Desert Mistress. HELEN BIANCHIN
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then released it slowly. ‘Not even for my brother would I use my body as a bartering tool.’
His eyes narrowed with cynical amusement. ‘No?’
She was sorely tempted to yell at him, but that would only have fuelled his amusement. ‘No.’ The word was quietly voiced and carried far more impact than if she’d resorted to angry vehemence.
He turned towards the door, and the blood seemed to roar in her ears, then she felt it slowly drain, leaving her disoriented and dangerously lightheaded for an instant before she managed to gather some measure of control.
‘What would it take for you to make a personal appeal to Mehmet Hassan on my behalf?’ The words were singularly distinct, each spoken quietly, but they caused Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed to pause, then turn slowly to face her.
His features were assembled into an inscrutable mask, and his eyes held a wariness that was chilling.
‘Who precisely is Mehmet Hassan?’ The voice was dangerously quiet, the silky tones deceptive, for she sensed a finely honed anger beneath their surface.
She felt trapped by the intentness of those incredible eyes, much like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, and she took a deep, shuddering breath, then released it slowly. ‘You attended the same school and established a friendship which exists to this day, despite Mehmet Hassan’s little-known link with political dissident leaders.’
Dark lashes lowered, successfully hooding his gaze. ‘I know a great many people, Miss Dalton,’ he drawled, ‘some of whom I number as friends.’
She had his attention. She dared not lose it.
‘You travel to Riyadh several times a year on business, occasionally extending your stay to venture into the desert with a hunting party to escape from the rigours of the international corporate world. You never go alone, and it has been whispered that Mehmet Hassan has been your guest on a number of occasions.’
He was silent for what seemed to be several minutes but could only have been seconds. ‘Whispers, like grains of sand, are swept far by the desert winds and retain no substance.’
‘You deny your friendship with Mehmet Hassan?’
His expression hardened, his eyes resembling obsidian. ‘What is the purpose of this question?’
Steady, an inner voice cautioned. ‘I want you to take me with you to Riyadh.’
‘Entry into Saudi Arabia requires a sponsor.’
‘Something you could arrange without any effort.’
‘If I was so inclined.’
‘I suggest you are inclined,’ Kristi said carefully.
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed’s appraisal was all-encompassing as it slowly raked her slim frame. ‘You would dare to threaten me?’ he queried with dangerous softness, and she shivered inwardly at the ominous, almost lethal quality apparent in his stance.
‘I imagine the media would be intensely interested to learn of the link between Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed and Mehmet Hassan,’ she opined quietly. ‘Questions would undoubtedly be raised, public opinion swayed, and at the very least it would cause you embarrassment.’
‘There is a very high price to pay for attempted blackmail, Miss Dalton.’
She pulled the figurative ace and played it. ‘I am applying the rudiments of successful business practice. A favour in exchange for information withheld. My terms, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, are unrestricted entry into Riyadh under your sponsorship. For my own protection, it is necessary for me to be a guest in your home. By whichever means you choose you will make contact with Mehmet Hassan and request his help in negotiating for my brother’s release. In return, I will meet whatever expenses are incurred.’ Her eyes never wavered from his. ‘And pledge my silence.’
‘I could disavow any knowledge of this man you call Mehmet Hassan.’
‘I would know you lie.’
If he could have killed her, he would have done so. It was there in his eyes, the flexing of a taut muscle at the edge of his cheek. ‘What you ask is impossible.’
A faint smile lifted the comer of her mouth. ‘Difficult, but not impossible.’
The sound of a discreet knock at the door, and seconds later Rochelle entered the room with a swathe of black draped over her arm.
‘Perhaps we can arrange to further this discussion at a more opportune time?’ Kristi offered with contrived politeness. ‘It would be impolite to neglect your guests for much longer.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘Indeed. Shall we say dinner tomorrow evening? I will send a car to your hotel at six.’
A tiny thrill of exhilaration spiralled through her body. ‘Thank you.’
His eyes were hooded and his smile was barely evident. ‘I shall leave you with Rochelle,’ he declared formally, then, with a dismissing gesture, he moved into the passageway and closed the door behind him.
‘I think these should be adequate,’ Rochelle indicated as she held out the evening trousers and an elegant beaded top.
They were superb, the style emphasising Kristi’s slender frame and highlighting the delicate fragility of her features.
‘Do you feel ready to rejoin the party? Sir Alexander Harrington has expressed anxiety as to your welfare.’
‘Thank you.’
It really was a splendid gathering, Kristi acknowledged silently some time later as she sipped an innocuous fruit punch. She had attended many social events in the past ten years in numerous capital cities around the world, with guests almost as impressive as these, in prestigious homes that were equally opulent as this one. Yet none had proved to be quite as nerve-racking.
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed was not a man to suffer fools gladly. And deep inside she couldn’t discount the fact that she was indeed being foolish in attempting to best him. Twice in the past hour she had allowed her gaze to scan the room casually, unconsciously seeking the autocratic features of her host among the many guests.
Even when relaxed he had an inherent ruthlessness that she found vaguely disturbing. Yet familial loyalty overrode the need for rational thought, and she dampened down a feeling of apprehension at the prospect of sharing dinner with him the following evening.
A strange prickling sensation began at the back of her neck, and some inner force made her seek its source, her gaze seeming to home in on the man who silently commanded her attention.
Dark eyes seared her own, and the breath caught in her throat for a few long seconds as she suffered his silent annihilation, then she raised one eyebrow and slanted him a polite smile before deliberately turning towards Sir Alexander.
‘Would you like to leave, my dear?’
Kristi offered him a bemused look, and glimpsed his concern. ‘It is getting late,’ she agreed, moving to his side as they began circling the room to where their host stood listening to an earnest-looking couple conducting what appeared to be an in-depth conversation.
‘Sir Alexander, Miss Dalton.’ The voice was pleasant, the tone polite.
‘It has been a most enjoyable evening,’ Sir Alexander said cordially, while Kristi opted to remain silent.
‘It is to be hoped the effects of your accident will be minimal, Miss Dalton,’ Shalef drawled, and she responded with marked civility,
‘Thank you, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, for the borrowed clothes. I shall have them cleaned and returned to you.’
He merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Kristi found herself mentally counting each step that led from the lounge.
As they reached the foyer, instruction was given for the Rolls to be brought around. Within minutes they were