Page 63 of The Tycoon’s Affair: Tempted By Desire

CHAPTER TWO

Present day —a week after the ruined wedding...

A RKIM A L -S AHID LOOKED out over the view from his palatial office and apartment complex, high in the London skyline.

And even though the past week had brought to life a lot of his worst nightmares all he could think about right at that moment was of how he’d only met Sylvie Devereux twice in the past six months—three times if you counted her memorable appearance in the church—and yet each time he’d let his legendary control slip.

And now he was paying for it. More than he’d ever thought possible.

Anger was a constant unquenchable fire within him. He was paying for the fact that she was a privileged spoilt brat, who didn’t take rejection well. Who had acted out of her poisonous jealousy of her younger sister to ruin their wedding.

Yet his conscience pricked him. It had been him who had fallen for her all too obvious charms. He’d had to fight it from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, when she’d stood in the reception hall of her father’s house with her hand on her hip, her beautiful body flaunted to every best advantage.

He could still see her eyes landing on him, widening, the familiar glitter of feminine awareness, the scenting of his power.

Sensing a conquest. And then she’d sashayed over as if she owned the world.

As if she could own him with a mere flutter of her eyelids.

And, dammit, he had almost fallen right then—as soon he’d seen those amazing eyes up close.

One blue and the other green and blue.

An intriguing genetic anomaly in a perfect face—high cheekbones, patrician nose and a mouth so lush it could incite a man to sin.

His body had come to hot, pulsing life under that knowing feline gaze, showing him that any illusion that he mastered his own impulses was just that: a flimsy illusion.

His mouth compressed now as he stared unseeingly out of the window, as if he could try to compress the memories.

The full repercussions of his weakness sat like lead in his belly.

The marriage to Sophie Lewis was off. And Arkim’s very substantial investment in Grant Lewis’s extensive industrial portfolio was teetering on the brink of collapse.

Losing the deal wouldn’t put much of a dent into Arkim’s finances, but the subsequent loss of professional standing would .

He was back to square one. Having to prove himself all over again. His team had been fielding calls from clients all week, expressing doubts and fears that Arkim’s solid business reputation was as shaky as his personal life. Stocks and shares were in freefall.

The tabloids had salivated over the story, featuring a caricaturised cast of characters: the stoical and long-suffering father; the scandalous daughter bent on revenge borne out of jealousy; the sweet innocent bride—the victim—and the ruthless social-climbing mother.

And Arkim—son of one of the world’s richest men, who was also one of its most infamous, dominating the world’s porn industry.

Saul Marks lived a life of excess in Los Angeles, and Arkim hadn’t seen him since he was seventeen.

He’d made a vow a long time ago to crawl out from under his father’s shameful reputation, even going so far as to change his name legally as soon as he’d been able to—choosing a name that had belonged to a distant ancestor of his mother’s as he hadn’t thought her present-day immediate family would appreciate their bastard relative making a claim on their name.

Arkim’s mother had come from a wealthy and high-born family in the Arabian country of Al-Omar. She’d been studying in the States at university when she’d met and been seduced by Saul Marks. Naive and innocent, she’d been bowled over by the handsome charismatic American.

When she’d become pregnant, however, Marks had already moved on to his next girlfriend.

He’d supported Arkim’s mother, but wanted nothing to do with her or the baby.

..until she’d died in childbirth and he’d been forced to take his baby son into his care after Zara’s family in Al-Omar had expressed no interest in their deceased daughter’s son.

Arkim’s early life had been a constant round of English boarding schools and impersonal nannies, interspersed with time spent with a reluctant father and his dizzying conveyer belt of lovers, who invariably came from the porn industry.

One of whom had taken an unhealthy interest in Arkim and given him an important life lesson in how vital it was to master self-control.

But a week ago, when the society wedding of the decade had imploded in scandalous fashion, all those ambitions and his efforts to distance himself from shame and scandal had turned to dust.

And all because of a red-haired witch.

A witch who had somehow managed to sneak under his impenetrable guard.

It was galling to recall how hard it had been to let her go that night in the study.

How hard he’d been. From the moment he’d first seen her appear.

