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.
Thank you for the kind ‘invitation’ to dinner, but I must decline. I’ve already made plans for this evening.
Sincerely, Sylvie Devereux.
Arkim had to battle both irritation and the lust that had held his body in an uncomfortable grip since he’d seen Sylvie earlier that day. He fought the urge to go straight to her room to confront her. No doubt that was exactly what she wanted.
He’d annoyed her by bringing her here and she was toying with him to get her own back. His mouth tipped up in a hard smile. No matter. He didn’t mind being toyed with as long as she ended up where he wanted her— underneath him, naked and pliant and begging for mercy. Begging forgiveness.
* * *
When Sylvie woke it was dawn outside. She felt as if she’d slept for a week, not just the ten or so hours she had slept. Strangely, there was no disorientation—she knew exactly where she was.
She was still in the robe and she sat up, looking around warily, as if she might find Arkim lurking in a corner, glaring at her. She wondered how he’d reacted when she hadn’t shown for dinner. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know...
She got up and opened the French doors, the early morning’s cool breeze a balm compared to the stifling heat which would no doubt come once the sun was up. She walked to the boundary wall again and sucked in a deep breath. The intense silence wrapped around her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced this level of stillness—if ever. It seemed to quiet something inside her...some sense of restlessness. It was disconcerting—as if she was betraying herself by finding an affinity with any part of this situation.
She went back inside and dressed in jeans and a clean T-shirt, loath to make any kind of effort with clothes or to leave her rooms in case it showed acquiescence to Arkim. But she was also feeling somewhat trapped, and she didn’t like it.
In the end Halima appeared, fresh-faced and smiling, with a tray of breakfast, bringing it into the dining room.
Sylvie’s stomach rumbled loudly and she realised that because she’d turned down dinner the previous evening she’d not eaten since she’d been on the plane the day before. She was starving, and when Halima pulled back a cloth napkin to reveal a plate of fragrant flat breads Sylvie had to bite back of a groan of appreciation. It was a mezze-style feast, with little bowls of olives and different cheeses, hard and soft. And a choice of fragrant coffee or sweet tea.
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