Awakened By Her Desert Captor

The helicopter blades stopped turning and a delicious silence settled over them for a moment, before Arkim got out and the men approached. She watched as he greeted the men heartily in a guttural language that still managed to sound melodic, a wide smile on his face.

It took her breath away. It was the first genuine smile she’d ever seen on his face. Admittedly their previous encounters hadn’t exactly been conducive to such a reaction. Not unless she counted that sexy smile when his hand had explored between her legs—

‘Time to get out, Sylvie. I’m afraid the chopper has to go back and you’re not going to be in it.’

She scowled, hating to be caught out in such a memory. She fumbled with the seat belt and swatted his hand away when he would have helped. Eventually it came undone and she extricated her arms, unaware of how the movement pulled her T-shirt taut over her breasts, or of how Arkim’s dark gaze settled there for a moment with a flash of hunger. If she’d seen that she might well have barricaded herself into the helicopter, come hell or high water.

But then she was out, and swaying a little unsteadily on the firm sun-baked ground.

Staff dressed in white rushed to and fro, loading luggage into the back of a small people carrier, and then Arkim was leading Sylvie over to what looked like a luxurious golf buggy. He indicated for her to get in, and after a moment’s futile rebellion she did so.

She really was stuck here now—with him.

He got in beside her and drove the small open-sided vehicle to the entrance of the castle, where huge wooden doors were standing open. They entered a beautiful airy courtyard, with a fountain in the centre. A deliciously cool gentle mist of moisture settled on her skin from the spray.

But the vehicle had stopped now, and Arkim was at her side, holding out a hand. Sylvie ignored it and stepped out, not wanting to see what would undoubtedly be a mocking look on his face.

When he didn’t move, though, she had to look at him. He gestured with a hand and—damn him—a mocking smile.

‘Welcome to my home, Sylvie. I expect our time here to be...cathartic.’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2480ed87-295e-5ea0-95ed-e5507ddae1ba)

SYLVIE PACED BACK and forth in the rooms she’d been shown to by Arkim. Cathartic! The arrogant, patronising son-of-a—

A knock sounded on the door and she halted, her breathing erratic. Her hands balled into fists at her sides—she wasn’t ready to see Arkim again.

Cautiously she approached the ornately decorated door and opened it, ready to do battle, only to find two pretty, smiling women on the other side. They had her two wheelie suitcases. One filled with now redundant dance costumes, the other with her own clothes.

She forced a smile and stood back. They entered meekly and she observed their pristine white dresses. Like long tunics. They wore white head coverings too, but not veils obscuring their faces. They looked cool and fresh, and Sylvie felt sticky and gritty after the tumultuous day.

As they were leaving again one of the girls stopped and said shyly, ‘I’m Halima. If you need anything just pick up the phone and I will come to you.’

She ducked her head and then was gone, leaving Sylvie feeling a little slack-jawed. She had her own maid?

Arkim had left her here with a curt instruction to rest and said that he’d let her know when dinner would be ready. Sylvie could see the sky outside turning blood-red from the setting sun, and for the first time took in the sheer opulence of the rooms.

She was in a reception area that would have housed her small Parisian apartment three times over. It was a huge octagonal space, with a small pond in the centre with a tiled bottom and sides, where exotic fish swam lazily.

There were eight rooms off this main area. Two guest bedrooms, a dining room, and a living room complete with state-of-the-art sound system and media centre which had had all channels available when Sylvie had flicked it on.

The decor throughout was subtle and understated. The stone walls of the castle had been left exposed. and modern artwork and an eclectic mix of antiques enhanced the rather austere ancient building. Huge oriental rugs adorned the floors, softening any sharp edges further. The windows were all open to the elements, and even though it was sweltering outside, the castle had been designed so that balmy breezes wafted through the open rooms.

There was also a gym, and an accompanying thermal suite with hot-tub and sauna/steam room. And then there was the main bedroom suite, dressed in tones of dark red and cream. A fan circled overhead, distributing the air to keep it cool.

She’d never considered herself much of a sensualist, beyond tapping into her inner performer for her work, but right now her senses were heightened by everything she’d seen since she’d arrived in this country.

The bed was situated in the middle of the room, and strewn with opulent coverings and pillows. It had four posters and luxurious drapes, which were held back in place by delicately engraved gold curtain ties. The bed looked big enough to hold a football team with room to spare, let alone one person... Or two, inserted a snide voice, which Sylvie ignored.

One thing she was sure of: Arkim Al-Sahid would not be sharing her bed. Yet something quivered to life deep inside her and she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off it...an image filled her brain of naked pale limbs entwined with much darker ones.

For years Sylvie had seen her peers indulge in casual sexual relationships and on some level had envied them that ease and freedom. She’d gone on dates...but the men involved had all expected her to be something she wasn’t. And when they’d pushed for intimacy she’d found herself shutting down. The prospect that they’d somehow ‘see’ the real her and reject her was a fear she couldn’t shake.

