Desert Mistress. HELEN BIANCHIN

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—?’

      ‘Save your breath, Miss Dalton. An investigation fell into place immediately after your second phone call to my office,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed informed her with deadly softness. His gaze never left her features as he listed the schools she’d attended, her educational achievements, her parents’ names and the cause of their accidental death, her address, occupation, and a concise compilation of her inherited assets. ‘Your visit to London was precipitated by a desire to accelerate the release of your brother, Shane, who is currently being held hostage in a remote mountain area,’ he concluded in the same silky tones.

      Anger surged through her veins, firing a helpless fury. ‘You knew why I was trying to contact you, yet you denied me the courtesy of accepting one of my calls?’

      ‘There seemed little point. I cannot help you, Miss Dalton.’

      The words held a finality that Kristi refused to accept. ‘Shane was unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—’

      ‘Your brother is a professional news photographer who ignored advice and flouted legal sanction in order to enter a forbidden area,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed declared hardly. ‘He was kidnapped by an opposing faction and taken beyond reach of local authorities, who would surely have instigated his arrest and incarcerated him in prison.’

      ‘You consider his fate is better with a band of political dissidents?’

      His mouth curved into a mere facsimile of a smile. ‘That is debatable, Miss Dalton.’

      Concern widened her eyes and robbed her features of their colour. The image of her brother being held captive kept her awake nights; then, when she did manage to sleep, her mind was invaded by nightmares. ‘I implore you—’

      ‘You beg very prettily,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed taunted mercilessly, and in that moment she truly hated him. ‘However, I suggest you direct all your enquiries through the appropriate channels. Such negotiations take time and require the utmost delicacy. And patience,’ he added with slight emphasis. ‘On the part of the hostage’s family.’

      ‘You could help get him out,’ she declared in impassioned entreaty.

      His gaze speared through her body and lanced her very soul, freezing her into speechlessness. There was scarcely a sound in the room, only the whisper of her breathing and she couldn’t have looked away from him if she’d tried.

      ‘We are close to the twenty-first century, Miss Dalton,’ he drawled. ‘You did not imagine I would don a thobe and gutra, mount an Arab steed and ride into the desert on a rescue mission with men following on horseback, taking water and food from conveniently placed oases along the way?’

      Kristi ignored his sardonic cynicism, although it cost her considerable effort not to launch a verbal attack. ‘I have a sizeable trust fund which is easily accessed,’ she assured him with determined resolve, grateful in this instance for inherited wealth. ‘Sufficient to cover the cost of hiring Jeeps, men, a helicopter if necessary.’

      ‘No.’

      The single negation sparked a feeling of desperation. She held one ace up her sleeve, but this wasn’t the moment to play it. ‘You refuse to help me?’

      ‘Go home, Miss Dalton.’ His expression was harsh, and his voice sounded as cold as if it had come direct from the North Pole. ‘Go back to Australia and let the governments sort out the unfortunate incident.’

      She wanted to hit him, to lash out physically and berate him for acting like an unfeeling monster.

      He knew, and for one fraction of a second his eyes flared, almost as if in anticipation of her action—and the certain knowledge of how he would deal with it. Then the moment was gone, and it had been so swift, so fleeting that she wondered if it hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.

      ‘You will have to excuse me. I have a party to host,’ he imparted with smooth detachment. ‘Rochelle will bring you something suitable to wear. Should you wish to return to your hotel, it will be arranged for a driver to transport you there. Otherwise, I can only suggest that you attempt to enjoy the rest of the evening.’

      ‘Please.’ Her voice broke with emotional intensity.

      His eyes flayed every layer of protective clothing, burning skin, tissue, seeming to spear through to her very soul. With deliberate slowness he appraised her slender figure, resting over-long on the curve of her breasts, the apex between her thighs, before sweeping up to settle on the soft fullness of her mouth. ‘There is nothing you can offer me as a suitable enticement.’

      Anger brightened her eyes, and pride kept her head high. ‘You insult my intelligence, Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed. I was appealing for your compassion. Sex was never a consideration.’

      ‘You are a woman, Miss Dalton. Sex is always