Читать книгу Awakened By Her Desert Captor - Эбби Грин, ABBY GREEN - Страница 9
ОглавлениеPresent day—a week after the ruined wedding...
ARKIM AL-SAHID 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.
Her feeling of vindication had been fleeting, though. The truth was, when she’d stood behind them in that church her motivation for stopping the wedding had felt far more complex than it should have.
Arkim was the only man who’d managed to breach the defences Sylvie hadn’t even been aware she’d erected so high. She’d bared herself to him in a way she’d never done with anyone else—which was ironic, considering her profession—only to be cruelly pushed aside...as if she was a piece of dirt on his shoe. Not worthy to look him in the eye.
But her sister was worthy. Her beautiful blonde, sweet sister. Just as Sophie was worthy of their father’s affections. Because she didn’t remind him of his beloved dead first wife.
Maybe it was this stark landscape that was making her think about all of that—and him. Forcing him up into her consciousness. She buckled her seat belt, diverting her mind away from painful memories and towards what lay ahead. The problem was that she wasn’t even entirely sure what lay ahead.
She and some of the other girls from the revue had been invited over to put on a private show for an important sheikh’s birthday celebrations. Sylvie wasn’t flying with the others because they’d travelled before her. She’d only been asked to join them afterwards—hence her solo trip on the private jet.
It wasn’t unusual for this kind of thing to happen. Their revue had performed privately for A-list stars around the world, much as a pop star might be asked to perform, and they’d done a residency one summer in Las Vegas. But this... Something about this made Sylvie’s skin prickle uncomfortably.
She tried to reassure herself that she was being silly. The other girls would be waiting for her, they’d rehearse and perform, and then they’d be home before they knew it.
They were landing now, and she noticed that they were quite far outside the city limits, with nothing but desert as far as the eye could see. The airport didn’t look like a busy capital city’s airport. Just a few small buildings and a runway carved into the arid landscape. She pushed the nervous flutters down.
Once the small jet had taxied to a gentle stop Sylvie was escorted to the door of the plane—and the heat of the desert hit her so squarely that she had to suck in a breath of hot, dry air. Sweat instantly dampened the skin all over her body. But along with the trepidation she felt at what lay ahead was a quickening of something like exhilaration as she took in the clear blue vastness of the sky and the rolling dunes in the distance.
She was so far away from everything that was familiar in this completely alien landscape, but it soothed her a little after the last tumultuous couple of weeks. It was as if nothing here could hurt her.
‘Miss, your car is waiting.’
Sylvie looked down to see a sleek black car. She put on her sunglasses and went down the steps and across the scorching runway to where a driver was holding the back door open. He was dressed in a long cream tunic, with close-fitting trousers underneath and a turban on his head. He looked smart and cool, and she felt ridiculously underdressed in her jeans, ballet flats and loose T-shirt. Like a gauche westerner.
Someone was putting her cases into the boot, and Sylvie smiled as the driver bowed deferentially, indicating for her to get in.
She did so—with relief. Already craving the cool balm of air-conditioning. Already wanting to twist her long, heavy hair up and off her neck.
The door was closed quickly behind her and then a lot of things seemed to happen simultaneously: she heard the snick of the door locking, the driver slid into the front seat and the privacy partition slid up, and Sylvie realised that she wasn’t alone in the back of the car.
‘I trust you had a pleasant flight?’
The voice was deep, cool—and instantly, painfully, recognisable. Sylvie turned her head and everything seemed to go into slow motion.
Arkim Al-Sahid was sitting at the far side of the luxurious car, which was now moving. A fact she was only vaguely aware of. She went hot and cold all at once. Her belly dropped near her feet. Her breath was caught in her chest. Shock was seizing at her ability to respond.
He was dressed in his signature three-piece suit. As if they were in Paris or London. En route to some civilised place. Not here, in the middle of a harsh sun-beaten land. Here in the middle of nowhere. Here where she’d just thought nothing could touch her.
Arkim Al-Sahid looked so dark, and his face was etched in lines of cruelty.
A small voice jeered at Sylvie, Did you really think he would do nothing? And underneath the shock was the pounding of her heart that told her that perhaps, in some very deep and hidden secret space, she hadn’t thought he would do nothing. But she’d never expected this...
He reached forward and her sunglasses were plucked off her face and tucked away into his pocket before she could react. She blinked, and he came into sharp, clear focus. Dark hair brushed back from a high forehead. Deep-set eyes over sharp cheekbones. His patrician nose giving him a slightly hawk-like aspect.
