Awakened By Her Desert Captor. Эбби Грин

because she was still on antibiotics to clear up a nagging out-of-season chest infection. Not that she was about to furnish him with that little domestic detail.

      ‘For your information,’ she said, ‘I came here because I believed I’d be alone. So I’ll leave you to your arrogant assumptions and get out of your way.’

      Sylvie started to stalk off, only noticing then how close they were—close enough for Arkim Al-Sahid to reach out and touch her. Which was exactly what he did when her heel got caught in the soft earth again and she pitched forward into thin air with a cry of surprise.

      He caught her arm in such a firm grip that she went totally off balance and was swung around directly into his chest, landing against him with a soft oof. Her first impression was of how hard he was—like a concrete block.

      And how tall.

      Sylvie forgot why she’d been leaving. ‘Tell me,’ she asked, more breathily than she would have liked, ‘do you hate everyone on sight, or is it just me?’

      She could make out the sensual line of his mouth, twisting in the moonlight.

      ‘I know you. I’ve seen you... Plastered all over Paris on those posters. For months.’

      Sylvie frowned. ‘That was a year ago—when the new show opened.’ And that wasn’t really me. She’d been chosen for the photo shoot as she was more voluptuous than the other girls...but in truth she was the one who bared the least of all of them.

      She knew she should pull back from this man, but she seemed to be unable to drum up the necessary motor skills to do so—and why wasn’t he pushing her away? He was obviously one of those puritans who disapproved of women taking their clothes off in the name of entertainment.

      His silent condemnation angered her even more.

      She arched a brow. ‘So that’s it? Seeing me in the flesh has only confirmed your worst suspicions?’

      She saw how his gaze dropped down between them, to where she could feel her breasts pressed against him. Her skin grew hot all over.

      His voice sounded husky. ‘Admittedly, there is a lot of flesh to see.’ His gaze rose again and bored into hers. ‘But then I guess not half as much as is usually on show.’

      That ripped away the illusion of any cocoon. Sylvie tugged herself free of his grip and pushed against him to get away. She was too angry, though, not to give him a piece of her mind before she left.

      ‘People like you make me sick. You judge and condemn and you’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

      She took a step back towards him and stuck a finger in his chest, hating how aware she was of his innate masculinity.

      ‘I’ll have you know that the L’Amour revue is one of the most upmarket cabaret acts in the world. We are world-class trained dancers. It’s not some seedy strip joint.’

      His tone was dry. ‘Yet you do take off your clothes?’

      ‘Well...’ The truth was that Sylvie’s act didn’t actually require her to strip completely. Her breasts were slightly too large, and Pierre preferred the flatter-chested girls to do the full nudity. It provided a better aesthetic, as far as he was concerned.

      Arkim Al-Sahid emitted a sound of disgust. Sylvie wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or himself.

      And then he said, ‘I couldn’t care less if you stripped naked and hung upside down on a trapeze in your show. This conversation is over.’

      Sylvie refrained from pointing out that that was actually Giselle’s act, assuming he wouldn’t appreciate it.

      He’d turned and was stalking away before she could say anything more anyway, and Sylvie bubbled with futile indignation and hurt pride. And something else— something deeper. A need to not have him judge her so out of hand when his opinion shouldn’t matter.

      She blurted out the words before she could stop herself—an irritating side effect of her red hair: her temper. She hated being a cliché, but sometimes she couldn’t help it.

      He halted in his tracks, his broad frame silhouetted by the lights of the party and the house in the distance.

      Slowly he turned around, incredulity visible on his face.

      For a moment Sylvie had to choke back a semi-hysterical giggle, but then he said in an arctic tone, ‘What did you say?’ and any urge to giggle died.

      She refused to let herself be intimidated and drew back her shoulders. ‘I believe I said that you are an arrogant, uptight prat.’

      Arkim Al-Sahid prowled back towards her. Deep in the garden as they were, he was like a jungle cat, in spite of his still pristine three-piece suit. All predatory and menacing. There was a thrill in her blood that was extremely inappropriate as she found herself backing away... Until her back slammed into something solid. The gazebo.

      He loomed over her now...larger than life. Larger than anyone she’d ever known. He caged her in with his hands either side of her head. Suddenly her heart was racing, her skin prickling with anticipation. His scent was exotic and musky. Full of dark promise and danger and wickedness.

      ‘Are you going to apologise?’

      Sylvie shook her head. ‘No.’

      For a long second he said nothing, and then, almost contemplatively, ‘You’re right, you know...’

      Her breath stopped... Was he apologising? ‘I am?’

      He nodded slowly, and as he did so he lifted a hand and trailed one finger down over Sylvie’s cheek and jaw to where the bare skin of her shoulder met her dress.

      She was breathing so hard now she felt as if she might hyperventilate. Her skin was on fire where he touched her. She was on fire. No man had ever had this effect on her. It was overwhelming, and she was helpless to rationalise it.

      ‘Yes,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’m very uptight. All over. Maybe you could help me with that?’

      Before she could react his arm had snaked around her waist, pulling her into him, and his other hand was deep in her hair, anchoring her head so that he could plunge his mouth down onto hers, stealing what little breath she had left along with her sanity.

      It was like going from zero to one hundred in a nanosecond. This was no gentle, exploratory kiss. It was explicit and devastating. Sylvie’s tongue was entwined with Arkim Al-Sahid’s before the impulse to let him in had even registered. And there wasn’t one part of her that rejected him—which was so out of character for her that she couldn’t appreciate the significance right now.

      Her hands were on his chest, fingers curling into his waistcoat. Then they were climbing higher to curl around his neck, making her reach up on tiptoe to get closer.

      Adrenalin and a kind of pleasure she’d never experienced before coursed through her blood. It radiated out from the core of her body and to every extremity, making her tingle and tighten with need.

      His hand was on her dress now, at her shoulder, fingers tucking under the fabric, pulling it down.

      There was something wild and earthy beating inside her as his mouth left hers and trailed down over her jaw, down to where her shoulder was now bare.

      Sylvie’s head tipped back, her eyes closed. Her entire world was reduced to this frantic, urgent beat that she had no will to deny as she felt her dress being pulled down, and cool night air drifting over hot skin.

      Her head came up. She felt dizzy, drugged. ‘Arkim...’ She was dimly aware that she didn’t even know this man. Yet here she was, entreating him to...to stop? Go on?

      When he looked at her, though, those black eyes—like hard diamonds—robbed her of any ability to decide.

      ‘Shh...let me touch you, Sylvie.’

      His mouth wrapped around her name...it made her melt even