Page 72 of The Tycoon’s Affair: Tempted By Desire
CHAPTER FIVE
S YLVIE WATCHED A RKIM stalk 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 seen all of 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 absolutely nothing to 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 was not what Arkim thought she was, and yet here she was—letting him goad her into pretending to be something she wasn’t.
Because he’d never believe you , inserted a small voice.
She was at the door now, and her circling thoughts faded as Halima gently nudged her over the threshold.
The door closed behind her. The interior was darker than it had been, with the encroaching storm turning the world black outside.
Too late to back out now. Girding her loins, Sylvie straightened her shoulders and walked in.
Arkim was sitting in his chair again, with a table beside him holding more wine and food. The anger surged back. He was so arrogant. Demanding. Judgemental. Cold.
She did her best to avoid his eyes, but she was burningly aware of him. He looked dark and unreadable when she sneaked a glance at his face. He seemed so in control. As if nothing would ruffle his cool.
Sylvie badly wanted to ruffle his cool.
She put on her music again, aware of the tension spiking in the room when the slow, sultry, sexy beat filled the space. She saw the chair that she’d asked Halima to provide in the centre of the dais, and she slowly unbelted her robe and then slid it off, throwing it to one side.
Did she hear an intake of breath coming from his direction?
She ignored it and walked up to the chair, turning to face Arkim with her hands on the back of it. And now she looked him straight in the eye. Unashamed. Exuding confidence even if she was quivering on the inside.
She started to move, using a mixture of what she’d seen some of the other girls do for their routines and her own modern dance moves. And a hefty dose of inspiration from one of her favourite movies of all time: Cabaret .
She kept eye contact with Arkim, even though her confidence threatened to dissolve when his gaze moved down, over her body, over her splayed legs as she sat in the chair.
She dipped her head down between her legs before coming back up, deliberately making sure her cleavage would be visible, and running her hands up her bare thighs.
His gaze was so black it seemed to suck all the light out of the room—or was that the storm?
Sylvie didn’t know. She only knew that as his eyes tracked her movements she became more and more emboldened.
She felt as if she was becoming one with the music.
The throbbing bass beat was deep in her blood.
..telling her where to move next. Telling her to stand up, to put her hands on the seat of the chair and bend over, while sending a sideways look to Arkim.
Telling her to straighten and then arch her back as she pulled her hair tie off so her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.
And telling her to open the buttons on her shirt, down to where it was tied under her breasts, so that they would be revealed.
Something dangerous was pounding through her blood—the same something that had coursed through it that night in the garden, when Arkim had pressed against her, letting her feel how aroused he was by her...even though he disapproved of her.
Sylvie felt powerful—because she could sense his control cracking. Arkim’s cheeks were flushed, eyes glittering darkly. Jaw clenched. This was what she wanted...to make him admit he was a hypocrite.
Without really thinking about what she was doing, Sylvie stepped down from the dais and walked over to Arkim. His chin tipped up and their gazes clashed—just as the music faded away and stopped, bursting the bubble of illusion around them.
She knew instantly that she’d made a tactical error. Desperate to try and regain her sense of power, she started to walk away from his chair—but a big hand shot out and gripped her wrist, stopping her in her tracks.
She looked down at him, heart bumping violently. That obsidian gaze glittered up at her, and she saw the fire in their depths. The knowledge that she’d managed to ruffle him wasn’t as satisfying as she’d expected when she was this close to him.
He stood up and they were almost touching. The air sizzled.
‘What the hell ,’ he said in a low voice, ‘do you think you’re doing?’
The disgust Sylvie read in his eyes made her pull her wrist free of his grip with a jerk.
She was aware that the huge sand cloud was approaching closer and closer through the massive windows behind Arkim, about to envelop them totally, blotting everything out.
It made her feel reckless—as if everything was about to be altered for ever.
‘Isn’t this what you expected of me?’ she asked tauntingly. ‘I’m giving you exactly what you want.’
‘ Exactly what I want?’ he asked.
And before she could say anything, just before the sandstorm inexorably claimed the castle in its path, Arkim speared both hands into her hair, angling her face up to his.
‘I’ll show you exactly what I want,’ he said gutturally.
Arkim crushed Sylvie’s mouth under his, his need too great to be gentle or finessed. He wanted to devour her.