And that mouth... That cruel and taunting mouth. The mouth that even now she could recall being on hers. Hard and demanding, sending her senses into overdrive. It was curved up into the semblance of a smile, but it was a smile unlike anything Sylvie had ever seen. It was a smile that promised retribution.
When she remained mute with shock, one dark brow arched up lazily. ‘Well, Sylvie? I’ll be exceedingly disappointed over the next two weeks if you’ve lost the ability to do anything with your tongue.’
* * *
Arkim tried to ignore the frantic rate of his pulse, which had burst to life as soon as he’d seen her distinctive shape appear in the doorway of the plane. Slim, yet womanly. Even in casual clothes.
Her glorious red hair glowed like the setting sun over the Arabian sea. Her face was as pale as alabaster, her skin perfect and flawless. Her eyes were huge and almond-shaped, giving her that feline quality, her left eye with that distinctive discolouration. It did nothing to diminish her appeal—it only enhanced it.
Irritation rose at her effortless ability to control his libido.
Arkim was about to say something else when she got out a little threadily, ‘Where are the other girls?’
He felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it down deep. He glanced briefly at his watch. ‘They’re most likely performing, as arranged, for the birthday celebrations of one of the Sultan’s chief advisors—Sheikh Abdel Al-Hani. They’ll be on a plane first thing tomorrow morning.’
If possible, Sylvie paled even more. It sent a jolt of something horribly like concern through him, reminding him of when her stepmother had slapped her in the church and how his first instinctive reaction had been to put himself between them. Not something he relished remembering now.
But now the shocked glaze was leaving her face, colour was surging back into her cheeks and her eyes were sparking. ‘So why am I not there too? What the hell is this, Arkim?’
Nurturing the sense of satisfaction at having Sylvie where he wanted her, rather than his other more tangled emotions, Arkim settled back into his seat. ‘Believe it or not, people here call me Sheikh too—a title conferred upon me by the Sultan himself...an old schoolfriend. But I digress. This is about payback. It’s about the fact that your jealous little tantrum had far-reaching consequences and you aren’t going to get away with it.’
Sylvie put out a hand and Arkim noticed it was trembling slightly. He ruthlessly pushed down his concern. Again. This woman didn’t deserve anything but his scorn.
‘So...what? You’re kidnapping me?’
Arkim picked a piece of lint off his jacket and then looked at her. ‘I’d call it a...a holiday. You came here of your own free will and you’re free to go at any time... It’s just not going to be that easy for you to leave when there’s no public transport and no mobile phone coverage, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I’m leaving too. In two weeks.’
Sylvie clenched her hands into fists on her lap, her jaw tight. ‘I’ll damn well walk across the desert if I have to.’
Arkim was calm. ‘Try it and you’ll be lucky to last twenty-four hours. It’s certain death for anyone who doesn’t know the lie of this land—not to mention the fact that someone as fair as you would fry to a crisp.’
Sylvie was reeling, and trying hard not to show it. She felt as if she’d fallen through a wormhole and everything was upside down and inside out. Panic tightened her gut.
‘What about my job? I’m expected back—it was only supposed to be a one-night event.’
Arkim’s face was scarily expressionless. It made her want to reach across and slap him, to see some kind of reaction.
‘Your job is unaffected. Your boss has been recompensed very generously for the use of your time. So much so, in fact, that I believe he can finally start the renovations he’s been wanting to do for years. As a result of my generous donation the revue is actually closing for a month from next week, while they do the work.’
She had to choke back a lurch of even greater panic; it was common knowledge how much Pierre wanted to renovate—he’d been begging for loans from banks for months. And this would be perfect timing...before the high tourist season.
She spluttered. ‘Pierre would never let one of his girls go off on an assignment alone. He’ll raise hell when I don’t return, no matter how much you’ve offered him!’
Arkim smiled, and it was cold. ‘Pierre is like anyone else in this world—mesmerised when large sums of money are mentioned. He’s been assured that your services are required as dance teacher to one of the Sheikh’s daughters and her friends, who want to learn the western way of dancing. The fact that you’re here with me instead is something he doesn’t need to be aware of.’
Sylvie folded her arms, trying to not let on how scared she was. She injected mockery into her voice. ‘I’m surprised. I would have thought your morals wouldn’t allow you to come within ten feet of me—much less arrange a private performance.’
