Desert Mistress. HELEN BIANCHIN

you were successful, my dear?’

      Kristi turned towards Sir Alexander with a faint smile. ‘To a degree, although he was aware of the deliberate orchestration. We’re to dine together tomorrow evening.’

      ‘Be careful,’ he bade her seriously. ‘Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed is not someone with whom I would choose to cross words.’

      A chill finger feathered its way down her spine. A warning? ‘Shane’s welfare is too important for me to back down now.’

      A hand covered hers briefly in conciliation. ‘I understand. However, as a precaution, I would suggest you keep me abreast of any developments. I feel a certain degree of responsibility.’

      ‘Of course.’

      It was after midnight when Ralph slid the Rolls to a halt outside the main entrance to her hotel, and an hour later she lay gazing sightlessly at the darkened ceiling, unable to sleep. There was still a slight rush of adrenalin firing her brain, a feeling of victory mixed with anxiety that prevented the ability to relax. Would Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed present a very clever argument in opposition to her bid to have him take her to Riyadh? Call her bluff regarding her threat to inform the media of his friendship with Mehmet Hassan? She had seventeen hours to wait before she found out.

      

      

      Kristi stepped out of the lift at precisely five minutes to six and made her way to the foyer. It was raining heavily outside, the sky almost black, and the wind howled along the space between tall buildings and up narrow alleyways with a ferocity of sound that found its way inside each time the main entrance doors swung open.

      An omen? It wasn’t a night one would have chosen to venture out in, not if a modicum of common sense was involved. The occasional blast of cold air penetrated the warmth of the central heating like icy fingers reaching in to pluck out the unwary.

      Kristi drew the edges of her coat together, adjusted the long woollen scarf, then plunged her hands into her capacious pockets.

      Where would they dine? There was an excellent restaurant in the hotel. She would feel infinitely safer if they remained in familiar surroundings.

      She watched as a black Bentley swept in beneath the portico. The driver emerged, spoke briefly to the attendant, then strode indoors to receive the concierge’s attention, who, after listening intently, gave an indicative nod in Kristi’s direction.

      Intrigued, she waited for him to reach her.

      ‘Miss Dalton?’ He produced ID and waited patiently while she scrutinised it. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed has instructed me to drive you to his home in Berkshire.’

      Her stomach performed a backward flip, then settled with an uneasy fluttering of nerves. His territory, when she’d hoped for the relative safety of a restaurant in which to conduct negotiations.

      The success of her ploy rested on one single fact: information that was known to only a privileged few. Her source had extracted a vow of secrecy—a promise she intended to honour despite any threat Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed could throw at her.

      The large vehicle escaped the city’s outskirts, gathered speed, its passage becoming much too swift for Kristi’s peace of mind.

      It was stupid to feel so nervous, she rationalised as the Bentley slid between the heavy wrought-iron gates and progressed up the curved drive. Insane to feel afraid when the house was staffed with a complement of servants. Yet she was consumed with a measure of both when the door opened and Rochelle ushered her inside.

      ‘May I take your coat?’ With it folded across one arm, she indicated a door to her right. ‘Come through to the lounge.’

      The room was measurably smaller than the large, formal lounge used for last night’s party, Kristi observed as she followed Rochelle’s gesture and sank down into one of the several deep-seated sofas.

      ‘Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Orange juice? Tea or coffee?’

      Hot, fragrant tea sounded wonderful, and she said as much, accepting the steaming cup minutes later.

      ‘If you’ll excuse me?’ Rochelle queried. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed will join you shortly.’

      Was it a deliberate tactic on his part to keep her waiting? In all probability, Kristi conceded as she sipped the excellent brew.

      He had a reputation as a powerful strategist, a man who hired and fired without hesitation in his quest for dedication and commitment from his employees. The pursuit of excellence in all things, at any cost. Wasn’t that the consensus of everything she’d managed to learn about him? Admires enterprise, respects equals and dismisses fools.

      But what of the man behind the image? Had the contrast between two vastly different cultures caused a conflict of interest and generated a recentment that he didn’t totally belong to either? Little was known of his personal life as a child, whether his mother favoured a strict British upbringing or willingly allowed him knowledge of his father’s religion and customs.

      If there had been any problems, it would appear that he’d dealt with and conquered them, Kristi reflected as she replaced the cup down on its saucer.

      ‘Miss Dalton.’

      She gave a start of surprise at the sound of his voice. His entry into the room had been as silent as that of a cat.

      ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed,’ she acknowledged with a calmness that she was far from feeling. If she’d still been holding the cup it would have rattled as it touched the saucer.

      ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’

      He didn’t offer a reason, and she didn’t feel impelled to ask for one. Her eyes were cool and distant as they met his, her features assembled into a mask of deliberate politeness.

      ‘You’ve finished your tea. Would you care for some more?’

      The tailored black trousers and white chambray shirt highlighted his powerful frame—attire that verged on the informal, and a direct contrast to the evening suit of last night.

      It made her feel overdressed, her suit too blatant a statement with its dramatic red figure-hugging skirt and fitted jacket. Sheer black hose and black stilettos merely added emphasis.

      ‘No. Thank you,’ she added as she sank back against the cushions in a determined bid to match his detachment.

      ‘I trust the burn no longer causes you discomfort?’

      The skin was still inflamed and slightly tender, but there was no sign of blistering. ‘It’s fine.’

      He accepted her assurance without comment. ‘Dinner will be served in half an hour.’

      ‘You do intend to feed me.’ The words emerged with a tinge of mockery, and she saw one of his eyebrows slant in a gesture of cynicism.

      ‘I clearly specified dinner.’

      Kristi forced herself to conduct a silent study of his features, observing the broad, powerfully defined cheekbones and the sensual shaping of his mouth. Dark slate-grey eyes possessed an almost predatory alertness, and she couldn’t help wondering if they could display any real tenderness.

      A woman would have to be very special to penetrate his self-imposed armour. Did he ever let down his guard, or derive enjoyment from the simple pleasures in life? In the boardroom he was regarded as an icon. And in the bedroom? There could be little doubt that he would possess the technique to drive a woman wild, but did he ever care enough to become emotionally involved? Was he, in turn, driven mad with passion? Or did he choose to distance himself?

      It was something she would never know, Kristi decided with innate honesty. Something she never wanted to know.

      ‘Shall we define what arrangements need to be made?’ It was a bold beginning, especially when she felt anything but bold.

      One eyebrow rose in a dark curve. ‘We have the evening, Miss