Her voice was breathy, and there was something defiant in those flashing blue-green eyes. It sent his churning cauldron of emotions into overdrive. She was taunting him. He thought of all the people she’d bared herself to, and yet she wouldn’t for him. The thought that she might have an inkling of just how badly he wanted her scored him deep inside.
He didn’t want to go near Sylvie for fear of what might happen if he did. As if some beast inside him might be unleashed and she’d see just how close to the edge of his control he was. He felt feral. As if he needed desperately to prove to himself that she was who he believed she was.
‘You’ll dance again, Sylvie. And this time you’ll perform exactly as you do for the thousands of people who have seenallof you. I won’t accept anything less. Be back here in half an hour.’
CHAPTER FIVE
SYLVIEWATCHEDARKIMstalk out of the huge space, adrenalin still fizzing in her blood. Vulnerability and frustration vied with her anger at his high-handedness. And a need to wipe the disdainful look off his face.
More anger coursed through her when she thought of what Arkim had been expecting and what he clearly still expected: You’ll perform exactly as you do for the thousands of people who have seenallof you.
She was surprised he hadn’t had a pole installed so she could shimmy up and down it. Clearly she’d done such a good job of doing absolutelynothingto amend Arkim’s bad opinion of her, she’d merely raised his expectations.
It had taken more nerve than she’d thought she possessed to come in here and dance for him. It had taken all her strength to look at him and through him—even though he’d sat there like some kind of lord and master, surveying her as if she was some morsel for his delectation.
But she’d still been acutely aware of that powerful body, its inherent strength barely leashed. He’d dressed in western style, in dark trousers and an open-necked shirt. And somehow, after seeing him in nothing but pristine three-piece suits and then the traditional Arabic tunic, it was a little shocking—as if he was unravelling, somehow.
Suddenly there was a flurry of movement as staff entered the cavernous space and rushed to close the huge open doors.
Sylvie had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed how the sky had darkened outside—dramatically. There was so much electricity in the air she could swear it was sparking along her skin.
And then Halima appeared, a look of excitement on her pretty face. ‘The Sheikh has told me to help you. We must close all your doors and windows—the storm is coming.’
As Halima ushered her out of the room, eager to do her Sheikh’s bidding, Sylvie’s rage spiked—as if in tandem with the escalating weather outside. If Arkim wanted a damn lap dance so badly, then maybe she should give him exactly what he wanted.
They got back to Sylvie’s rooms, and Halima was about to close the French doors but turned around, eyes wide. ‘You can see the sandstorm coming!’
‘Really?’ Curiosity distracted Sylvie momentarily and she went to the doors to look outside. She sucked in a breath when a powerful gust of wind made the curtains flap. She hadn’t noticed how strong the winds had become.
‘Look—see there? In the distance?’
Sylvie followed Halima’s finger and saw what looked like a vast cloud against the darkening sky. It took her eyes several seconds to adjust to the fact that it was a bank of sand, racing across the desert towards them. It was like a special effect in a movie.
‘My God...’ she breathed, more in awe than in fear at the sight. ‘Will we be okay?’
Halima shut the doors firmly and nodded. ‘Of course. This castle has withstood much worse. We will be quite safe inside, and by morning it will be gone. You’ll see.’
Sylvie shivered at the thought of all that energy racing across the desert—the fury she’d seen in the cloud-like shape. Not unlike the fury she’d seen in Arkim’s eyes...
Halima left Sylvie to get ready, telling her she must make sure all the other doors and windows were closed.
Sylvie was grateful for that when she surveyed her outfit in the mirror a short time later. She might have winced if she hadn’t still been so angry.
She’d customised one of her short skirts and now it barely grazed the tops of her thighs. The rest of her legs were covered in over-the-knee black socks. She wore a simple white shirt, knotted just under her bust, leaving her midriff bare. Underneath the skirt she wore a pair of black dance shorts, embellished with costume gems sewn into the edges, and under the shirt she wore a glittering black bra top.
She tied her hair back now, in a high ponytail. Her eyes were still heavily kohled, lashes long and dark. Lips bright red.
She felt like a total fraud, just aping what she’d seen in a million images and movies as to what constituted a lap dance outfit. It was ridiculously similar to something a famous pop-star had worn in one of her videos.
The fact was that the L’Amour revue prided itself on doing avant-garde strip routines, burlesque in nature. They didn’t do anything as hokey as this. Sylvie’s mouth firmed—Arkim clearly wasn’t appreciative of the more subtle side of her profession.
Just then there was a knock at the door and Sylvie grabbed for her robe, slipping it on over her clothes. She didn’t want Halima to see her like this. She felt tawdry.
The girl appeared. ‘The Sheikh is ready for you, Miss Devereux.’
Sylvie tightened the belt of her robe and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you.’
But as she walked to the ceremonial room again, behind the young girl, she felt the anger start to drain away. Doubts crept in. She wasnotwhat Arkim thought she was, and yet here she was—letting him goad her into pretending to be something she wasn’t.
