The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘Yet, as head of the palace, your opinion is sacrosanct.’ It was a statement, not a query.

  ‘Their welfare is very important to me. If they displayed bad judgement, and Nashwa requested me to intervene, I would hope to be able to persuade them to rethink the situation.’

  ‘And if you failed?’

  ‘I would take measures to ensure no mistakes were made.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Refuse to hand over their passports, the restriction of their allowance.’

  ‘Confine them to the palace?’

  ‘The palace is hardly a jail,’ Shalef reminded her. She ventured soberly, ‘It could be, if you didn’t want to be there.’

  ‘Since this is a purely hypothetical conversation, without any basis of fact, I suggest we change the subject.’

  ‘That’s a cop-out,’ Kristi protested.

  ‘A tactical sidestep,’ Shalef amended.

  ‘Because it’s an issue you don’t want to discuss?’

  ‘An issue that cannot be addressed without understanding of the Koran in a country which has no constitution. Much of the legal system is based on a straight application of Islamic sharia law as interpreted by the Hanbali school of Islamic jurisprudence, the most conservative of Sunni Islam’s four main legal schools.’

  ‘I see.’ It was a contemplative comment that brought a faint smile to his lips.

  ‘I doubt that you do.’

  She studied his features, wanting to dig beneath the surface and determine his personal views, rather than political observations. ‘And you, Shalef? Do you consider yourself fortunate to enjoy the best of both worlds? The Western and Islamic? Or are you frequently caught between the two?’

  ‘I accept my Arabian heritage, for that was my father’s wish.’

  ‘And when you marry, will you follow the Islamic tradition by taking more than one wife?’

  ‘I would hope to choose a wife whose love for me would be such that there was no need to seek another.’

  ‘But what of your love for her?’

  ‘You doubt I could please a wife?’

  He was amused, and it rankled. ‘Sex is only one aspect of a marriage. There has to be mutual respect, emotional support,’ she ventured. ‘And love.’

  ‘Many women would forgo the last three in exchange for wealth and social position.’

  ‘You’re a cynic,’ Kristi reproved him, and caught the mockery evident in his expression.

  ‘I have reason to be.’

  She didn’t doubt it. Women flocked to his side like moths dazzled by flame. Yet very few would be interested in the man himself, only what his wealth could provide in terms of jewellery and cash, magnificent homes and social prestige, in exchange for sexual favours.

  The hunting lodge was clearly visible, and Kristi evinced surprise.

  ‘Time flies when you’re having fun,’ Shalef commented, tongue-in-cheek, and she pulled a face at him.

  ‘Lunch,’ he announced in response. ‘After which you can witness the taming of the falcons.’

  ‘Birds held in captivity, manacled and chained,’ she said with veiled mockery.

  ‘Yet when set free they merely circle and eventually return to their master.’ He swung the vehicle into the compound. ‘They are well housed, well fed, and lead an infinitely better life than they would in the wild.’

  ‘What a shame they can’t communicate; they might tell a different story.’

  He cut the engine and turned towards her. ‘Then again, they may not.’

  ‘You’re a superb strategist,’ Kristi commended him with intended irony. ‘In the business arena you’d be a diabolical adversary.’

  ‘In any arena,’ Shalef corrected silkily, and she suppressed a faint shiver at the knowledge that there were few men, or women, who could best him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LUNCH comprised grilled chicken, rice and a fava bean dish. The simple fare was filling, and Kristi accepted a small portion, preferring to complete the meal with fresh fruit.

  ‘You wish to rest for an hour?’

  She glanced across the table and met Shalef’s steady gaze. ‘You suggested showing me the falcons. I don’t want to delay your joining your guests.’

  ‘In that case we shall leave.’ He rose from the table and Kristi did likewise, following him through the hallway to a rear door.

  ‘The falcons are housed opposite the stables,’ he indicated as they moved away from the house.

  ‘You have horses?’