Looking like a schoolteacher. With her hair pulled back, her face pale. Covered up.

He’d only come to his senses because there had been something in the way she’d kissed him—something he hadn’t believed.

.. Something innocent. Gauche. But it was a lie—as if she’d been trying to figure out what he liked.

Acting sweet and innocent after she’d just been completely brazen.

Attempting to seduce him away from her sister.

The only thing that had got Arkim through the past week of ignominy and public embarrassment had been the prospect of making Sylvie Devereux pay. And the kind of payment he had in mind would finally exorcise her from his head, and his body, once and for all.

For months she’d inhabited the dark, secret corners of his mind and his imagination. She’d been the cause of sleepless nights and lurid dreams. Even during his engagement to her far sweeter and infinitely more innocent sister.

Apart from the injury Sylvie had caused to Arkim with her selfish behaviour, she’d also recklessly played with her sister’s life.

The young woman had been inconsolable, absolutely adamant that she wouldn’t give Arkim another chance.

And could he blame her? Who would believe the son of a man who lived his life as if it was a bacchanal?

The words Sylvie Devereux had said in the church still rang in his head: ‘This man shared my bed.’ And yet even now his body reacted to those words with a surge of frustration. Because she most certainly had not shared his bed. It had been a bare-faced lie. Conjured up to create maximum damage.

Sylvie Devereux wanted him so badly? Well, then, she’d have him—until he was sated and he could throw her back in the trash, where she belonged.

But it would be on his terms, and far out of the reach of the ravenous public’s gaze. The damage to his reputation stopped right here.

Sylvie looked out of the small private plane’s window to see a vast sea of sand below her, and in the distance, shimmering in a heat haze, a steel city that might have come directly from a futuristic movie.

The desert sands of Al-Omar and its capital city, B’harani.

Some called it the jewel of the Middle East. It was one of its most progressive countries, presided over by a very dynamic and modern royal couple.

Sylvie had just been reading an article about them in the in-flight magazine: Sultan Sadiq and his wife Queen Samia, and their two small cherubic children.

Queen Samia was younger than Sylvie, and she’d felt a little jaded, looking at the beaming smile on the woman’s face. She was pretty, more than beautiful, and yet her husband looked at her as if he’d never seen a woman before.

She’d seen her father look at her mother like that.

Sylvie ruthlessly crushed the small secret part of her that clenched with an ominous yearning.

The cynicism she’d honed over years came to the fore.

Sultan Sadiq might well be reformed now, but she could remember when he’d been a regular visitor to the infamous L’Amour revue and had cut a swathe through some of its top-billed stars.

Not Sylvie, though. Once she was offstage and dressed down, with her hair tied back, she slipped unnoticed past all her far more glamorous peers.

She courted endless teasing from the other girls—and from the guys, who were mostly gay—having earned the moniker of ‘Sister Sylvie’, because of the way she would prefer to go home and curl up with a book or cook a meal rather than head out to party with their inevitably rich and gorgeous clientele.

A clientele that appreciated the very discreet ethos of the revue and any liaisons that ensued out of hours.

But even they—her friends, who were more like her family now—didn’t know the full extent of her duality...how far from her stage persona she really was.

‘Miss Devereux? We’ll be landing shortly.’

Sylvie looked up at the beautiful olive-skinned stewardess, with her dark brown eyes and glossy black hair. She forced a smile, suddenly reminded of someone with similar colouring. Someone infinitely more masculine, though, and more dangerous than this courteous flight attendant.

That fateful day almost two weeks ago rushed back with a garish vividness that took her breath away. Reminding her painfully of the searing public scrutiny, judgement and humiliation. And his face. So dark and unforgiving. Those black eyes scorching the skin from her body.

He’d moved towards her, his anger palpable. But her stepmother had reached her first, slapping Sylvie so hard that her teeth had rattled in her head and the corner of her lip had split. It was still tender when she touched her tongue to it now.

And then she saw in her mind’s eye her sister’s face. Pale and tear-streaked. Eyes huge. Shocked. Relieved. That relief had made it all worthwhile. Sylvie didn’t regret what she’d done for a second. Sophie hadn’t been right for Arkim Al-Sahid.