She watched as a black Bentley swept in beneath the portico. The driver emerged, spoke briefly to the attendant, then strode indoors to receive the concierge’s attention, who, after listening intently, gave an indicative nod in Kristi’s direction.
Intrigued, she waited for him to reach her.
‘Miss Dalton?’ He produced ID and waited patiently while she scrutinised it. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed has instructed me to drive you to his home in Berkshire.’
Her stomach performed a backward flip, then settled with an uneasy fluttering of nerves. His territory, when she’d hoped for the relative safety of a restaurant in which to conduct negotiations.
The success of her ploy rested on one single fact: information that was known to only a privileged few. Her source had extracted a vow of secrecy—a promise she intended to honour despite any threat Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed could throw at her.
The large vehicle escaped the city’s outskirts, gathered speed, its passage becoming much too swift for Kristi’s peace of mind.
It was stupid to feel so nervous, she rationalised as the Bentley slid between the heavy wrought-iron gates and progressed up the curved drive. Insane to feel afraid when the house was staffed with a complement of servants. Yet she was consumed with a measure of both when the door opened and Rochelle ushered her inside.
‘May I take your coat?’ With it folded across one arm, she indicated a door to her right. ‘Come through to the lounge.’
The room was measurably smaller than the large, formal lounge used for last night’s party, Kristi observed as she followed Rochelle’s gesture and sank down into one of the several deep-seated sofas.
‘Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Orange juice? Tea or coffee?’
Hot, fragrant tea sounded wonderful, and she said as much, accepting the steaming cup minutes later.
‘If you’ll excuse me?’ Rochelle queried. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed will join you shortly.’
Was it a deliberate tactic on his part to keep her waiting? In all probability, Kristi conceded as she sipped the excellent brew.
He had a reputation as a powerful strategist, a man who hired and fired without hesitation in his quest for dedication and commitment from his employees. The pursuit of excellence in all things, at any cost. Wasn’t that the consensus of everything she’d managed to learn about him? Admires enterprise, respects equals and dismisses fools.
But what of the man behind the image? Had the contrast between two vastly different cultures caused a conflict of interest and generated a recentment that he didn’t totally belong to either? Little was known of his personal life as a child, whether his mother favoured a strict British upbringing or willingly allowed him knowledge of his father’s religion and customs.
If there had been any problems, it would appear that he’d dealt with and conquered them, Kristi reflected as she replaced the cup down on its saucer.
‘Miss Dalton.’
She gave a start of surprise at the sound of his voice. His entry into the room had been as silent as that of a cat.
‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed,’ she acknowledged with a calmness that she was far from feeling. If she’d still been holding the cup it would have rattled as it touched the saucer.
‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’
He didn’t offer a reason, and she didn’t feel impelled to ask for one. Her eyes were cool and distant as they met his, her features assembled into a mask of deliberate politeness.
‘You’ve finished your tea. Would you care for some more?’
The tailored black trousers and white chambray shirt highlighted his powerful frame—attire that verged on the informal, and a direct contrast to the evening suit of last night.
It made her feel overdressed, her suit too blatant a statement with its dramatic red figure-hugging skirt and fitted jacket. Sheer black hose and black stilettos merely added emphasis.
‘No. Thank you,’ she added as she sank back against the cushions in a determined bid to match his detachment.
‘I trust the burn no longer causes you discomfort?’
The skin was still inflamed and slightly tender, but there was no sign of blistering. ‘It’s fine.’
He accepted her assurance without comment. ‘Dinner will be served in half an hour.’
‘You do intend to feed me.’ The words emerged with a tinge of mockery, and she saw one of his eyebrows slant in a gesture of cynicism.
‘I clearly specified dinner.’
Kristi forced herself to conduct a silent study of his features, observing the broad, powerfully defined cheekbones and the sensual shaping of his mouth. Dark slate-grey eyes possessed an almost predatory alertness, and she couldn’t help wondering if they could display any real tenderness.
A woman would have to be very special to penetrate his self-imposed armour. Did he ever let down his guard, or derive enjoyment from the simple pleasures in life? In the boardroom he was regarded as an icon. And in the bedroom? There could be little doubt that he would possess the technique to drive a woman wild, but did he ever care enough to become emotionally involved? Was he, in turn, driven mad with passion? Or did he choose to distance himself?
It was something she would never know, Kristi decided with innate honesty. Something she never wanted to know.
‘Shall we define what arrangements need to be made?’ It was a bold beginning, especially when she felt anything but bold.
One eyebrow rose in a dark curve. ‘We have the evening, Miss Dalton. An initial exchange of pleasantries would not be untoward, surely?’ It was a statement, politely voiced, but there was steel beneath the silk. A fact she chose to heed—in part.
‘Do you usually advocate wasting time during a business meeting?’ Kristi proffered civilly.
‘I conduct business in my office.’
‘And entertain in your home?’
‘Our discussion contains a politically delicate element which would be best not overheard by fellow diners, don’t you agree?’ he drawled, noting the tight clasp of her fingers as she laced her hands together.
