Desert Mistress

‘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 woman with pleasant features busied herself removing covers from the heated platters, then indicated a choice of desserts and the cheeseboard, laid out atop the chiffonier.

With a cheerful smile, Hilary—it had to be Hilary, Kristi surmised—turned toward her employer. ‘Shall I serve the soup?’

‘Thank you, Hilary. We’ll manage.’

‘Ring when you require coffee.’

He removed the lid from a china tureen. ‘I trust you enjoy leek and potato soup, Miss Dalton?’

‘Yes.’

He took her plate and ladled out a medium portion before tending to his own. ‘Bon appetit,’ he said with a tinge of mockery, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.

The soup was delicious, and followed by superb beef Wellington with an assortment of vegetables.

‘Wine?’

‘Just a little,’ Kristi agreed, motioning for him to stop when the glass was half-filled.

He ate with an economy of movement, his hands broad, with a sprinkling of dark hair, the fingers long, well formed and obviously strong. She could imagine them reining in a horse and manoeuvring the wheel of a rugged four-wheel drive. Gently drifting over the skin of a responsive woman. Hell, where did that come from? Her hand paused midway to her mouth, then she carefully returned the fork to rest on her plate. The pressure of the past few weeks, culminating over the last two days, had finally taken its toll. She was going insane. There seemed no other logical explanation for the passage of her thoughts.

‘Can I help you to some more vegetables?’

Her vision cleared, and she swallowed in an endeavour to ease the constriction in her throat. ‘No. Thank you,’ she added in a voice that sounded slightly husky.

He had eaten more quickly than she, consuming twice the amount of food.

‘Dessert?’

She settled for some fresh fruit, and followed it with a sliver of brie, observing his choice of apple crumble with cream. The man had a sweet tooth. Somehow it made him seem more human.

‘Shall we return to the lounge for coffee?’

‘Thank you,’ she returned politely, watching as he dispensed with his napkin. Kristi did likewise and then stood.

He moved to the door and opened it, ushering her into the hallway.

A host of butterfly wings began to flutter inside her stomach. The past two hours had been devoted to observing the conventions. Now it was down to business. And somehow she had to convince him that she’d use the information she held against him in order to ensure that he would enlist Mehmet Hassan’s help in freeing her brother.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed bade her as they entered the lounge, and she watched as he pressed an electronic button beside the wall-switch. ‘Hilary will bring coffee.’

Kristi sank into the same chair she’d occupied on her arrival. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed.’ Now that the moment had come, it was costing her more effort than she’d envisaged. ‘Dinner was very pleasant,’ she began. ‘But now—’

‘You want to discuss business,’ he concluded with a touch of mockery as he took the chair opposite.

‘Yes.’

He placed an elbow on each arm of the chair and steepled his fingers, assuming an enigmatic expression that she couldn’t begin to fathom. ‘The ball is in your court, Miss Dalton. I suggest you play it.’

Her eyes were steady, the tip of her chin tilting at a firm angle as she carefully put the metaphorical ball in motion. ‘When do you plan leaving for Riyadh?’

‘Next week.’

The butterfly wings increased their tempo inside her stomach. ‘With your influence I imagine that allows sufficient time to have the necessary sponsorship papers processed.’

‘Indeed.’

So far, so good. ‘Perhaps you could let me have flight details, and any relevant information I need.’

He was silent for several seconds, and the silence seemed to grow louder with each one that passed.

‘The flight details are simple, Miss Dalton. We board a commercial airline to Bahrain, then take my private jet to Riyadh.’ He regarded her with an intensity that had the butterfly wings beating a frantic tattoo. ‘Not so simple is the reason for your accompanying me.’

It seemed such a small detail. ‘Why?’

‘My father’s third wife and her two daughters live in the palace, each of whom will be wildly curious as to why I have chosen to bring a woman with me.’

Surprise widened her eyes. ‘You’re joking. Aren’t you?’ she queried doubtfully.

‘Since I can avail myself of any woman I choose,’ he drawled hatefully, ‘the fact that I have brought one with me will be viewed as having considerable significance—not only by my late father’s family, but by several of my friends.’ He smiled—a mere facsimile which held an element of pitiless disregard. ‘Tell me, Miss Dalton, would you prefer to be accepted as the woman in my life, or a—’ he paused imperceptibly ‘—transitory attraction?’

Hilary chose that moment to enter the room, wheeling a trolley bearing a silver coffee-pot, two cups and saucers, milk, cream and sugar, together with a plate of petit fours.

‘Thank you, Hilary. The meal was superb, as usual,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed complimented her while Kristi inwardly seethed with anger. Somehow she managed to dredge up a smile and add to her host’s praise. However, the instant that Hilary disappeared out the door she launched into immediate attack.

‘What is wrong with presenting me to your family as a guest?’ she demanded heatedly.

His eyes hardened measurably, and she felt the beginnings of unease. ‘I accord Nashwa and her two daughters the respect they deserve. Whenever I visit Riyadh I observe the customs of my father’s country for the duration of my stay. As sponsor, I must vouch for your good behaviour while you are in Saudi Arabia, take responsibility for your welfare, and ensure your departure when it is time for you to leave.’

Kristi lifted a hand, then let it fall in a gesture of helpless anger. Her main consideration was Shane, and the influence that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed could wield with Mehmet Hassan in negotiating her brother’s release.

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