Desert Mistress

‘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.’

Kristi complied, adding a sodden half-slip to the heap of ruined silk, then stood silently as the hostess efficiently dealt with the burn, applied salve, then covered the area with a sterile dressing.

‘I’ll organise a robe and have someone take care of your dress.’

Minutes later Kristi willed the hostess a speedy return, for despite central heating the room was cool, and a lacy bra and matching wispy bikini briefs were hardly adequate covering.

A frown creased her forehead, and she unconsciously gnawed at her lower lip, uneasy now that she had implemented her plan. There was a very slim chance that Sheikh bin Al-Sayed would check on her himself. Yet she was a guest in his home, and courtesy alone should ensure that he enquired as to her welfare—surely?

Her scalded flesh stung abominably, despite the hostess’s ministrations. A wide, raised welt of red skin encompassed much of her midriff and tapered off in the region of her stomach. Even she had been surprised that one cup of hot liquid was capable of covering such an area.

A sound alerted Kristi’s attention an instant before the door swung inwards. Her eyes widened measurably as Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed stood momentarily in its aperture.

He held a white towelling robe, his features schooled into a fathomless mask, and she shivered, unable to control the slither of apprehension as he moved into the room and closed the door.

Its soft clunking sound was somehow significant, and her hands moved instinctively to cover her breasts.

‘I suggest you put this on. It would be unfortunate to compound your accident with a chill.’

The room suddenly seemed much smaller, his height and breadth narrowing its confines to a degree where she felt stifled and painfully aware of the scarcity of her attire.

Reaching forward, she took the robe and quickly pushed her arms into the sleeves, then firmly belted the ties, only to wince and ease the knot. ‘Thank you.’

‘Rochelle assures me the burn, while undoubtedly painful, is not serious enough to warrant professional medical attention. Your gown is silk and may not fare well when cleaned. Replace it and send me the bill.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Kristi said stiffly.

‘I insist.’ His gaze was startlingly direct, and difficult for her to hold.

‘It was a simple accident, and the responsibility is entirely mine,’ she declared, hating her body’s reaction to his presence. It had been bad enough in a room full of people. Alone with him, it was much worse.

His eyes narrowed. ‘You decline the replacement of an expensive dress?’

‘I don’t seek an argument with you.’

With easy economy of movement he slid one hand into a trouser pocket—an action which parted the superbly tailored dinner jacket and displayed an expanse of snowy white cotton shirt, beneath which it was all too easy to imagine a taut midriff and steel-muscled chest liberally sprinkled with dark, springy hair.

‘What precisely is it that you do seek, Miss Dalton?’ The words were a quizzical drawl laced with cynicism.

There was an implication, thinly veiled, that succeeded in tightening the muscles supporting her spine. It also lifted her chin and brought a brightness to her eyes.

His smile was totally lacking in humour. ‘All evening I have been intrigued by the method you would choose to attract my attention.’ His mouth assumed a mocking slant. ‘No scenario I envisaged included a self-infliction of injury.’

CHAPTER TWO

KRISTI felt the color drain from her face. ‘How dare you suggest—?’