Except she’d become tired of waiting, tired of hearing different voices intoning the same words endlessly day after day. She wanted action. Action that Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed might be able to generate, given that his assistance with delicate negotiations in a similar situation more than a year ago had resulted in the successful release of a hostage.
The slim hope that she might be able to persuade him to use his influence to set her brother free had been sufficient for her to book the next available flight to London and arrange accommodation.
Yet in the two weeks since her arrival Kristi’s telephone calls had been politely fielded, her faxes ignored. Even baldly turning up at his suite of offices had met with failure. The man was virtually inaccessible, his privacy guarded from unwanted intrusion.
Kristi’s long-standing friendship with Georgina Harrington, the daughter of a foreign diplomat, with whom she’d attended boarding-school, provided the opportunity to meet the Sheikh on a social level. There could be no doubt that without Sir Alexander Harrington’s help she would never have gained an invitation to tonight’s soirée.
The decision to replace Georgina with Kristi as Sir Alexander’s partner had been instigated by a telephone call to the Sheikh’s secretary, and had been closely followed by a fax notifying him that Georgina had fallen prey to a virulent virus and would not be able to attend. It had gone on to ask if there would be any objection to Kristi Dalton, aged twenty-seven, a friend of long-standing, taking Georgina’s place. Details for security purposes were supplied. Acknowledgement together with an acceptance had been faxed through the following day.
The taxi cruised through the streets, the glisten of recent rain sparkling beneath the headlights. London in winter was vastly different from the Southern hemispheric temperatures of Australia, and for a moment she thought longingly of bright sunshine, blue skies and the sandy beaches gracing Queensland’s tropical coast.
It didn’t take long to reach Sir Alexander’s elegant, three-storeyed apartment, and within minutes of paying off the taxi she was drawn into the lounge and handed a glass containing an innocuous mix of lime, lemonade and bitters.
‘Ravishing, darling,’ Georgina accorded with genuine admiration for Kristi’s appearance—a compliment which was endorsed by Sir Alexander.
‘Thank you,’ Kristi acknowledged with a slightly abstracted smile.
So much rested on the next few hours. In her mind she had rehearsed precisely how she would act, what she would say, until the imagery almost assumed reality. There could be no room for failure.
‘I’ve instructed Ralph to have the car out front at five-thirty,’ Sir Alexander informed her. ‘When you have finished your drink, my dear, we will leave.’
Kristi felt the knot of tension tighten in her stomach, and she attempted to disguise her apprehension as Georgina gave her a swift hug.
‘Good luck. I’ll ring you tomorrow and we’ll get together for lunch.’
Sir Alexander’s car was an aged Rolls, the man behind the wheel a valued servant who had been with the Harrington family for so many years that employer and employee had given up trying to remember the number.
‘The traffic is light, sir,’ Ralph intoned as he eased the large vehicle forward. ‘I estimate we will reach the Sheikh’s Berkshire manor in an hour.’
It took precisely three minutes less, Kristi noted as they slowed to a halt before a massive set of wrought-iron gates flanked by two security guards.
Ralph supplied their invitation and sufficient proof of identity, then, as the gates swung open, he eased the Rolls towards the main entrance where they were greeted by yet another guard.
‘Miss Dalton. Sir Harrington. Good evening.’
To the inexperienced eye he appeared to be one of the hired help. Given the evening’s occasion, there was a valid reason for the mobile phone held in one hand. Yet the compilation of information that Kristi had accumulated about his employer left her in little doubt that there was a regulation shoulder-holster beneath his suit jacket, his expertise in the field of martial arts and marksmanship a foregone conclusion.
A butler stood inside the heavily panelled front door, and Kristi relinquished her coat to him before being led at Sir Alexander’s side by a delegated hostess to join fellow guests in a room that could only have been described as sumptuous.
Gilt-framed mirrors and original works of art graced silk-covered walls, and it would have been sacrilege to suggest that the furniture was other than French antique. Multi-faceted prisms of light were reflected from three exquisite crystal chandeliers.
