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She looked up then and saw him standing there. Her eyes widened, brightened, and she smiled. But then the smile slipped slightly and a guarded look came over her beautiful face. It made Arkim want to haul her up and demand that she... What? asked a small voice. Stop shutting you out?
Ever since that night when she’d agreed to stay Sylvie had locked a piece of herself away from him. She was careful around him—there was some spark he’d come to expect in her missing.
Except for when they made love... Then she could hold nothing back, in spite of herself.
But when they were finished she would curl up on her side, away from him. And Arkim would lie there and clench his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching for her—because he didn’t do that, did he? That would send the wrong message...that this was something more than a transitory slaking of mutual lust.
Except it wasn’t being slaked. It was being stoked.
* * *
‘A function?’ Sylvie felt a flicker of trepidation. So far she and Arkim had spent their time confined to his stunning apartment. They met here after work and indulged in satisfying their mutual lust until they couldn’t move. Then they got up, went to work and repeated the process.
Every morning Sylvie woke up praying that this would be the morning when he didn’t affect her so much...to no avail. And when they’d had dinner the other night...dinner she’d made...it had felt far too easy...seductive. She couldn’t do that again.
Arkim was leaning against the doorframe, looking edible in a dark three-piece suit, his jaw stubbled after the day.
‘It’s a charity benefit thing...to raise money for cancer awareness. I thought you’d have an interest.’
Sylvie was shocked that Arkim obviously remembered her telling him that her mother had died of cancer.
‘Well, of course I do... But... I mean, I didn’t think you’d want to be seen with me. In public.’
Some fleeting expression passed over his face and then he came over and pulled her up from the floor, his hands resting under her arms. ‘The reason we haven’t gone out together is because the minute I see you I need you. And I need you now.’
Everything in Sylvie exulted. She felt exactly the same. The insatiable desire to cleave herself to this man.
She was barely aware of Omar—she’d named him after Al-Omar—pawing her calf, looking for attention.
‘What about the function?’ The thought of going out in public with Arkim was alternately terrifying and exciting.
‘We’re still going... But first...a shower?’
Sylvie hid her reaction to the fact that he was prepared to be seen in public with her and said, mock seriously, ‘I think your dedication to water conservation is to be commended.’
Arkim snorted and tugged her to the bedroom, shutting the door firmly on Omar, who skidded to a stop outside the closed door and proceeded to whine pitifully and unnoticed for the next half an hour.
* * *
‘Are you sure I look okay?’
Arkim was the epitome of civilised style in a black tuxedo. Sylvie hated feeling so insecure, but the full magnitude of what this public outing meant was sinking in—and not in a good way. She was nervous of people recognising him, recognising her, and the inevitable scrutiny.
He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. ‘You look amazing. Just think of this as one of your father’s events...you looked pretty confident to me in that milieu.’
She fought back a blush to think of how forward she’d been and plucked at the silky emerald-green material of her dress. The dress was gorgeous—a slinky column of pure silk—it covered her from throat to wrist to ankle but, perversely, it felt more revealing than anything she’d ever worn before, skimming close to her curves and cut on the bias.
It had been waiting for her in a silver embossed box when she’d emerged from her shower with Arkim, barely able to walk after his very careful ministrations. Every feminist principle in her had risen up to refuse it...but she’d taken one look and fallen in love. It reminded her poignantly of a dress her mother had owned—which Catherine had inevitably thrown out—and so, like a traitor, she’d accepted it.
She’d styled her hair into movie star waves and hoped that it wasn’t too much. She knew how snobbish these events were, and if anyone recognised her... She gulped.
‘Relax... I know how you feel—believe me.’
Sylvie was jolted out of her introspection and she looked at the wry expression on Arkim’s face. Of course he knew. He was the son of one of the most infamous men in the world. When she thought of how proud he was... Her heart felt ominously achy at the thought of people looking at him and judging him.
As he did you, she reminded herself. And even though she could understand his motives now the hurt still lingered.
The car was drawing to a smooth stop outside one of Paris’s most iconic and glamorous hotels. Arkim got out, and Sylvie drew in a deep breath as he opened the door and held out a hand for her. They joined a very glitzy throng of beautiful people entering the foyer with lots of expensive perfume and air-kissing. Arkim held Sylvie’s hand, and she found she was clinging to him.
