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‘Enchanté, chérie.’ His eyes gleamed darkly as he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Jean-Claude Longchamp d’Elseve.’ He paused, head tilted slightly as he waited for an expected reaction. When she failed to comply, his mouth assumed a quizzical slant. ‘I cannot believe you lack the knowledge or the intelligence to be aware of the importance my family hold in France.’
‘Really?’
He was an amusing diversion, and he was sufficiently astute to appreciate it. ‘I am quite serious.’
‘So am I, Jean-Claude,’ she declared solemnly.
‘You make no attempt to acquaint me with your name. Does this mean I am to be rejected?’ The musing gleam in his eyes belied the wounded tone.
‘Do you not handle rejection well?’
His mouth parted in subdued laughter. ‘I am so rarely in such a position, it is something of a novelty.’
‘I’m relieved. I would hate to provide you with an emotional scar.’
He still held her hand, and his thumb traced a light pattern over the veins of her wrist. ‘Perhaps we could begin again. Will you have dinner with me?’
‘The answer is still the same.’
‘It will be relatively easy for me to discover where you are staying.’
‘Please don’t,’ Kristi advised seriously.
‘Why not?’ His shrug was eloquent. ‘Am I such objectionable company?’
She pulled her hand free. ‘Not at all.’ She cast him a slight smile. ‘I simply have a tight business schedule and a full social calendar.’
The edge of his mouth curved in pensive humour. ‘You mean to leave me to another woman’s mercy?’
In different circumstances he might have proved to be an amusing companion. ‘I’m sure you can cope.’
His eyes gleamed with hidden warmth. ‘Perhaps. Although I may choose not to.’
‘Your prerogative,’ she accorded lightly. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I should rejoin Sir Alexander.’
Jean-Claude inclined his head and offered a teasing smile. ‘Au revoir, chérie.’
Her food had remained almost untouched, and she handed the plate to a passing waitress, her appetite gone.
Sir Alexander wasn’t difficult to find, although he appeared deep in conversation with a distinguished-looking guest and she was loath to interrupt them.
‘Champagne?’
Kristi cast the waitress and the tray she carried a fleeting glance. Perhaps she should have a glass to diffuse her nervous tension. Even as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. Coffee, strong black and sweet was what she needed, and she voiced the request, then made her way to the end of the buffet table where a uniformed maid was offering a variety of hot beverages.
Declining milk, she moved to one side and sipped the potent brew. The blend was probably excellent, but she hardly noticed as she steeled herself to instigate a planned action.
Seconds later her cup lay on the carpet, and the scalding liquid seared her midriff. The pain was intense—far more so than she’d anticipated.
‘Oh, my dear, how unfortunate. Are you all right?’ The voiced concern brought attention, and within minutes she was being led from the room by the hostess who had greeted them on arrival.
‘We keep the first-aid equipment in a bathroom next to the kitchen.’ The hostess’s voice was calm as she drew Kristi down a wide hallway and into a room that was clinically functional. ‘If you’ll remove your dress I’ll apply a cold compress to cool the skin.’
Kristi complied, adding a sodden half-slip to the heap of ruined silk, then stood silently as the hostess efficiently dealt with the burn, applied salve, then covered the area with a sterile dressing.
‘I’ll organise a robe and have someone take care of your dress.’
Minutes later Kristi willed the hostess a speedy return, for despite central heating the room was cool, and a lacy bra and matching wispy bikini briefs were hardly adequate covering.
A frown creased her forehead, and she unconsciously gnawed at her lower lip, uneasy now that she had implemented her plan. There was a 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 a consideration.’
A soft tinge of pink coloured her cheeks as she strove to keep a rein on her temper. She drew a deep, ragged breath, 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.’
