Desert Mistress. HELEN BIANCHIN

      “I want you with me.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

      “I want you with me.”

      The breath caught in her throat and threatened to choke her.

      

      “No comment, ”Kristi?” Shalef queried with a degree of mocking cynicism.

      

      “As what?” Was that her voice? Even to her own ears it sounded impossibly husky. “Your mistress?”

      

      “There are many advantages.”

      

      Her eyes met his and held them. “I don’t want to be content with second best, waiting for a stolen night or two. I would rather not have you at all!”

      HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and traveled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons, then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper, and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and Persian cat regard her study as much theirs as hers.

      

      Look out for An Ideal Marriage by Helen Bianchin, available in September.

      

      When Gabbi married Benedict, it was celebrated as the wedding of the decade! Is theirs the perfect marriage? They are rich, successful, and share an intense passion. All that’s missing is a baby—and true love?

      Desert Mistress

      Helen Bianchin

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      KRISTI put the finishing touches to her make-up, then stood back from the mirror to scrutinise her reflected image. An. image she had deliberately orchestrated to attract one man’s attention. That it would undoubtedly gain the interest of many men was immaterial.

      The dress she’d chosen was fashioned in indigo raw silk; its deceptively simple cut emphasised her generously moulded breasts and narrow waist, and provided a tantalising glimpse of silk-clad thigh. Elegant high-heeled shoes completed the outfit.

      Dark auburn hair fell to her shoulders in a cascade of natural curls, and cosmetic artistry highlighted wide-spaced, topaz-flecked hazel eyes, accented a delicate facial bone structure and defined a sensuously curved mouth. Jewellery was kept to a minimum—a slim-line gold watch, bracelet and earstuds.

      Satisfied, Kristi caught up her evening coat, collected her purse and exited the hotel suite.

      Downstairs the doorman hailed her a taxi with one imperious sweep of his hand, and once seated she gave the driver a Knightsbridge address, then sank back in contemplative silence as the vehicle eased into the flow of traffic.

      The decision to travel to London had been her own, despite advice from government officials in both Australia and England that there was little to be gained in the shift of location. ‘Wait,’ she’d been cautioned, ‘and allow them to do their job.’

      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