‘I’ll have one of the waiters bring you something to drink. If you’ll excuse me?’
An elaborate buffet was presented for personal selection, and there were several uniformed waitresses circling the room, carrying trays laden with gourmet hors d’oeuvres.
Muted background music was barely distinguishable beneath the sound of chattering voices, and Kristi’s smile was polite as Sir Alexander performed an introduction to the wife of an English earl who had recently presented her husband with a long-awaited son.
Kristi scanned the room idly, observing fellow guests with fleeting interest. Black dinner suit, crisp white cotton shirt and black bow-tie were de rigueur for the men, and her experienced eye detected a number of women wearing designer gowns whose hair and make-up bore evidence of professional artistry.
Her gaze slid to a halt, arrested by a man whose imposing height and stature set him apart from everyone else in the room.
Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed.
Newspaper photographs and coloured prints in the pages of glossy magazines didn’t do him justice, for in the flesh he exuded an animal sense of power—a physical magnetism that was riveting.
An assemblage of finely honed muscle accented a broad bone structure, and his facial features bore the sculpted prominence of inherited genes. Dark, well-groomed hair and olive skin proclaimed the stamp of his paternal lineage.
Information regarding his background gleaned from press releases depicted him as the son of an Arabian prince and an English mother—a woman who, it was said, had agreed to an Islamic wedding ceremony which had never been formalised outside Saudi Arabia, and after a brief sojourn in her husband’s palace had fled back to England where she’d steadfastly refused, despite giving birth to a much coveted son, to return to a country where women were subservient to men and took second place to an existing wife.
Yet the love affair between the Prince and his English wife had continued to flourish during his many visits to London, until her untimely death, whereupon the ten-year-old Shalef had been removed from England by his father and introduced to his Arabian heritage.
Now in his late thirties, Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed had won himself international respect among his peers for his entrepreneurial skills, and in the years since his father’s demise his name had become synonymous with immense wealth.
A man no sensible person would want as an enemy, Kristi perceived wryly. Attired in a a superbly cut evening suit, there was an elemental ruthlessness beneath his sophisticated façade.
As if some acute sense alerted him to her scrutiny, he lifted his head, and for a few timeless seconds his eyes locked with hers.
The room and its occupants seemed to fade to the periphery of her vision as she suffered his raking appraisal, and she was unable to control the slow heat coursing through her veins. Intense awareness vibrated from every nerve cell, lifting the fine body hairs on the surface of her skin.
No man of her acquaintance had made her feel so acutely vulnerable, and she found the sensation disconcerting. Had it been any other man, she would have displayed no interest and openly challenged his veiled evaluation. With Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of doing so.
For one split second she glimpsed lurking cynicism in his expression, then his attention was diverted by a man who greeted him with the earnest deference of the emotionally insecure.
The st
udy of body language had been an integral part of her training as a photographer, inasmuch as she’d consciously chosen to emphasise the positive rather than the negative in the posed, still shots that had provided her bread and butter in the early days of her career in her parents’ Double Bay photographic studio.
Kristi’s gaze lingered, her interest entirely professional. Or so she told herself as she observed the slant of Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed’s head, the movement of his sensually moulded mouth as he engaged in polite conversation, the piercing directness of his gaze. To the unwary he appeared totally relaxed, yet there was tensile steel apparent in his stance, a silent strength that was entirely primitive. And infinitely dangerous.
A feather of fear pricked the base of her neck and slithered slowly down the length of her spine. As an enemy he would be lethal.
‘Kristi.’
She turned at the sound of her name and gave Sir Alexander a warm smile.
‘Allow me to introduce Annabel and Lance Shrewsbury.’ His voice was so incredibly polite that Kristi’s eyes held momentary mischief before it was quickly masked. ‘Kristi Dalton, a valued friend from Australia.’