She drew a deep breath and deliberately tempered its release. ‘We are alone now.’
His smile held no pretension to humour. ‘I suggest you contain your impatience until after dinner.’
It took a tremendous effort to contain her anger. ‘If you insist.’
He registered the set of her shoulders as she unconsciously squared them, the almost prim placing of one silk-encased ankle over the other. ‘Why not enjoy a light wine? Diluted, if you choose, with soda water.’
It might help her relax. She needed to, desperately. ‘Thank you. Three-quarters soda.’
Why couldn’t he be older, and less masculine? Less forceful, with little evidence of a raw virility that played havoc with her nervous system? Last night he had dominated a room filled with guests and succeeded in diminishing her defences. A fact she’d put down to circumstance and acute anxiety. Yet tonight she was aware that nothing had changed.
His very presence was unnerving, and she consciously fought against his physical magnetism as she accepted the glass from his hand.
‘You are a photographer,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed stated as he took a comfortable chair opposite. His movements were fluid, lithe, akin to those of a large cat. ‘Did you chose to follow in your brother’s footsteps?’
Conversation. That’s all it is, she reminded herself as she took an appreciative sip of the spritzer. It was cool and crisp to the palate, pleasant.
‘Not deliberately. Shane was the older brother I adored as a child,’ Kristi explained, prey to a host of images, all of them fond. ‘Consequently I was intensely interested in everything he did. Photography became his obsession. Soon it was mine,’ she concluded simply.
‘Initially within Australia, then to various capitals throughout the world.’
‘Facts you were able to access from my dossier.’
He lifted his tumbler and took a long draught of his own drink. ‘A concise jou
rnalistic account.’ His eyes speared hers, dark and relentless beneath the slightly hooded lids. ‘Words which can’t begin to convey several of the offbeat assignments you were contracted to undertake.’
‘Photographs, even video coverage, don’t adequately express the horror of poverty, illness and famine in some Third World countries. The hopelessness that transcends anger, the acceptance of hunger. The utter helplessness one feels at being able to do so little. The impossibility of distancing yourself from the harsh reality of it all, aware that you’re only there for as long as it takes to do your job, before driving a Jeep out to the nearest airstrip and boarding a cargo shuttle that transports you back to civilisation, where you pick up your life again and attempt to pretend that what you saw, what you experienced, was just a bad dream.’
‘Until the next time.’
‘Until the next time,’ Kristi echoed.
He surveyed her thoughtfully for several long seconds. ‘You’re very good at what you do.’
She inclined her head and ventured, with a touch of mockery, ‘But you can’t understand why I failed to settle for freelancing and filling the society pages, in a photographic studio, as my parents did.’
‘The lack of challenge?’
Oh, yes. But it had been more than that—a great deal more. The photographic studio still operated, as a mark of respect for their parents, run by a competent photographer called Annie who doubled as secretary. It was an arrangement which worked very well, for it allowed Kristi freedom to pursue international assignments.
‘And a desire to become your brother’s equal.’
She digested his words, momentarily intrigued by a possibility that had never occurred to her until this man had voiced it. ‘You make it sound as if I wanted to compete against him,’ she said slowly, ‘when that was never the case.’
‘Yet you have chosen dangerous locations,’ he pursued, watching the play of emotions on her expressive features.
Her eyes assumed a depth and dimension that mirrored her inner feelings. ‘I don’t board a plane and flit off to the other side of the world every second week. Sometimes there are months in between assignments, and I spend that time working out of the studio, attending social events, taking the society shots, sharing the family-portrait circuit with Annie.’ She paused momentarily. ‘When I undertake an assignment I want my work to matter, to encapsulate on film precisely what is needed to bring the desired result.’ The passion was clearly evident in her voice, and there was a soft tinge of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘Whether that be preserving a threatened environmental area or revealing the horrors of deprivation.’
‘There are restrictions imposed on women photographers?’
It was a fact which irked her unbearably.
‘Unfortunately feminism and equality in the workforce haven’t acquired universal recognition.’
‘Have you not once considered what your fate might have been if it had been you, and not your brother, who had taken a miscalculated risk and landed in the hands of political dissidents?’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed queried with dangerous softness as he finished his drink and placed the glass down on a nearby side-table.
Topaz-gold chips glowed deep in her eyes as she subjected him to the full force of a hateful glare. A hand lifted and smoothed a drifting tendril of hair behind one ear. ‘Shane refused to allow me to accompany him.’
‘Something for which you should be eternally grateful,’ he stated hardly.
Kristi caught the slight tightening of facial muscles that transformed his features into a hard mask. Impenetrable, she observed, together with a hint of autocratic arrogance that was undoubtedly attributable to his paternal forebears, and which added an element of ruthlessness to his demeanour.
‘It would appear that, although a fool, your brother is not totally stupid.’
‘Don’t you dare—’
She halted mid-sentence as Rochelle entered the room unannounced. ‘Hilary is ready to serve dinner.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed nodded briefly, and Rochelle exited as soundlessly as she had appeared.
‘You were saying?’
