Desert Mistress. HELEN BIANCHIN
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you usually advocate wasting time during a business meeting?’ Kristi proffered civilly.
‘I conduct business in my office.’
‘And entertain in your home?’
‘Our discussion contains a politically delicate element which would be best not overheard by fellow diners, don’t you agree?’ he drawled, noting the tight clasp of her fingers as she laced her hands together.
She drew a deep breath and deliberately tempered its release. ‘We are alone now.’
His smile held no pretension to humour. ‘I suggest you contain your impatience until after dinner.’
It took a tremendous effort to contain her anger. ‘If you insist.’
He registered the set of her shoulders as she unconsciously squared them, the almost prim placing of one silk-encased ankle over the other. ‘Why not enjoy a light wine? Diluted, if you choose, with soda water.’
It might help her relax. She needed to, desperately. ‘Thank you. Three-quarters soda.’
Why couldn’t he be older, and less masculine? Less forceful, with little evidence of a raw virility that played havoc with her nervous system? Last night he had dominated a room filled with guests and succeeded in diminishing her defences. A fact she’d put down to circumstance and acute anxiety. Yet tonight she was aware that nothing had changed.
His very presence was unnerving, and she consciously fought against his physical magnetism as she accepted the glass from his hand.
‘You are a photographer,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed stated as he took a comfortable chair opposite. His movements were fluid, lithe, akin to those of a large cat. ‘Did you chose to follow in your brother’s footsteps?’
Conversation. That’s all it is, she reminded herself as she took an appreciative sip of the spritzer. It was cool and crisp to the palate, pleasant.
‘Not deliberately. Shane was the older brother I adored as a child,’ Kristi explained, prey to a host of images, all of them fond. ‘Consequently I was intensely interested in everything he did. Photography became his obsession. Soon it was mine,’ she concluded simply.
‘Initially within Australia, then to various capitals throughout the world.’
‘Facts you were able to access from my dossier.’
He lifted his tumbler and took a long draught of his own drink. ‘A concise journalistic account.’ His eyes speared hers, dark and relentless beneath the slightly hooded lids. ‘Words which can’t begin to convey several of the offbeat assignments you were contracted to undertake.’
‘Photographs, even video coverage, don’t adequately express the horror of poverty, illness and famine in some Third World countries. The hopelessness that transcends anger, the acceptance of hunger. The utter helplessness one feels at being able to do so little. The impossibility of distancing yourself from the harsh reality of it all, aware that you’re only there for as long as it takes to do your job, before driving a Jeep out to the nearest airstrip and boarding a cargo shuttle that transports you back to civilisation, where you pick up your life again and attempt to pretend that what you saw, what you experienced, was just a bad dream.’
‘Until the next time.’
‘Until the next time,’ Kristi echoed.
He surveyed her thoughtfully for several long seconds. ‘You’re very good at what you do.’
She inclined her head and ventured, with a touch of mockery, ‘But you can’t understand why I failed to settle for freelancing and filling the society pages, in a photographic studio, as my parents did.’
‘The lack of challenge?’
Oh, yes. But it had been more than that—a great deal more. The photographic studio still operated, as a mark of respect for their parents, run by a competent photographer called Annie who doubled as secretary. It was an arrangement which worked very well, for it allowed Kristi freedom to pursue international assignments.
‘And a desire to become your brother’s equal.’
She digested his words, momentarily intrigued by a possibility that had never occurred to her until this man had voiced it. ‘You make it sound as if I wanted to compete against him,’ she said slowly, ‘when that was never the case.’
‘Yet you have chosen dangerous locations,’ he pursued, watching the play of emotions on her expressive features.
Her eyes assumed a depth and dimension that mirrored her inner feelings. ‘I don’t board a plane and flit off to the other side of the world every second week. Sometimes there are months in between assignments, and I spend that time working out of the studio, attending social events, taking the society shots, sharing the family-portrait circuit with Annie.’ She paused momentarily. ‘When I undertake an assignment I want my work to matter, to encapsulate on film precisely what is needed to bring the desired result.’ The passion was clearly evident in her voice, and there was a soft tinge of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘Whether that be preserving a threatened environmental area or revealing the horrors of deprivation.’
‘There are restrictions imposed on women photographers?’
It was a fact which irked her unbearably.
‘Unfortunately feminism and equality in the workforce haven’t acquired universal recognition.’
‘Have you not once considered what your fate might have been if it had been you, and not your brother, who had taken a miscalculated risk and landed in the hands of political dissidents?’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed queried with dangerous softness as he finished his drink and placed the glass down on a nearby side-table.
Topaz-gold chips glowed deep in her eyes as she subjected him to the full force of a hateful glare. A hand lifted and smoothed a drifting tendril of hair behind one ear. ‘Shane refused to allow me to accompany him.’
‘Something for which you should be eternally grateful,’ he stated hardly.
Kristi caught the slight tightening of facial muscles that transformed his features into a hard mask. Impenetrable, she observed, together with a hint of autocratic arrogance that was undoubtedly attributable to his paternal forebears, and which added an element of ruthlessness to his demeanour.
‘It would appear that, although a fool, your brother is not totally stupid.’
‘Don’t you dare—’
She halted mid-sentence as Rochelle entered the room unannounced. ‘Hilary is ready to serve dinner.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed nodded briefly, and Rochelle exited as soundlessly as she had appeared.
‘You were saying?’
‘You have no reason to insult my brother,’ she asserted fiercely.
He smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Familial loyalty can sometimes appear blind.’ He stood and moved towards her. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’
‘Kristi tried to bank down her resentment as she vacated the chair. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite:
‘Perhaps you can attempt to find it.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE dining room was smaller than she’d imagined, although scarcely small, with its beautiful antique table and seating for eight, and a long chiffonier. Glassed cabinets housed an enviable collection of china and crystal. Expensive paintings and gilt-framed mirrors adorned the walls, and light from electric candles was reflected in an exquisite crystal chandelier. Several silver-domed covers dominated the table, with its centrepiece of exotic orchids.
Kristi slid into the chair that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed held out for her, then he moved round to take a seat opposite.
A middle-aged