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She reminded herself that she needed to be vigilant around him. She didn’t want to lose herself again so easily. So she forced herself to relax and took her hand out of his, ignoring his look as she squared her shoulders and entered the massive ballroom where the function was being held.
His hand stayed on the small of her back, though, as waiters offered them drinks and they navigated their way around the room, constantly stopping when Arkim was recognised by various people.
Sylvie found, much to her relief, that she was usually given a quick once-over and then summarily dismissed. She didn’t mind. She preferred that to scrutiny or recognition any day of the week.
When they were momentarily alone again Sylvie asked curiously, ‘When do they announce dinner?’ She was beginning to feel hunger pangs after their earlier activity.
Arkim grimaced slightly and gestured with his head to where a waiter was passing, with some teeny-tiny hors d’oeuvres that looked more like art installations than food. ‘That’s dinner, I’m afraid, I think most people here haven’t eaten in about ten years.’
Sylvie grinned at his humour—and then her stomach growled in earnest and she blushed, ducking her head with embarrassment.
Arkim slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his tall, hard body, creating a wave of heat that slowly engulfed her. When she looked at him again he said, ‘Isn’t there some leftover Boeuf Bourguignon at home?’
His use of the word home caused butterflies. She fought to stay cool. ‘I believe there is...’
Arkim’s gaze moved down to her mouth and now he looked hungry. ‘Then let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough.’
The thought of leaving now, getting out of the evening intact, without any awkward public meetings, was very appealing. Apart from what the explicit hunger in his eyes promised... Well, she had made a promise to herself to gorge, hadn’t she?
Sylvie looked up at him and felt as if she was drowning. As if she was fighting a losing battle. ‘Okay, then—let’s go.’
They were walking out through the vast marbled lobby—hand in hand because Arkim refused to let her tug free—and Sylvie was floating on a cloud of dangerous contentment at the thought of being alone with him again, when a group of men stopped in front of them. Arkim stopped, making her jerk to a halt beside him.
She looked up, expecting it to be someone he knew. But the men were looking at her. At her body. At her breasts. Before Sylvie had even assessed the situation properly, icy-cold humiliation was crawling up her spine.
‘Well, well, well...it’s your favourite L’Amour revue artist, James.’
CHAPTER TEN
SYLVIE RECOGNISED THEM—sickeningly. They were regulars at the show—English ex-pats, working in Paris—and one of them had had a brief fling with Giselle, her flatmate. She remembered the guy blearily hopping around their tiny apartment the morning after, looking for his clothes.
Arkim snarled from beside her, ‘She doesn’t know who you are—now, get out of our way.’
Now all the men’s attention was on Arkim. Sylvie wanted to curl up and die. He looked livid. A muscle throbbed in his jaw.
‘And who are you, mate? Are you paying her well for the night? Cos if you’ve lost interest we’d be more than happy to stump up some cash for a good time.’
One of the others interjected then. ‘She doesn’t put out, remember?’
Sylvie felt as if she was in some kind of nightmare. She tried to speak. ‘I’m sorry... I really don’t think we’ve met...’ But her voice came out all thready and weak, and now the tallest of the men—still a good few inches shorter than Arkim—was standing toe to toe with him.
‘Think you’re some hotshot, eh? Well, it happens that I recognise you too—you’re the guy that got stood up at the altar.’
‘Oh, God!’ Sylvie hadn’t even realised she’d spoken out loud. She felt nauseous.
Arkim let her hand go and pushed her away from him, saying in a voice edged with steel, ‘Get into the car and wait for me—now.’
Sylvie started to back away, horror filling her at the murderous look on Arkim’s face, but as she turned around one of the men who so far hadn’t said anything blocked her.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’
Sylvie clenched her jaw. ‘Get out of my way.’
He came closer and she could smell the reek of alcohol on his breath. ‘Now, now...that’s not nice, is it? I’ve seen you, you know...’
He stroked a finger up her arm and Sylvie fought not to flinch in disgust.
‘You’re my favourite of them all...but I’d like to see a lot more of you...’