  ‘Is that so surprising?’

  Nothing about this man would surprise her. ‘I didn’t expect to find them here.’

  ‘Do you ride?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes glowed with remembered pleasure. ‘I was taught as a child.’ There was something magical about sharing the power rather than controlling it, the wonderful feeling of speed and the empathy one achieved between man and beast. ‘They’re beautiful animals.’

  ‘Then you shall ride with me at sunrise tomorrow.’

  A singularly sweet smile curved her generous mouth. It was months since she’d last ridden, and there could be little doubt that Shalef owned the finest Arabian stock. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is it the prospect of the ride or the sharing of it with me that affords you such pleasure?’

  ‘The ride,’ Kristi returned without hesitation, and heard his soft laughter.

  The compound was large, much larger than it had appeared from the air, and she followed Shalef to the end of a long building some distance from the house.

  ‘Stay there,’ he bade her as they drew close to a large enclosure. ‘You are a stranger, and the falcons will be wary.’

  She watched as he unlocked an outer door and disappeared inside, only to emerge some minutes later wearing a heavy leather glove on one arm upon which rested a blue-grey falcon whose lower body was white with blackish-brown bars; it was leg-bound—attached to a short lead whose ring was firmly secured.

  ‘This is one of my most prized falcons,’ Shalef explained. ‘It is extremely rare, and the most powerful of all the breeds. Its speed when it swoops on its prey is estimated at two hundred and ninety kilometres per hour.’

  It looked fearsome, exuding a tremendous sense of predatory strength, and the claws, the beak were undeniably vicious.

  ‘You enjoy the sport?’

  ‘Falconry is a method of hunting game which was begun about four thousand years ago by the Persians. The challenge is in the training of the falcon, for it is an art that takes skill, a lot of time, and endless patience. First they must become used to having men around them. Then they are broken to the hood, which is placed over their head while they are carried in the field. The hood is removed only when the game is seen and the falcon is turned loose to pursue it. Finally, the birds must be trained to lure, so that they will not fly off with the game after they have struck it down or pounced on it.’

  She looked at him carefully. ‘One assumes you own some of the finest falcons in the country. Is that why Mehmet Hassan retreats here as your guest?’

  ‘He is one of a chosen few.’ The falcon rose up on its feet and arched its wings. Shalef said something briefly in Arabic and it immediately quietened. ‘He’s getting restless. I’ll return him.’

  Minutes later he rejoined her, and they walked slowly back to the house.

  ‘You like being here.’ It was a statement, and one he didn’t refute.

  ‘It’s a place where I can relax and enjoy the company of valued friends without the intrusion of society.’

  Kristi gestured towards the house, then widened the gesture to encompass the desert beyond. ‘I can understand why. There is a harshness that challenges the survival of man.’

  ‘Very profound, Kristi Dalton,’ he lightly mocked as they entered the house.

  Without thinking, she placed a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘For what, precisely? Giving you a few hours of my time?’

  ‘Yes. My being here must
be a source of irritation.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I deny it?’

  She felt stung, the hurt incredibly strong for one brief second before she was able to mask it. She turned away, wanting only to be free of his disturbing presence, but a hand closed over her shoulder and forced her back to face him.

  Kristi met his gaze and held it, hating him at that precise moment for being able to render her vulnerable.

  When his head began to descend she averted her own, then she cried out as he cradled her nape so that she couldn’t escape the pressure of his mouth.

  She had no defence against a kiss that was hard and possessively demanding. He seemed to fill her mouth, exploring, coaxing a capitulation that she was loath to give.

  Just as she thought she’d won, the pressure eased, and in its place was a soft, open-mouthed kiss that swamped her emotions and left her weak-willed and malleable.

  The desire to kiss him back was impossible to deny, and her body swayed into his as she lifted her arms and linked her hands behind his head.

