Awakened by Her Desert Captor Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    â€˜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