‘Australia!’ Annabel exclaimed in a voice that diminished the country to a position of geographical obscurity. ‘I’m fascinated. Do you live on a farm out there?’
‘Sydney,’ Kristi enlightened her politely. ‘A city with a population in excess of five million.’ She shouldn’t have resorted to wry humour, she knew, but she couldn’t help adding, ‘The large farms are called stations, each comprising millions of acres.’
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Good heavens. Millions?’
‘Indeed,’ Kristi responded solemnly. ‘A plane or helicopter is used to check boundary fences and monitor stock.’
Annabel suppressed a faint shudder. ‘All that red dirt, the heat, and the snakes. My dear, I couldn’t live there.’ Red-tipped fingers fluttered in an aimless gesture, matching in colour the red-glossed mouth, and in perfection the expensive orthodontic work, and the considerable skill of cosmetic surgery.
Thirty, going on forty-five, married to a wealthy member of the aristocracy, and born to shop, Kristi summarised, endeavouring not to be uncharitable.
‘Sir Alexander.’
Awareness arrowed through her body at the sound of that smooth, well-educated drawl, and she turned slowly to greet their host.
His shirt was of the finest cotton, his dinner suit immaculately tailored to fit his broad frame, and this close she could sense the clean smell of soap mingling with the exclusive tones of his cologne.
Unbidden, her eyes were drawn to his mouth, and she briefly examined its curve and texture, stifling the involuntary query as to what it would be like to have that mouth possess her own. Heaven and hell, a silent voice taunted, dependent on his mood. There was a hint of cruelty apparent, a ruthlessness that both threatened and enticed. A man who held an undeniable attraction for women, she perceived, yet willing to be tamed by very few.
It was almost as if he was able to read her thoughts, for she glimpsed musing mockery in those slate-grey eyes—a colour that was in direct defiance of nature’s genetics, and the only visible feature that gave evidence of his maternal ancestry.
‘Miss Dalton.’
‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed,’ Kristi acknowledged formally, aware that his gaze rested fractionally long on her hair before lowering to conduct a leisurely appraisal of her features.
It was crazy to feel intensely conscious of every single breath, every beat of her pulse. Silent anger lent her eyes a fiery sparkle, and it took considerable effort to mask it. An effort made all the more difficult as she glimpsed his amusement before he turned his attention to Sir Alexander.
‘Georgina is unwell, I understand?’
‘She asks me to convey her apologies,’ Sir Alexander offered. ‘She is most disappointed not to be able to attend this evening.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘It is to be hoped she recovers soon: He moved forward to speak to a woman who showed no reticence in greeting him with obvious affection.
‘Would you care for another drink?’
Kristi felt as if she’d been running a marathon, and she forced herself to breathe evenly as everything in the room slid into focus. The unobtrusive presence of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and she placed her empty glass on the tray. ‘Mineral water, no ice.’ She didn’t need the complication of a mind dulled by the effects of alcohol.
‘Would you like me to get you something to eat, my dear?’ Sir Alexander queried. ‘Several of the guests seem to be converging on the buffet.’
Kristi summoned a warm smile as she linked her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we join them? I’m feeling quite hungry.’ It was a downright lie, but Sir Alexander wasn’t to know that.
There was so much to choose from, she decided minutes later: hot and cold dishes, salads, hot vegetables, delicate slices of smoked salmon, seafood, chicken, turkey, roast lamb, slender cuts of beef. The selection of desserts would have put any of the finest London restaurants to shame, and the delicate ice sculptures were a visual confirmation of the chef’s artistic skill.
Kristi took two slices of smoked salmon, added a small serving of three different salads, a scoop of caviare, then drifted to one side of the room.
How many guests were present tonight? she pondered idly. Fifty, possibly more? It was impossible to attempt a counting of heads, so she didn’t even try.
Sir Alexander appeared to have been trapped by a society matron who seemed intent on discussing something of great importance, given the intensity of her expression.
‘All alone, chérie? Such a crime.’