  He permitted her to initiate a kiss, then he subjected her mouth to the explorative sweep of his tongue, teasing, tantalising in a manner that sent an electrifying awareness tingling through her veins, heightening her senses to a frightening degree as she began to melt beneath the magnetic thrill of his sensual onslaught.

  Slowly, with infinite care, he eased the flare of passion, tempering it with one lingering kiss after the other on the soft fullness of her lower lip, the edge of her mouth, before trailing his lips up to rest against her temple. Then he gently pushed her to arm’s length.

  ‘I must leave.’

  Kristi didn’t feel capable of uttering so much as a word, yet she managed a sigh before turning away from him to seek the sanctuary and solitude of his bedroom.

  A shower would rinse off the desert sand, and she’d shampoo her hair. Then she’d find pen and paper and compose a letter to Georgina Harrington. She’d also write a short note to Annie.

  Thoughts of the studio brought forth an image of home. For a moment she almost wished that she were back in Australia. If it hadn’t been for Shane, she wouldn’t be in a desert a few hundred kilometres from Riyadh. Nor, she vowed silently as she stepped beneath the pulsing jet of warm water, would she be in a constant state of emotional turmoil over a man who could never be a part of her life. Or she a part of his.

  It was late when the men returned, and after eight before dinner was served. Conversation was convivial, and it was clear that the falcons had performed well, the kill excellent. Kristi’s vivid imagination conjured up their prey, the deadly power of the falcon, and she endeavoured to mask her distaste for a sport that centred on the death of the victim.

  The last of the meal was cleared from the table and the men began to move into the lounge for coffee. Two of the guests displayed a penchant for strong cigars, and after an hour Kristi was conscious of a persistent headache as a result of passive smoking.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll retire for the night.’ She stood, smiled at each of the men in turn, then moved towards the door.

  Once clear of the room she contemplated taking a walk, but the evening air would not have cooled sufficiently for it to be more pleasant outdoors than in the air-conditioned interior of the house.

  The bedroom was blissfully cool, and after brushing her teeth she undressed, donned the shirt that Shalef had provided the night before, then slipped beneath the covers of the large bed.

  An hour later she was still awake and the pain in her head had intensified into a full, throbbing ache that showed no sign of dissipating.

  Maybe there was some medication in the en suite bathroom that might alleviate the pain, she thought, and got up to see.

  Switching on the light, she opened a drawer, and was in the process of searching the second when she heard Shalef’s unmistakable drawl from the doorway.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Paracetamol,’ Kristi responded without preamble.

  ‘Try the last cupboard above the vanity to your right.’

  She moved towards the designated cupboard, extracted a slim packet, removed two tablets from the blister pack, found a glass and half filled it with water, then swallowed both tablets.

  ‘You are unwell?’

  She turned towards him. ‘The cigar smoke gave me a headache.’ Her fingers shook slightly as she closed the pack, and as she reached for the cupboard the pack slipped from her grasp.

  She bent quickly to pick it up, then winced as the downward movement magnified the pain. In her hurry she neglected to foresee that the loosely buttoned shirt would gape, given its voluminous size, and she clutched the edges and held them tightly against her midriff. Her defensive action came too late, and there was little she could do to avoid the firm fingers which extricated her own from the cotton shirt.

  ‘You are bruised.’ He undid one button, then the one beneath it, drawing the edge down over her shoulder.

  There were more bruises on various parts of her body, and he seemed intent on inspecting them all.

  ‘You assured me you were uninjured,’ Shalef said grimly, ignoring her efforts to remove his hands.

  ‘I don’t class a few bruises as injuries.’ Her voice rose as his fingers probed a large, purpling patch close to her hip. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘You didn’t suffer these from being held at bay, locked in the four-wheel drive,’ he observed with deadly softness. ‘Did the men undo the door and drag you out?’

  His voice was like the finest silk being abraded by steel, and for some inexplicable reason her nerves felt as if they were stretched close to breaking-point.