Arkim was no longer smiling. ‘I’m prepared to risk a little moral corruption for what I want—and I want you.’
She sucked in a breath at hearing him declare it so baldly. ‘I should have known you’d have no scruples. So you’ve effectively bought me? Like some kind of call girl?’
Arkim’s mouth curled up into that cruel smile again. ‘Come now...we both know that that’s not so far from the truth of what you are.’
This time Sylvie couldn’t hold back. She was across the seat and launching herself at Arkim, hand outstretched, ready to strike, when he caught her wrists in his hands. They were like steel manacles, and she fell heavily against his body.
Instantly awareness sparked to life, infusing her veins with heat and electricity. Even now, when she was in the grip of panic and anger.
‘Let me go.’
Arkim’s jaw was like granite, and this close she could see the depths of anger banked deep in his eyes. He was livid. She felt a quiver of real fear—even though, perversely, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her physically.
‘No way. We have unfinished business and we’re not leaving this place until it’s done.’
Sylvie was excruciatingly aware of her body, pressed to Arkim’s much harder and more powerful one. Of the way her breasts were crushed against him, as they’d been crushed against him once before...when he’d thrust her back from him and looked at her as if she’d given him a contagious disease.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.
The expression in his eyes changed for the first time, flashing with a heat that Sylvie felt deep in her belly.
‘What I’m talking about is the fact that I’m going to have you—over and over again—for however long it takes until I can think straight again.’ A note of unmistakable bitterness entered his voice. ‘You’ve done it, Sylvie—you’ve got me.’
She finally broke free from Arkim’s grip and sat back, as far away as she could. ‘I don’t want you.’ Liar, whispered an inner voice. She ignored it. She hated Arkim Al-Sahid. ‘As soon as this car stops I’m out of here, and you can’t stop me.’
Arkim merely looked amused. ‘Each time we’ve met you’ve demonstrated how much you want me, so protesting otherwise won’t work now. Where we’re going has no public transport, and it would take you about a week to walk to B’harani—days in any other direction before you hit civilisation.’
Sylvie crossed her arms over her chest, a feeling of claustrophobia threatening to strangle her. ‘This is ridiculous.’ The thought of being alone with this man in some remote desert for the next two weeks was overwhelming. ‘You can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do, you know.’
He looked at her, and there was something so explicit in his gaze that she felt herself blushing.
‘I won’t need to use force, Sylvie.’
And just like that the humiliation she’d felt that night in the study of her father’s house came back and rolled over her like a wave.
She fought it. ‘This just proves how little you really felt for my sister. Hurting me will only hurt her.’
The expression on Arkim’s face became incredulous at the mention of Sophie ‘You dare speak to me of hurting your sister? When you were the one who callously humiliated her in public?’
Words of defence trembled on Sylvie’s tongue, but she bit them back. She would never betray her sister’s confidence. Sophie had just been a pawn to him. It never would have worked. She had to remember that. She’d done the right thing.
But then she saw something in the distance and became distracted.
Arkim followed her gaze and said, ‘Ah, we’re here.’
Here was another, even smaller airfield, with a sleek black helicopter standing ready.
Slightly hysterically Sylvie remembered something she’d learnt when she’d taken self-defence classes after a—luckily—minor mugging in Paris. The tutor had told the class the importance of not letting an attacker take you to another location at all costs. Because if he did get you to another place, then your chances of survival were dramatically cut down.
It would appear to be common sense, but the tutor had told them numerous stories of people who had been so frightened they’d just let themselves be taken to another place, when they should always have tried to get away during the initial attack.
And okay, so technically Arkim wasn’t attacking Sylvie, but she knew that if she got into that helicopter her chances of emerging from this encounter unscathed were nil.
The car came to a stop and he looked at her. ‘Time to go.’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘I’m not getting out. I’m staying in this car and it’s going to take me back to wherever we landed. Or to B’harani. I hear it’s a nice city—I’d like to visit.’
She hoped the desperation she was feeling wasn’t evident.
He turned to face her more fully. ‘This car is driven by a man who speaks only one language, and it’s not yours. He answers to me—no one else.’
The sheer hardness of Arkim’s expression told her she was on a hiding to nothing. A sense of futility washed over her. She wouldn’t win this round.
‘Where is it that you’re proposing to take me?’
‘It’s a house I own on the Arabian coast. North of B’harani and one hundred miles from the border of Burquat. Merkazad is in a westerly direction, about six hundred miles.’
