw tight. ‘You absolute hypocrite! You have the gall to subject me to your judge and jury act and all the time—’
‘Wait.’ Arkim’s voice rang out harshly.