The accent was unmistakably French, and she moved slightly to allow her view to encompass the tall frame of a man whose smiling features bore a tinge of practised mockery.
‘You will permit me to share a few minutes with you as we eat?’
She effected a faint shrug. ‘Why not? We’re fellow guests.’
‘You are someone I would like to get to know—very well.’ The pause was calculated, the delicate emphasis unmistakable.
Kristi’s French was flawless, thanks to a degree in Italian and French, her knowledge and accent honed by a year spent in each country. ‘I am selective when it comes to choosing a friend—or a lover, monsieur.’ Her smile was singularly sweet. ‘It is, perhaps, unfortunate that I do not intend to remain in London long enough to devote time to acquiring one or the other.’
‘I travel extensively. We could easily meet.’
His persistence amused her. ‘I think not.’
‘You do not know who I am?’
‘That is impossible, as we have yet to be introduced,’ she managed lightly. Perhaps she presented a challenge.
‘Enchanté, chérie.’ His eyes gleamed darkly as he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Jean-Claude Longchamp d’Elseve.’ He paused, head tilted slightly as he waited for an expected reaction. When she failed to comply, his mouth assumed a quizzical slant. ‘I cannot believe you lack the knowledge or the intelligence to be aware of the importance my family hold in France.’
‘Really?’
He was an amusing diversion, and he was sufficiently astute to appreciate it. ‘I am quite serious.’
‘So am I, Jean-Claude,’ she declared solemnly.
‘You make no attempt to acquaint me with your name. Does this mean I am to be rejected?’ The musing gleam in his eyes belied the wounded tone.
‘Do you not handle rejection well?’
His mouth parted in subdued laughter. ‘I am so rarely in such a position, it is something of a novelty.’
‘I’m relieved. I would hate to provide you with an emotional scar.’
He still held her hand, and his thumb traced a light pattern over the veins of her wrist. ‘Perhaps we could begin again. Will you have dinner with me?’
‘The answer is still the same.’
‘It will be relatively easy for
me to discover where you are staying.’
‘Please don’t,’ Kristi advised seriously.
‘Why not?’ His shrug was eloquent. ‘Am I such objectionable company?’
She pulled her hand free. ‘Not at all.’ She cast him a slight smile. ‘I simply have a tight business schedule and a full social calendar.’
The edge of his mouth curved in pensive humour. ‘You mean to leave me to another woman’s mercy?’
In different circumstances he might have proved to be an amusing companion. ‘I’m sure you can cope.’
His eyes gleamed with hidden warmth. ‘Perhaps. Although I may choose not to.’
‘Your prerogative,’ she accorded lightly. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I should rejoin Sir Alexander.’
Jean-Claude inclined his head and offered a teasing smile. ‘Au revoir, chérie.’
Her food had remained almost untouched, and she handed the plate to a passing waitress, her appetite gone.
Sir Alexander wasn’t difficult to find, although he appeared deep in conversation with a distinguished-looking guest and she was loath to interrupt them.
‘Champagne?’
Kristi cast the waitress and the tray she carried a fleeting glance. Perhaps she should have a glass to diffuse her nervous tension. Even as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. Coffee, strong black and sweet was what she needed, and she voiced the request, then made her way to the end of the buffet table where a uniformed maid was offering a variety of hot beverages.
Declining milk, she moved to one side and sipped the potent brew. The blend was probably excellent, but she hardly noticed as she steeled herself to instigate a planned action.
Seconds later her cup lay on the carpet, and the scalding liquid seared her midriff. The pain was intense—far more so than she’d anticipated.
‘Oh, my dear, how unfortunate. Are you all right?’ The voiced concern brought attention, and within minutes she was being led from the room by the hostess who had greeted them on arrival.
‘We keep the first-aid equipment in a bathroom next to the kitchen.’ The hostess’s voice was calm as she drew Kristi down a wide hallway and into a room that was clinically functional. ‘If you’ll remove your dress I’ll apply a cold compress to cool the skin.’
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