Everything in Sylvie exulted. She felt exactly the same. The insatiable desire to cleave herself to this man.
She was barely aware of Omar—she’d named him after Al-Omar—pawing her calf, looking for attention.
‘What about the function?’ The thought of going out in public with Arkim was alternately terrifying and exciting.
‘We’re still going... But first...a shower?’
Sylvie hid her reaction to the fact that he was prepared to be seen in public with her and said, mock seriously, ‘I think your dedication to water conservation is to be commended.’
Arkim snorted and tugged her to the bedroom, shutting the door firmly on Omar, who skidded to a stop outside the closed door and proceeded to whine pitifully and unnoticed for the next half an hour.
‘Are you sure I look okay?’
Arkim was the epitome of civilised style in a black tuxedo. Sylvie hated feeling so insecure, but the full magnitude of what this public outing meant was sinking in—and not in a good way. She was nervous of people recognising him, recognisingher, and the inevitable scrutiny.
He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. ‘You look amazing. Just think of this as one of your father’s events...you looked pretty confident to me in that milieu.’
She fought back a blush to think of how forward she’d been and plucked at the silky emerald-green material of her dress. The dress was gorgeous—a slinky column of pure silk—it covered her from throat to wrist to ankle but, perversely, it felt more revealing than anything she’d ever worn before, skimming close to her curves and cut on the bias.
It had been waiting for her in a silver embossed box when she’d emerged from her shower with Arkim, barely able to walk after hisverycareful ministrations. Every feminist principle in her had risen up to refuse it...but she’d taken one look and fallen in love. It reminded her poignantly of a dress her mother had owned—which Catherine had inevitably thrown out—and so, like a traitor, she’d accepted it.
She’d styled her hair into movie star waves and hoped that it wasn’t too much. She knew how snobbish these events were, and if anyone recognised her... She gulped.
‘Relax... I know how you feel—believe me.’
Sylvie was jolted out of her introspection and she looked at the wry expression on Arkim’s face. Of course he knew. He was the son of one of the most infamous men in the world. When she thought of how proud he was... Her heart felt ominously achy at the thought of people looking at him and judging him.
As he did you, she reminded herself. And even though she could understand his motives now the hurt still lingered.
The car was drawing to a smooth stop outside one of Paris’s most iconic and glamorous hotels. Arkim got out, and Sylvie drew in a deep breath as he opened the door and held out a hand for her. They joined a very glitzy throng of beautiful people entering the foyer with lots of expensive perfume and air-kissing. Arkim held Sylvie’s hand, and she found she was clinging to him.
She reminded herself that she needed to be vigilant around him. She didn’t want to lose herself again so easily. So she forced herself to relax and took her hand out of his, ignoring his look as she squared her shoulders and entered the massive ballroom where the function was being held.
His hand stayed on the small of her back, though, as waiters offered them drinks and they navigated their way around the room, constantly stopping when Arkim was recognised by various people.
Sylvie found, much to her relief, that she was usually given a quick once-over and then summarily dismissed. She didn’t mind. She preferred that to scrutiny or recognition any day of the week.
When they were momentarily alone again Sylvie asked curiously, ‘When do they announce dinner?’ She was beginning to feel hunger pangs after their earlier activity.
Arkim grimaced slightly and gestured with his head to where a waiter was passing, with some teeny-tiny hors d’oeuvres that looked more like art installations than food. ‘That’s dinner, I’m afraid, I think most people here haven’t eaten in about ten years.’
Sylvie grinned at his humour—and then her stomach growled in earnest and she blushed, ducking her head with embarrassment.
Arkim slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his tall, hard body, creating a wave of heat that slowly engulfed her. When she looked at him again he said, ‘Isn’t there some leftover Boeuf Bourguignon at home?’
His use of the wordhomecaused butterflies. She fought to stay cool. ‘I believe there is...’
Arkim’s gaze moved down to her mouth and nowhelooked hungry. ‘Then let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough.’
The thought of leaving now, getting out of the evening intact, without any awkward public meetings, was very appealing. Apart from what the explicit hunger in his eyes promised... Well, shehadmade a promise to herself to gorge, hadn’t she?
Sylvie looked up at him and felt as if she was drowning. As if she was fighting a losing battle. ‘Okay, then—let’s go.’
They were walking out through the vast marbled lobby—hand in hand because Arkim refused to let her tug free—and Sylvie was floating on a cloud of dangerous contentment at the thought of being alone with him again, when a group of men stopped in front of them. Arkim stopped, making her jerk to a halt beside him.
She looked up, expecting it to be someone he knew. But the men were looking ather. At her body. At her breasts. Before Sylvie had even assessed the situation properly, icy-cold humiliation was crawling up her spine.
‘Well, well, well...it’s your favourite L’Amour revue artist, James.’
