Desert Mistress

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 study 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.