CHAPTER TEN
SYLVIERECOGNISEDTHEM—sickeningly. They were regulars at the show—English ex-pats, working in Paris—and one of them had had a brief fling with Giselle, her flatmate. She remembered the guy blearily hopping around their tiny apartment the morning after, looking for his clothes.
Arkim snarled from beside her, ‘She doesn’t know who you are—now, get out of our way.’
Now all the men’s attention was on Arkim. Sylvie wanted to curl up and die. He looked livid. A muscle throbbed in his jaw.
‘And who areyou, mate? Are you paying her well for the night? Cos if you’ve lost interest we’d be more than happy to stump up some cash for a good time.’
One of the others interjected then. ‘She doesn’t put out, remember?’
Sylvie felt as if she was in some kind of nightmare. She tried to speak. ‘I’m sorry... I really don’t think we’ve met...’ But her voice came out all thready and weak, and now the tallest of the men—still a good few inches shorter than Arkim—was standing toe to toe with him.
‘Think you’re some hotshot, eh? Well, it happens that I recognise you too—you’rethe guy that got stood up at the altar.’
‘Oh, God!’Sylvie hadn’t even realised she’d spoken out loud. She felt nauseous.
Arkim let her hand go and pushed her away from him, saying in a voice edged with steel, ‘Get into the car and wait for me—now.’
Sylvie started to back away, horror filling her at the murderous look on Arkim’s face, but as she turned around one of the men who so far hadn’t said anything blocked her.
‘And where do you thinkyou’regoing?’
Sylvie clenched her jaw. ‘Get out of my way.’
He came closer and she could smell the reek of alcohol on his breath. ‘Now, now...that’s not nice, is it? I’veseenyou, you know...’
He stroked a finger up her arm and Sylvie fought not to flinch in disgust.
‘You’re my favourite of them all...but I’d like to see a lot more of you...’
Sylvie had just positioned her knee for maximum damage, in case he touched her again, and heard an almightycrackbehind her. She whirled round to see Arkim staggering back, holding a hand up to his eye.
She flew to his side just as the hotel security officers rushed forward. Arkim, still holding a hand to his face, spoke to someone who looked like a manager. The eight or so English guys were rounded up within seconds, and it was only then that Sylvie realised just how drunk they all were, as they were led away with belligerent faces.
Her hand was in Arkim’s again, and he was taking her out to the car so fast she had to trot to keep up, holding her dress up. Her stomach was churning painfully, and she breathed out as the car pulled away from the front of the hotel.
She looked at Arkim and winced when she saw his eye, shut tight. She knelt on the seat beside him, swatting aside his hand when he tried to stop her. ‘What happened? How did you get hit?’
He looked at her with his one good eye. ‘I recognised one of the men.’
Sylvie felt shaky. She reached for a bottle of water and unscrewed it, lifting some of the material at the bottom of her dress and wetting it to dab at his eye ineffectually.
‘And?’ she prompted, feeling sick all over again.
‘He said something about you that I know isn’t true.’
Her insides cramped.
‘I told him that if he didn’t take it back I’d spread the word about his out-of-control recreational drug use. So he hit me.’
Sylvie sat back on her heels, anguished. ‘I’m so sorry, Arkim.’
His one good eye glared at her. ‘What are you apologising for?Theywere at fault.’
‘Yes, but if they hadn’t recognised me...’
Arkim didn’t say anything, and his silence spoke volumes.
