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His face flushed dark red and Sylvie felt the bite of his self-condemnation as sharply as if he’d just slapped her.
‘That was a mistake—not to be repeated.’
Something about that lash of recrimination made her want to curl up and protect herself. The look on his face was pure...disgust. And it would have been worse if it was solely for her. But she could tell it wasn’t. It was for himself.
Hurt lodged deep in her belly like a dark, malevolent thing, tugging on other hurts, reopening old wounds. Reminding her of the disgust on her father’s face when he’d looked at her after her mother had died...
She desperately wanted to lash back and see this man’s icy condemnatory control snap. Acting on blind instinct, and on that hurt, she stepped out from behind the chair and right up to Arkim Al-Sahid. She pressed her body to his, lifting her arms to wind them around his neck.
His nostrils flared and those black eyes flashed. His hands were on her arms, his grip tight. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
But he didn’t pull her arms down. Sylvie’s entire body was quivering with adrenalin at her bravado.
‘I’m proving that you’re a hypocrite, Mr Al-Sahid.’
And then, in the boldest move she’d ever made in her life, she reached up and pressed her mouth to his. She moved her lips over his and through the frantic thumping of her heart she could feel excitement flooding her at the sheer proximity of their bodies. Brain cells were scrambled in a rush of heat.
She could feel the tension holding his body rigid... But what he couldn’t disguise was the explicit thrust of his arousal against her belly. That evidence was enough to send a thrill of exultation through Sylvie and help her block out the memory of how he’d pushed her away the last time.
Ex
cept then she started to forget why she’d even started this. Her body moved against him, closer. Arms locked tighter. And after a heart-stopping infinitesimal moment his hands loosened from her arms and slid down the length of her torso to her hips, gripping her there as his mouth started to move on hers—slowly at first and then, like a storm gathering strength, with an almost rough intensity.
For a long moment everything faded into the distance as the kiss became hotter and more intense. Arkim Al-Sahid’s hands pulled Sylvie even closer—so close that she could feel his heart beating. And then something shifted. He went very still, before abruptly breaking the kiss.
Sylvie was left grasping air when he thrust her away from him. She stumbled backwards and found herself landing heavily in the chair behind her, her breathing laboured, her heart out of control. Dizzy.
Arkim’s mouth twisted and his voice was rough. ‘No. I will not do this. You dare to try and seduce me on the evening of the announcement of my engagement to your sister? Is there no depth to which you won’t descend?’
Sylvie was going cold all over. The lust which had risen up like wildfire dissipated under his murderous gaze. Her brain felt woolly...it was hard to think. Why had it been so important to kiss him like that? What had she been trying to prove? How did this man have the ability to make her act so out of character?
She looked up at him. ‘It wasn’t like that. I’d never do anything to hurt Sophie.’
Arkim made a rude sound just as a knock sounded at the door and it was opened.
Sylvie heard a voice say, ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Al-Sahid, but they’re ready to make the announcement.’
Sylvie realised that whoever was at the door wouldn’t be able to see her in the chair just as Arkim Al-Sahid answered with a curt, ‘I’ll be right there.’ The door closed again and he looked down at her, black eyes glittering with disgust and condemnation. ‘I think it would be best for all of us if you left now, don’t you?’
CHAPTER TWO
Present day—a week after the ruined wedding...
ARKIM AL-SAHID LOOKED out over the view from his palatial office and apartment complex, high in the London skyline. And even though the past week had brought to life a lot of his worst nightmares all he could think about right at that moment was of how he’d only met Sylvie Devereux twice in the past six months—three times if you counted her memorable appearance in the church—and yet each time he’d let his legendary control slip.
And now he was paying for it. More than he’d ever thought possible.
Anger was a constant unquenchable fire within him. He was paying for the fact that she was a privileged spoilt brat, who didn’t take rejection well. Who had acted out of her poisonous jealousy of her younger sister to ruin their wedding.
Yet his conscience pricked him. It had been him who had fallen for her all too obvious charms. He’d had to fight it from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, when she’d stood in the reception hall of her father’s house with her hand on her hip, her beautiful body flaunted to every best advantage.
He could still see her eyes landing on him, widening, the familiar glitter of feminine awareness, the scenting of his power. Sensing a conquest. And then she’d sashayed over as if she owned the world. As if she could own him with a mere flutter of her eyelids. And, dammit, he had almost fallen right then—as soon he’d seen those amazing eyes up close.
One blue and the other green and blue.
An intriguing genetic anomaly in a perfect face—high cheekbones, patrician nose and a mouth so lush it could incite a man to sin.
His body had come to hot, pulsing life under that knowing feline gaze, showing him that any illusion that he mastered his own impulses was just that: a flimsy illusion.