‘You have no reason to insult my brother,’ she asserted fiercely.
He smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Familial loyalty can sometimes appear blind.’ He stood and moved towards her. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’
‘Kristi tried to bank down her resentment as she vacated the chair. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite:
‘Perhaps you can attempt to find it.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE dining room was smaller than she’d imagined, although scarcely small, with its beautiful antique table and seating for eight, and a long chiffonier. Glassed cabinets housed an enviable collection of china and crystal. Expensive paintings and gilt-framed mirrors adorned the walls, and light from electric candles was reflected in an exquisite crystal chandelier. Several silver-domed covers dominated the table, with its centrepiece of exotic orchids.
Kristi slid into the chair that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed held out for her, then he moved round to take a seat opposite.
A middle-aged woman with pleasant features busied herself removing covers from the heated platters, then indicated a choice of desserts and the cheeseboard, laid out atop the chiffonier.
With a cheerful smile, Hilary—it had to be Hilary, Kristi surmised—turned toward her employer. ‘Shall I serve the soup?’
‘Thank you, Hilary. We’ll manage.’
‘Ring when you require coffee.’
He removed the lid from a china tureen. ‘I trust you enjoy leek and potato soup, Miss Dalton?’
‘Yes.’
He took her plate and ladled out a medium portion before tending to his own. ‘Bon appetit,’ he said with a tinge of mockery, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.
The soup was delicious, and followed by superb beef Wellington with an assortment of vegetables.
‘Wine?’
‘Just a little,’ Kristi agreed, motioning for him to stop when the glass was half-filled.
He ate with an economy of movement, his hands broad, with a sprinkling of dark hair, the fingers long, well formed and obviously strong. She could imagine them reining in a horse and manoeuvring the wheel of a rugged four-wheel drive. Gently drifting over the skin of a responsive woman. Hell, where did that come from? Her hand paused midway to her mouth, then she carefully returned the fork to rest on her plate. The pressure of the past few weeks, culminating over the last two days, had finally taken its toll. She was going insane. There seemed no other logical explanation for the passage of her thoughts.
‘Can I help you to some more vegetables?’
Her vision cleared, and she swallowed in an endeavour to ease the constriction in her throat. ‘No. Thank you,’ she added in a voice that sounded slightly husky.
He had eaten more quickly than she, consuming twice the amount of food.
‘Dessert?’
She settled for some fresh fruit, and followed it with a sliver of brie, observing his choice of apple crumble with cream. The man had a sweet tooth. Somehow it made him seem more human.
‘Shall we return to the lounge for coffee?’
‘Thank you,’ she returned politely, watching as he dispensed with his napkin. Kristi did likewise and then stood.
He moved to the door and opened it, ushering her into the hallway.
A host of butterfly wings began to flutter inside her stomach. The past two hours had been devoted to observing the conventions. Now it was down to business. And somehow she had to convince him that she’d use the information she held against him in order to ensure that he would enlist Mehmet Hassan’s help in freeing her brother.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed bade her as they entered the lounge, and she watched as he pressed an electronic button beside the wall-switch. ‘Hilary will bring coffee.’
Kristi sank into the same chair she’d occupied on her arrival. ‘Sheik
h bin Al-Sayed.’ Now that the moment had come, it was costing her more effort than she’d envisaged. ‘Dinner was very pleasant,’ she began. ‘But now—’
‘You want to discuss business,’ he concluded with a touch of mockery as he took the chair opposite.
‘Yes.’
He placed an elbow on each arm of the chair and steepled his fingers, assuming an enigmatic expression that she couldn’t begin to fathom. ‘The ball is in your court, Miss Dalton. I suggest you play it.’
Her eyes were steady, the tip of her chin tilting at a firm angle as she carefully put the metaphorical ball in motion. ‘When do you plan leaving for Riyadh?’
‘Next week.’
The butterfly wings increased their tempo inside her stomach. ‘With your influence I imagine that allows sufficient time to have the necessary sponsorship papers processed.’
‘Indeed.’
So far, so good. ‘Perhaps you could let me have flight details, and any relevant information I need.’
He was silent for several seconds, and the silence seemed to grow louder with each one that passed.
‘The flight details are simple, Miss Dalton. We board a commercial airline to Bahrain, then take my private jet to Riyadh.’ He regarded her with an intensity that had the butterfly wings beating a frantic tattoo. ‘Not so simple is the reason for your accompanying me.’
It seemed such a small detail. ‘Why?’
‘My father’s third wife and her two daughters live in the palace, each of whom will be wildly curious as to why I have chosen to bring a woman with me.’
Surprise widened her eyes. ‘You’re joking. Aren’t you?’ she queried doubtfully.
‘Since I can avail myself of any woman I choose,’ he drawled hatefully, ‘the fact that I have brought one with me will be viewed as having considerable significance—not only by my late father’s family, but by several of my friends.’ He smiled—a mere facsimile which held an element of pitiless disregard. ‘Tell me, Miss Dalton, would you prefer to be accepted as the woman in my life, or a—’ he paused imperceptibly ‘—transitory attraction?’
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