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‘You’re twenty-eight and you work in a strip club—how are you still a virgin?’
Sylvie hitched up her chin. ‘It’s not a strip club. And I just … was never interested before now.’
She started to look around for her things and Arkim caught her by the arm. The anger inside him was a turbulent mass. Everything in him wanted to lash out, blame someone—blame her. If she’d told him … What? asked a snide voice. You would have let her go?
Never.
‘Why, Sylvie? It’s not just because you weren’t interested. You’re a sexual being—it oozes from you. I had no idea. If I had—’
She wrenched her arm free, fire flashing in her eyes now, any hint of vulnerability gone. ‘You’d have what? Declined the offer?’
Irish author ABBY GREEN threw in a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or e-mail [email protected].
Awakened
by Her Desert Captor
Abby Green
This is for Iona, Heidi, Fiona and Susan … my support network. Love you ladies.
Contents
THE PRIEST’S EYES widened as he took in the spectacle approaching down the aisle, but to give him his due he didn’t falter in his words, which came as automatically to him as breathing.
It was a slim figure, dressed from head to toe in black leather, the face obscured by a motorcycle helmet’s visor. The person stopped a few feet behind the couple standing before the priest, and his eyes widened even further as a young woman emerged from under the motorcycle helmet as she took it off and placed it under one arm.
Long red hair cascaded dramatically over her shoulders just as he heard himself say the words, ‘...or for ever hold your peace...’ a little more faintly than usual.
The woman’s face was pale, but determined. And also very, very beautiful. Even a priest could appreciate that.
Silence descended, and then her voice rang out loud and clear in the huge church. ‘I object to this wedding. Because last night this man shared my bed.’
Six months previously...
SYLVIE DEVEREUX STEELED herself for what was undoubtedly to be another bruising encounter with her father and stepmother. She reminded herself as she walked up the stately drive that she was only making an appearance for her half-sister’s sake. The one person in the world she would do anything for.
Lights spilled from the enormous Richmond house, and soft classic jazz came from the live band in the back garden, where a marquee was just visible. Grant Lewis’s midsummer party was an annual fixture on the London social scene, presided over each year by his smiling piranha of a wife, Catherine Lewis—Sylvie’s stepmother and mother to her younger half-sister, Sophie.
A shape appeared at the front door and an excited squeal presaged a blur of blonde as Sophie Lewis launched herself at her older sister. Sylvie dropped her bag and clung on, struggling to remain upright, huffing a chuckle into her sister’s soft, silky hair.
‘I guess that means you’re pleased to see me, Soph?’
Sophie, younger by six years, pulled back with a grimace on her pretty face. ‘You have no idea. Mother is even worse than usual—literally throwing me into the arms of every eligible man—and Father is holed up in his study with some sheikh dude who is probably the grimmest guy I’ve ever seen, but also the most gorgeous—pity