The geographical details somehow made Sylvie feel calmer, even though she still had no real clue where they were. She’d heard of these places, but never been.
Something occurred to her. ‘This...’ her mouth twisted ‘...this fee you’ve paid Pierre. I assume it’s conditional on my agreeing to this farcical non-existent dance tuition?’
Arkim nodded. ‘That’s good business sense, I think you’ll agree.’
Sylvie wanted to tell him where he could stick his business sense, but she refrained. She didn’t doubt that there really was no option but to go with Arkim. For now.
‘Once we’re at this...this place, you won’t force me to do anything I don’t want to?’
Arkim shook his head, eyes gleaming with a disturbing light. ‘No, Sylvie. There will be no force involved. I’m not into sadism.’
His smug arrogance made her want to try and slap him again. Instead, she sent him a wide, sunny, smile. ‘You know, work has been so crazy busy lately I’m actually looking forward to an all-expenses-paid break. The fact that I have to share space with you is unfortunate, but I’m sure we can stay out of each other’s way.’
Arkim just smiled slowly, and with an air of sensual menace, as if he knew just how flimsy her bravado was.
‘We’ll see.’
* * *
Sylvie had never been in a helicopter before, and she’d been more mesmerised than she cared to admit by the way the desert dunes had unfolded beneath them, undulating into the distance like the sinuous curves of a body. It all seemed utterly foreign and yet captivating to her.
Her stomach was only just beginning to climb back down from her throat when she heard a deep voice in her ear through the headphones.
‘That’s my house, Al-Hibiz, directly down and to your left.’
Sylvie looked down and her breath was taken away. House? This was no house. It looked like a small but formidable castle, complete with ramparts and flat roofs. It was distinctly Arabic in style, with ochre-coloured walls. Within those walls she could see lush gardens, and in the distance the Arabian sea sparkled. What looked like an oasis lay far off in the distance, a spot of deep green. It was like something out of a fairytale.
It distracted her from the shock she still felt after realising that Arkim was co-piloting the helicopter, and the way his hands had lingered as he’d strapped her in, those fingers resting far too close to her breasts under her thin T-shirt.
He should have looked ridiculous, getting into the cockpit still dressed in his suit, against the backdrop of the stark desert, but he hadn’t. He’d looked completely at home, powerful and utterly in control.
And now the helicopter was descending onto a flat area just outside the walls of the castle, which looked much bigger from this vantage point.
Sylvie could see robed men waiting, holding on to their long garments and the turbans on their heads as the helicopter kicked up sand and wind. When the craft bounced gently onto the earth she breathed out a deep sigh of relief, unaware of how tense she’d been.
The helicopter blades stopped turning and a delicious silence settled over them for a moment, before Arkim got out and the men approached. She watched as he greeted the men heartily in a guttural language that still managed to sound melodic, a wide smile on his face.
It took her breath away. It was the first genuine smile she’d ever seen on his face. Admittedly their previous encounters hadn’t exactly been conducive to such a reaction. Not unless she counted that sexy smile when his hand had explored between her legs—
‘Time to get out, Sylvie. I’m afraid the chopper has to go back and you’re not going to be in it.’
She scowled, hating to be caught out in such a memory. She fumbled with the seat belt and swatted his hand away when he would have helped. Eventually it came undone and she extricated her arms, unaware of how the movement pulled her T-shirt taut over her breasts, or of how Arkim’s dark gaze settled there for a moment with a flash of hunger. If she’d seen that she might well have barricaded herself into the helicopter, come hell or high water.
But then she was out, and swaying a little unsteadily on the firm sun-baked ground.
Staff dressed in white rushed to and fro, loading luggage into the back of a small people carrier, and then Arkim was leading Sylvie over to what looked like a luxurious golf buggy. He indicated for her to get in, and after a moment’s futile rebellion she did so.
She really was stuck here now—with him.
He got in beside her and drove the small open-sided vehicle to the entrance of the castle, where huge wooden doors were standing open. They entered a beautiful airy courtyard, with a fountain in the centre. A deliciously cool gentle mist of moisture settled on her skin from the spray.
But the vehicle had stopped now, and Arkim was at her side, holding out a hand. Sylvie ignored it and stepped out, not wanting to see what would undoubtedly be a mocking look on his face.
When he didn’t move, though, she had to look at him. He gestured with a hand and—damn him—a mocking smile.
‘Welcome to my home, Sylvie. I expect our time here to be...cathartic.’