It was galling that she seemed to be hardwired to want more than casual sex—based on a fragile memory of the happiness and joy that had existed between her parents before her mother had so tragically died. She’d somehow clung to it her whole life, letting it sink deep into her unconscious.

It was even more galling, though, that Arkim Al-Sahid could look at her with explicit intent and have the opposite effect from making her shut down. When he looked at her she felt as if something was flowering to life deep inside her.

Irritated with the direction of her thoughts, and telling herself she was being ridiculous, Sylvie walked over to the French doors of the main bedroom and stepped outside. Heat washed over her like a dry caress, sinking into her bones and melting some of the tension away in spite of her wish to stay rigid at all costs.

She had her own private terrace, complete with a sparkling lap pool, its turquoise tiles illuminating the water. Low seats were scattered in twos and threes around low tables, with soft raw silk cushions. Lanterns hung from the walls, but weren’t lit. Sylvie could imagine how seductive it might be at night, with only the flickering lights and the vast expanse of a star-filled night sky surrounding her.

And then she berated herself for getting sucked into a daydream so easily. Pushing the images out of her head, she walked over to the boundary wall, with its distinctive Arabic carvings. Outside she could see nothing but desert and dunes. A bird of prey circled lazily against the intense blue of the sky.

It compounded her sense of isolation and entrapment, and yet...much to her chagrin...Sylvie couldn’t seem to drum up any sense of urgency. She realised that she was exhausted from the shock and adrenalin of the day.

A sound made her whirl around from the wall, her heart leaping into her throat. But it was only Halima again, with her shy smile.

‘Sheikh Al-Sahid has sent me to tell you that he would be happy for you to join him in an hour for dinner. He said that should give you time to freshen up.’

Sylvie felt grim. ‘Did he, now?’ She thought of something and said, ‘Wait here a moment—I’d like you to give him something, please.’

When she came back she felt unaccountably lighter. She handed the girl a folded-up note and said sweetly, ‘Please give this to Sheikh Al-Sahid for me.’

The girl scurried off and Sylvie closed the door. A wave of weariness came over her, dousing any small sense of rebellious triumph. She set about unpacking only the most necessary items from her case, having no intention of staying here beyond a night. Whatever she had to do to persuade Arkim to let her go, she’d do it.

She was disappointed but unsurprised to see that her mobile phone didn’t work. Exactly as he’d told her. She put it down and sighed, then took off her clothes, finding a robe. When she got to the door leading into the bathroom she had to suck in a breath. The sinks and the bath seemed to be carved out of the stone itself, with gold fittings that managed to complement the stark design without being tacky.

The bath was more like a small pool. When she’d filled it up, and added some oils she’d found in a cleverly hidden cabinet, exotically fragrant steam wrapped around her in a caress.

She drew off the robe and took the few steps down into the bath, trying not to feel too overwhelmed by the sheer luxury. The water closed over her body and as she tipped her head back she closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of Arkim Al-Sahid out of her mind, trying to pretend she was on a luxury mini-break and not in the middle of an unforgiving desert, cut off from civilisation with someone who hated her guts.

* * *

Arkim stood looking out over the view, at the fading twilight casting the dunes into mysterious shadows. He had claimed this part of his maternal ancestral home for himself. His mother’s family had no interest in him, and he’d told himself a long time ago that he didn’t care. They’d rejected her and he wanted nothing to do with them—even if they came begging.

He’d come here initially as an exercise in removing himself from his father’s sphere. He’d never expected this land to touch him as deeply as it had done on first sight. Almost with a physical pull. His mind automatically felt freer, less constrained, when he was here. He felt connected with something primal and visceral.

When he’d made his first million this property had been his first purchase, and he’d followed it up with properties in Paris, London and New York. He’d surpassed his goals one by one. All of them. Only to fall at the last hurdle: gaining the stamp of social approval and respect that would show everyone that he was not his father’s son. That he was vastly different.

He thought of Sophie Lewis now and his conscience twinged. He hadn’t thought of her very often. In truth, he’d had his doubts—their relationship had been very...platonic. But Arkim had convinced himself that it suited him like that. Her father had been the one to suggest the match, and the more Arkim had thought about it the more the idea had grown on him.

In contrast to her flame-haired provocative sister, Sophie had been like a gentle balm. Shy and innocent. Arousing no hormone-fuelled lapses of character. He’d courted her. Taken her for dinner. To the theatre. Each outing had soothed another piece of his wounded soul, making him believe that marriage to her would indeed offer him everything he’d ever wanted—which was the antithesis of life with his father.

He would be one of those parents who was respectable—respected—who came to school to pick up his son with his beautiful wife by his side. A united front. There would be no scandals. No children born out of wedlock. No mistresses. No sordid rumours and sniggering behind his back. No child of his would have to deal with bullying and fist fights when another kid taunted him about the whores his father took to his bed.

But the gods had laughed in his face at his ambitions and shown him that he was a fool to believe he could ever remove the stain of his father’s legacy from his life.

He looked at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand and opened it out again to read.