  ‘They didn’t appear to understand English or French,’ she related starkly, and the muscles of his jaw tensed with chilling hardness.

  ‘Did they beat you? Touch you in any way?’

  ‘They stopped when I said your name.’ The words sounded stilted even to her own ears, and his eyes narrowed at the fleeting changes in her expression.

  She watched in mesmerised fascination as he lifted a hand and brushed his fingers across her cheek then trailed them down to the corner of her mouth. Gently he outlined the contour of her lower lip, then slid down the column of her throat to trace a path over the stitched edge of the shirt to the valley between her breasts.

  Then his head lowered to hers, and his lips followed an identical route as he pushed the shirt aside and brushed his mouth back and forth against each bruise in turn.

  Something wild and untamed unfurled deep within her, flooding her being with a slow, sweet heat as his lips closed over hers in a kiss that was so erotically evocative that she never wanted it to end.

  No man had ever wreaked such havoc with her emotions, nor made her feel so wickedly wanton as she returned his kiss and silently begged for more.

  She needed to feel the touch of his skin, the silky external layer sheathing the finely honed muscles and sinews that bound his broad bone structure into a frame that was solely, uniquely his.

  His clothes followed the path of her shirt, and she gave a silent gasp as he swept an arm beneath her knees and lifted her high against his chest to carry her into the bedroom.

  The sheets felt deliciously cool as he laid her down on the bed; then he lowered his body beside her, bracing his weight with his hands as he began an erotic tasting path that slowly traversed every hollow, every intimate crevice until each separate nerve-end screamed for the release she craved.

  Not content, he rolled onto his back and carried her with him so that she sat nestled in the cradle of his thighs.

  Kristi stilled as he extracted prophylactic protection, broke the seal, then extended it in silent query. She accepted it with fingers that trembled slightly, unsure whether to feel relieved or dismayed. A bubble of silent hysteria threatened to escape her lips as she contemplated whether she could complete the task with any degree of finesse. Perhaps she could opt out and hand it back to him...

  His fingers closed over hers, guidin
g them, and her discomfiture was no longer an issue as his hands slid to her shoulders and captured her head, forcing her mouth down to his as he initiated a long, slow kiss that heated her veins and heightened her emotions to fever-pitch.

  The juncture of her thighs ached, and she almost cried out as he gently exposed the aperture then lowered her against the length of his shaft.

  She gained some relief, but not enough, not nearly enough, and a low, guttural moan rose in her throat as he drew her forward and brushed his lips against the soft, aching curve of her breast.

  His tongue sought one hardened, highly sensitised peak and outlined the dusky aureole, drawing it carefully into his mouth as he gently traced the delicate ridges, before teasing the peak with the edge of his teeth.

  ‘Please... Shalef.’ She wasn’t aware of uttering the plea, or that she said his name, and she gave a low groan of encouragement as he began to suckle. The pleasure was so intense that it became almost pain, and just as she thought that she could stand no more he diverted his attention to its twin.

  His hands spanned her hips, encouraging a delicate sliding movement that almost drove her crazy, and she began to plead with him to ease the torturous ache deep within her.

  He did, with such exquisite slowness that the alien invasion merely stretched silken tissues rather than tore them, and, when she gave a slight gasp and momentarily stilled, he stopped, sliding one hand up to cup her jaw as he forced her to look at him.

  For long, timeless seconds his gaze raked her flushed features, searing through the moisture shimmering in those heavily dilated hazel eyes, disbelieving, yet having to believe, infinitely curious and filled with a white-hot rage that tightened the fingers at her jaw and sent his hand raking through the tousled length of her hair.

  ‘You would set yourself up to experience the pain of vertical penetration,’ he condemned in a dangerously silky voice moving fractionally so that she felt an edge of it, ‘unsure whether or not you could accommodate me?’

  She wanted to cry, but she was damned if she’d give in to a loss of control. A mixture of anger and despair began to replace passion, and with it came shame and a degree of embarrassment.